Scott Oden - Men of Bronze

The Phoenician roared in pain and anger.

The onlookers knew it was over. They knew …

Above him, the Greek was overextended, stumbling forward. He would have fallen had the Phoenician not caught him by the neckline of his cuirass and held him erect. Snarling, Barca grabbed Phanes' sword by the blade and wrenched it from his thigh. Phanes' eyes widened. His arms flailed; his feet sought purchase.

"I'll see you in Hell! " Barca said, ramming the blade into the exposed hollow of Phanes' throat and hurling him aside with a contemptuous shove.

Phanes of Halicarnassus died writhing on his belly.

Barca clambered to his feet, swaying, his weight on the Greek's sword. The wound in his thigh was grave; blood sheeted down his leg. Around him, the onlookers were stunned to silence, staring at the Greek's corpse. They glanced from Barca to Phanes and back again. Suddenly, one man faced hundreds.

Barca staggered forward. "Let's end this! Come and die, you sons of whores! "

None among the Persians moved. The battle was over; they had won. They weren't eager to die. There was some jostling amid their ranks as a few soldiers stepped to the forefront, Greeks for the most part, mercenaries from the island of Samos, not as eager to avenge their fallen commander as they were to claim glory as Barca's slayer.

The Phoenician braced himself …

The massing Greeks faltered, shocked to see a horse crest the hill at full gallop. Its rider was fey, covered in blood. Long hair streamed out behind her as she descended on the enemy like a harpy out of myth.

They gave ground, gape-mouthed, as the rider barreled into their ranks. Limbs were crushed and broken in that press as men were trampled by the horse and by one another. The rider hauled on the reins and the mount, its footing unsure, reared and twisted, collapsing in a tangle of thrashing limbs. The rider was thrown clear.

In the moment's respite, Barca snatched a piece of leather off the ground, a strap from a sandal, and cinched it around his thigh. Blood gushed from the severed artery, jetting in time with the beating of his heart. He made the tourniquet tight and caught up his sword. The Phoenician felt a surge of fear as Jauharah rose to her feet to stand at his side, a shattered spear in her fists.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed through clenched teeth. The enemy advanced slowly, wary. Barca could feel his strength beginning to ebb.

Jauharah kept the spear leveled at the breast of the closest Persian. "I'll not be left behind." She feinted at the Persian's face, giving the man pause. The ring of foemen closed on them, weighing the odds of taking them out before too many of them were killed. In their eyes Barca read fear. Fear and respect. Not just for him. They knew well the fury of a woman. Cyrus, their beloved king and Cambyses' father, had died at a woman's hands. Jauharah's appearance would not keep them at bay for long. He had to do something.

"Give her safe conduct and I will bend my neck to your blades!" Barca said. Beside him, he felt Jauharah stiffen.

"No! Barca! You can't…"

"I'll not see you harmed! " The Phoenician drew himself up to his full height and glared out over the sea of exhausted faces. "My life in exchange for hers! Who will speak for you?"

"I will," a familiar voice said. The Persians parted their ranks, allowing the speaker through.

"Darius," Barca said, bowing slightly. "Will you make me beg for her life?"

The Persian commander's armor was smeared with a mixture of blood and grime, and dented by the fury of the fighting. His helm was gone. Blood oozed from a cut across his forehead. He glanced down at Phanes' corpse. "We are weary of slaughter. You will both be spared."

"In exchange for what?" Barca said, his teeth clenched against the cold spreading through his belly. He held Jauharah's shoulder for support, and she could feel the pressure of his weight increasing. He was losing strength. "Kill me now and let her go, for I'll be no man's slave!"

"I admire valor in any man, friend or foe," Darius said. "And you showed all of us today what valor truly is. I salute you, and give you both your freedom. None will touch you, I give you my word of honor! "

"You're an admirable man, Darius," Barca said. "I'm glad I didn't have to kill you."

The young Persian smiled through his weariness. "Fetch their horse."

Jauharah's horse wandered nearby, terrified by the stench of blood and death. One of the Persians caught its rein and led it over to where they stood. Darius himself helped Barca into the saddle. Before Jauharah could mount behind him, the Persian commander drew her aside.

"That wound in his thigh …"

"I know."

"Where will you go?"

Jauharah looked away; she looked to the south west. "It doesn't matter, so long as I am with him."

Darius sighed. "In the coming days, should you find yourself with no one else to turn to, remember my name and use it. I will do what I can for you."

"You've done enough." Jauharah swung up behind Barca. Deftly, she unbuckled his cuirass and let it fall to the ground. At a gesture, two Persians stepped forward and slipped Barca's greaves off, leaving him clad in his sweatand-blood stained linen corselet and bronze-studded leather kilt. Jauharah touched her heels to the horse's flanks, and without a backward glance cantered off down the hillside.

Darius raised a hand in farewell. "May the gods of your people and mine have mercy upon you."

A west wind shredded the clouds, revealing a sunset that transformed the storm-wracked sky into a canopy aflame with color. Inside the ruined chapel sacred to Hathor the air was still; silent, save for the faint drip of water. Motes of dust swirled through golden shafts of sunlight lancing down from the cracked ceiling.

Barca lay in a pool of light. A smear of blood led from the door to that spot, marking the limits of Jauharah's ability to drag him. She crouched above his thigh and worked furiously to staunch the bleeding. Barca's face was pale, drenched in sweat.

" C–Callisthenes? "

"Don't talk," Jauharah said.

"W-Where is Callisthenes?"

"He has gone on ahead, Hasdrabal," she replied, stifling a sense of helplessness. There was nothing she could do. Without fire she couldn't seal the artery.

"They're all dead," Barcawhispered. "Matthias. Ithobaal. Tjemu. Callisthenes. I killed them. I …"

"Hush. Don't talk like that." Jauharah tried to tighten the strap about his thigh and, despairing of that, pressed her hands against the wound, willing the edges to mend and the blood to cease its life-stealing exodus.

"T-Tell me about your d-dream, again," Barca said, his face screwed up in a rictus of pain.

Jauharah choked back tears. "We lived on a long, green slope beside a crystal river. The land gave us everything we needed. Olives. Pomegranates. Vegetables beyond number. And, there were children. Droves of children."

Barca smiled. "A good dream …" A shadow crossed his face. "I'm sorry, Jauharah. I–I s-should have t-taken you away from here."

"Hush, Hasdrabal," Jauharah sobbed. "Please. Save your strength."

"No!" the Phoenician said, rising on his elbows. "Listen. T-There's something I haven't told you. Something I s-should have said long ago. I have loved you since I first laid eyes on you, Jauharah. You s-saved my soul. You t-taught me what it was like to live again. For that, I–I can never r-repay you."

Jauharah smiled gently, her hand going to his cheek to brush away the tears. "There's nothing to repay, Hasdrabal. Nothing. I love you more than you'll ever know. I love you for your strength, your compassion, your humanity. You she choked.

"I m-must go s-soon," he said, sinking back down. "S-So cold. L–Lay beside me and t-tell me about our children."