Scott Oden - Men of Bronze

The sound of a voice bellowing her name jarred Jauharah back to reality.

"Jauharah! Is there a Jauharah here? Jauharah!" A huge Libyan in blood-splashed armor, his sandy hair matted to his scalp, stood at the rear of the tent. He curled his hands into a makeshift horn and howled her name like a barbaric warcry. "Jauharah! "

She rushed over. "What is it? Are you injured?"

"You're Jauharah?"

"I am. What …?"

The mercenary jabbed a thumb behind him. He plunged out the rear flap of theHouse of Life, trusting her to follow. She did. Outside, the copse of sycamores and tamarisks shielded the wounded from the gentle rain. Around them sandaled feet had churned the sun-browned grass to mud, and the stench of an abattoir rose from the open trench.

Beneath the trees, a second mercenary crouched beside a shattered body. "General Barca said to seek you out."

A lance of fear impaled her. "Is Barca …?" She glanced down at the wounded man and felt her heart wrench in her chest. "Oh gods! No! Callisthenes!"

The Greek's head moved feebly. At the sound of his name his eyes fluttered. Jauharah knelt at Callisthenes' side and took his blood-grimed hand in hers, clutching it to her breast. Breath rattled in his chest. Jauharah didn't need to look too closely to see there was nothing she could do for him.

"I–I did the best I c-could," he whispered. "B-Barca … the right … the right wing crumbled after … after the Immortals routed P-Pharaoh … only the 1-left held, and only because of him!"

"You did well, Callisthenes," she sobbed. "Ajax himself could not have fought better." She leaned down, kissed his brow, and very quietly Callisthenes of Naucratis died.

Jauharah placed the Greek's lifeless hand at his side and rocked back on her heels. The world around her bulged at the seams, threatening to come apart. The battle was lost. She had heard Ladice say as much. There would be panic and flight, but Jauharah felt neither. Only the twin aches of weariness and despair. The dream she'd had last night felt as though it belonged to someone else. Her stream lay beside her, a gash bubbling with blood and piss, and the spearmen who called Barca away were minions of Death. He was alone out there …

Jauharah's head snapped up, her features hardening. Weariness and despair sloughed from her like a rain-soaked cloak. "Get me a horse!" she said with such force that neither mercenary questioned her order.

She wouldn't let him die alone.

The rain slackened. Rills ofwater sluiced down the Phoenician's armor, through the blood spackling his face and chest. His hair hung in lank strands about his shoulders. Wordlessly, he slung his shield aside and snatched a second sword from a dead man's hand. Below him, Greek mercenaries swarmed up the incline. Charge after charge had churned the ground underfoot to the consistency of sludge, a mixture of soil, rain, blood, and bowel that seeped into every crack and crevice and made their footing treacherous.

Enemy hoplites crawled over a carpet of corpses, their hands and feet clawing for purchase and sending an avalanche of sundered flesh down upon their comrades. Winded, the Greeks gained the summit.

And died.

The Phoenician launched himself at those who crested the hill. His swords licked and darted, drawing blood with each stroke. Bodies tumbled back down the slope, some slashed and riven, others without arms and heads. Barca felt a presence at his side. From the corner of his eye he spotted an Egyptian soldier coming toward him. Then a second. A third. They were the last of the regiment of Ptah, the rear guard, and they took up positions on either side of the Phoenician. A soldier of the Medjay, mortally wounded, lurched up and hurled himself down onto the Greek spears. Into that breach Barca leapt. His two swords wrought havoc. He was too close for their spears to do any harm. Their smaller blades were useless against him. Barca moved like Ares in his element, and killed with the impunity of a god.

The end was inevitable. There was no way this handful could stem the Persian tide; the sheer press of numbers gnawed away at the defenders, killing them singly and in pairs. Finally, beneath the crest of the hill, Barca stood alone.

Blood streamed from dozens of lacerations, mixing with spatters of grime and gore. One sword had broken off near the hilt. Barca tossed the useless weapon down and faced the horde of Greeks and Persians with a single, unwavering blade. None of them moved. They stood rooted to the spot, frozen like the victims of Medusa's stony glance.

A familiar face floated over the shoulders of the men in the front ranks. Dark hair. Flawless features. A homicidal Adonis. With a low, merciless laugh, Phanes of Halicarnassus stepped out to face Barca.

"Let's finish this," he said, tossing his shield to one side.

"You should have killed me in Memphis," Barca snarled, when you had the chance! " They circled one another slowly, a predatory dance bereft of music, accompanied by the soft squelch of mud underfoot. Droplets of rain plopped into pools of diluted blood.

Phanes grinned, his face ghoulish. A wild sword cut had removed his helmet and laid open his cheek to the bone. "And deny myself a chance at glory? I think not! The Fates engineered this, Barca! They need us to meet over the ruins of two nations! Do you not feel it? In the air? That thrill of a god's fingers moving us about like game pieces on a board?"

"You're insane!"

Phanes laughed. "Or a genius. The line between the two is as thin as Persephone's veil. In a minute, you'll not care either way! "

Their dance came to an end. Both men crouched in the gentle rain, blades ready, condensation trickling down to soak the leather-wrapped hilts. The crowd formed a circle around them, a mixed audience of Persians, Greeks, and Cissians. Barca's eyes flickered over their ranks for an instant.

In that instant Phanes struck.

The ferocity of the Greek's assault wrenched a gasp from the onlookers. He moved like a whirlwind, a tempest of flashing iron that rasped and slithered off Barca's lightning defense. At any moment the witnesses expected to see a Phoenician corpse flop into the muck, headless, disemboweled. Had it been any other man, the fight would have lasted a heartbeat.

For Hasdrabal Barca, the fight had only begun.

Metal grated as the two men surged together, chest to chest, their blades tangled. Phanes spat in Barca's eye; the Phoenician answered with a fist across the Greek's lacerated cheek. Phanes howled.

They sprang apart. Barca loathed giving up his momentary advantage. He pressed forward, raining blow after blow on the Greek's guard. Barca was the taller and heavier of the two, and the thick muscle of his sword arm worked tirelessly, without respite. To the onlookers, he seemed to have boundless reserves of energy.

Phanes backpedaled. His advantage lay in speed and precision. The raw elemental fury of Barca's assault stymied his every move. Thrusts were batted aside, and a hammering counterattack met each slashing stroke. The Greek's wrist grew numb from serving as Barca's anvil.

Phanes launched himself at Barca, a new round of slash and thrust, parry and riposte, that brought them into another close embrace. Sweat poured down their faces, into their eyes. Muscle strained against muscle, sinew against sinew. Their blades locked together, grinding. Phanes threw a punch at Barca's chin with his free hand, connected, and drew back for another. Barca responded in kind.

Quick as a snake Phanes ducked Barca's punch, hooked the Phoenician's leg and shoved with all his might. It was an old wrestler's trick, and it caught Barca at unawares. He tried to regain his balance and failed, toppling to the ground. He landed on his back; his sword jarred from his grasp.

Barca's fall gave the Greek the opening he needed. With a triumphant yell, Phanes sprang forward and drove his blade into Barca's belly. The tip of the weapon skittered down Barca's cuirass and plunged, instead, into his thigh, nailing his leg to the ground.