Hyperides cursed as his mercenaries stumbled back. He flailed about with the flat of his bloodstained sword, striding out in front so his men could see him.
'Stand, you sons of whores!' Hyperides roared. 'Stand and fight! '
He looked back in time to see the sun reflect from a spearhead. For a split second Hyperides froze, mesmerized by the scintillant play of light on bronze, and that instant was enough. The spear punched through his breastplate, his chest, and erupted from his back in a welter of blood. The impact lifted him off his feet and flung him back into the roiling curtain of dust.
With him, the Greek vanguard died.
Phanes saw his light troops dissolve beneath the wheels of Pharaoh's chariots. He motioned to Nicias. 'Go forward and rally where you can.' The squat captain saluted and hustled to the fore. Phanes felt a chill, and a familiar presence at his side. A sense of loss and longing washed over him.
'Say it, Spartan.'
The disembodied voice of a slain Lysistratis echoed through Phanes' skull. 'Not as infallible as you once thought, are you?'
Phanes turned. 'The battle isn't won. Our soldiers will give Amasis the fight of his life.'
The soldiers nearest Phanes glanced around, wondering who it was their commander addressed. Had he lost his sanity? Merciful Zeus! Let that not be true.
'I am sure. But, our victory is no longer a foregone con — clusion. Whatifyoulose?'
Phanes laughed mordantly. 'If I lose here, then I will return with a larger force. Egypt is mine, Spartan! She just doesn't realize it yet.'
At the northern entrance of Ptah's temple, a skeleton force of peltasts listened to the distant fighting with an awe bordering on the supernatural. They could imagine what went on outside the zone of safety afforded by the temple walls. Hoplites, ranked out in a phalanx with their shields interleaved, would present a hedge of spears to the Egyptians. The chariots would harry them; arrows and javelins would seek out chinks in the Greek armor. Yet, for every Greek who fell, another would take his place, replenishing the phalanx with machinelike efficiency.
The officer in charge at the northern gate, a dispossessed nobleman from Rhodes, wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. He stared at the statues flanking the huge twin-towered gateway, at the images depicting Pharaoh crushing his enemies in the presence of a solemn-faced Ptah, at the hieroglyphs carved deep into the rock on either side of the silver and cedar flagpoles. To get from this entrance to the interior of the temple proper, an intruder had to pass through four such gateways, each named for a king of antiquity. 'These sons of whores know how to build a defensive wall,' he said, patting the cyclopean stonework. From their summit, his peltasts could hold off a superior force of Egyptians. 'Sit tight, lads. It might fall upon us to save the day, after all. Dion, bring me that water skin. This cursed country is like an oven.'
The young man called Dion caught up the skin of water and ambled over. He had only gone a few feet when he stumbled and fell. Amid the laughter and the jeers, the officer sprang to his feet, clawing for his spear.
An arrow stood out from the juncture of Dion's neck and shoulder.
The peltasts' laughter died as a howling mob of Egyptian peasants stormed through a door in the side of the gate.
Sweat dripped down Callisthenes' nose. His slick hands clutched the hilt of his sword. This was battle. The real thing. He felt no sense of power, no thirst for glory. All Callisthenes felt was the cold hands of fear. He hugged the wall as Ibebi and the others surged past, slamming into the unprepared Greeks. One of the Egyptians, the stonecutter Khety, took the blade of a spear to his chest. It rammed through his body, exploding out his back. Khety died on his feet. Callisthenes felt his gorge rise.
Another peltast leapt Khety's body and barreled straight for Callisthenes, leveling his javelin. To his credit, Callisthenes did not allow his fear to master him. He darted aside in the last possible second, his foot dragging out behind him, and swung wildly. The peltast skidded on the stones, then tripped over Callisthenes' foot.
The man hit the ground hard, on his stomach, air exploding from his lungs. Before he could rise, Callisthenes spun and drove the point of his sword between the peltast's shoulder blades, into the gristle and bone of his spine. The man spasmed and died.
Ikilled a man. Callisthenes' hands trembled. He looked down at the dead Greek and felt colder still. Ikilled a man of Hellas. There was no glory in this. The cacophony of battle drew him from his reverie.
All around him knots of Egyptians engaged the demoral ized peltasts. He saw Hekaib gut a soldier nearly twice his size. Thothmes wielded a sword like a man possessed, hacking limbs and skulls. Ibebi, he noticed, fought with the cool precision of a veteran. Even stately Amenmose howled and flung himself into the fray. Barca, Pentu, and a handful of others mounted the steps to the parapet.
'Back! Force them back!' he heard Barca yell.
'Force them back!' Barca roared, dashing along the parapet. A Cretan archer gaped at him, his mind not registering what his eyes beheld. The back of Barca's hand sent the man spinning from the parapet. The sound and smell of bloodshed reached into Barca's soul. He felt the Beast fighting against its chains, longing to be free.
Another Cretan spun, notching an arrow. His eyes widened as the Phoenician bore down upon him. Barca loosed a hideous scream, his face screwed up in a rictus of hate. The archer's trembling hands released the arrow too soon. It splintered on the stones of the parapet. As he groped for another shaft, Barca's sword sheared through his collarbone and lodged in his chest. The Cretan gurgled as Barca kicked him free of his blade.
A second peltast charged him, thrusting a javelin at Barca's midsection. The Phoenician weaved, allowing the javelin to pass between himself and the wall, as he drove his shoulder into the peltast's body. The soldier catapulted from the parapet, his screams lost to the thronging mass of fighters below. Barca scooped up the fallen Cretan's bow and a pair of arrows.
Pentu and the others swept the Greeks from the wall. Barca left it to the guard captain to station archers at key points while he rushed to the juncture of the north and west walls to get a handle on the battle taking place in the Square.
He found himself looking down on the right flank of the Greek phalanx. He looked for Phanes as he nocked an arrow. Instead, the Greeks were rallying to a squat man in blood-splashed armor. Not Phanes, but an important fellow, nonetheless. Was it one of his regiment commanders?
Barca shrugged and took careful aim. He could see the squat man reinforcing the phalanx, bawling orders that Barca could not hear. The Phoenician exhaled …
Nicias staggered, clawing at the arrow that sprouted from between his shoulder blades, lodging in his armor. He turned. A second arrow threaded through the eye socket of his helmet. Nicias toppled; leaderless, his men fell into disarray.
Above the battle, Barca threw the bow aside and caught up his sword.
The fight for the gate was brutal. Callisthenes saw men he had known as peaceful farmers take on the guise of feral beasts — kicking, spitting, and biting. They fought for their homes, their wives, their children. The Greeks fought for their lives. It was a bitter struggle, without quarter or mercy.
Caught up in the press of bodies, Callisthenes found himself near the forefront. Ahead of him, partially engulfed in the shadow of the second pylon, a gateway named for warrior queen Hatshepsut, he saw Amenmose stumble backward. A Greek surged forward, driving his spear toward the old man's belly.
Callisthenes acted from instinct. He batted aside the spear and kicked the peltast in the groin. With the adrenalin coursing through his system, though, Callisthenes might as well have struck the man with a feather. The soldier tried to bring his spear back into play, its head skittering on the stones. Sickened, Callisthenes had no other choice.
His sword struck the man where neck and shoulder joined. It sheared through leather, flesh, and bone, driving the peltast to his knees. A second blow ended his suffering.
'Help me up!' Amenmose ordered. Callisthenes pried his gaze away from the second Greek he had killed and moved to the old Egyptian's side. He was weak, exhausted, and bleeding from a score of gashes. Ibebi materialized at his side.
