skipped and chattered on the pavement.
Ahead, Greek and Egyptian were locked in death's embrace. Those not dancing with the reaper surged forward in search of a partner. Peltasts targeted the chariot. Javelins flew. One thudded into the wood of the chassis, near Thothmes. Another found a different mark.
The inside horse collapsed, the javelin cleaving its heart. Unbalanced, the other fell, flipping the chariot on its side and spilling its passengers. Barca, his body a compact ball of muscle and sinew, rolled to his feet with the grace of a gymnast. His companions fared worse. Both Egyptians struck the ground hard, leaving patches of skin across the abrasive stones. Thothmes regained his senses first. He clambered to his feet, casting about for his sword.
A peltast broke ranks and charged Hekaib. The Egyptian presented a tempting target: a man on his hands and knees, fighting for breath. An easy kill. He took two steps forward, his arm cocked back over his ear.
Barca intercepted him. His shield knocked the javelin aside as he rammed his sword through the soldier's body. Behind him, Thothmes rushed over and helped Hekaib to his feet.
'Merciful gods of the desert!' a voice roared to Barca's left. 'You know the value of a good entrance!' Tjemu hobbled up, his weight supported by a broken spear. The Libyan bled from countless small wounds, though Barca judged most of the gore spattering him to be Greek.
'And you know you're supposed to leave me someone to kill, Libyan,' Barca said, clapping the smaller man on the back. Tjemu grinned ruthlessly.
'These Egyptians got their hackles up.' He glanced around, seeking a familiar face among Barca's men. 'Where's that old maiden, Ithobaal?'
Barca's jaw grew tight. He shook his head. Tjemu's shoulders slumped. 'Did he die well?'
'He died as a Medjay should,' Barca replied. 'But he died in vain unless we stop Phanes.'
'Then why are we standing here yammering like old women while that bastard makes good his escape?'
Ujahorresnet and the other priests stood together in the thick shadow of the hypostyle hall. They were unguarded, but with battles raging inside and out, where could they run? No, best to stay put and pray.
Ujahorresnet prayed for a different outcome.
The First Servant of Neith knew his prayers had gone unanswered when he saw a blood-splashed apparition crossing the columned hall. Phanes ripped his helmet off and threw it aside. Sweat and blood matted his dark hair. His lips curled in barely contained rage.
'You have failed,' Ujahorresnet said.
'Not failure!' Phanes snarled. 'Merely a setback.' Men withdrew around them, sprinting to the quay to make the Khepri ready for departure. A rear guard of hoplites fought a delaying action against the Egyptians. The sound of fighting echoed through the hall.
'You are tenacious, Greek. I'll give you that. Have you not the wisdom and the humility to know when you have been bested? '
' Bested? Not by any length, priest. All that has changed is my focus. If I cannot give Egypt to Cambyses, then I will engineer its destruction. Your confederates have become a liability.' Phanes pointed to the cowering knot of priests. 'Kill them.'
Ujahorresnet interjected himself between his countrymen and the Greeks. 'Let them go,' he said. 'Don't force me to sacrifice myself to save their lives.'
Phanes and the old priest stood toe to toe. They stared at one another without flinching. Neither man gave back an inch. The tableau could have held for an eternity, but Phanes' time was limited. 'I would have liked to have been your friend, Ujahorresnet,' the Greek said. 'When I return, perhaps we can meet under different circumstances and share a glass. I give you your life, and theirs, though I will doubtless live to regret it.' Phanes motioned his men away, then stopped. A slow smile spread across his features. 'This place, it's full of oils and unguents?'
Ujahorresnet nodded.
'Good.' He turned back to face his soldiers. 'Burn it! '
Smoke guttered from within the hypostyle hall. Flames gnawed at the stones, searing away ancient layers of paint and plaster. A thick black haze drifted across the battlefield. Through it Barca stalked like Death personified. Egyptians formed at his back, creating a fighting wedge with the indomitable Phoenician at its tip. The remnants of the hoplites, cut off by the flames, locked shields and braced for the final thrust, their palisade of spears all that remained between Barca and his prey.
'Phanes! '
With that ear-splitting roar, Barca loosed the Beast from the prison of his soul. He moved through the Greeks like a farmer threshing grain, reaping a bloody harvest among them. Spears thrusting at him he turned aside, swords whistling toward him he deflected, and men seeking to stand against him he struck down with impunity.
In his wake Hekaib and Thothmes fought to emulate him. The Egyptians were madmen, but to the Greeks they were the lesser of the two evils. Men who stood no chance against Barca threw themselves against his comrades with zealous fervor.
Their ends came quickly.
Hekaib fell first. He could not maintain the brutal pace Barca had set. His lungs burned; his arms and legs felt like leaden weights. Each step, each thrust, became agony. His mind wandered back over the years, seeing again his wife and children, the laughing face of Ibebi, dour Menkaura. Homage to thee, Osiris.
Hekaib stumbled, his shield falling. A shadow loomed out of the smoke; a hoplite surged in and drove his eight-footer into the little man's belly. The Egyptian screamed once, then fell silent as a sword hacked through his neck.
Thothmes turned in time to see the head and body fall in different directions. Spears and swords licked out, driving him back. Blood sheeted from a cut on Thothmes' scalp, blinding him. He tripped over a corpse. Thothmes rolled over on his stomach and clawed at the gory stones, fingers seeking the hilt of his sword. His will, his spirit, did not falter, but in his mind he knew it was time. He knew …
A hoplite spear, driven through his back, freed his ka to travel to the next world.
Through the haze of katalepsis Barca did not see the two Egyptians die. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the hypostyle hall. He hacked his way through the last of the Greeks and rushed alone into the inferno.
'Phanes! '
Precious oils and fine linens fed the flames equally as well as common lamp fuel and resin soaked rags, creating only a sweeter smelling miasma to burn the lungs and sear the eyes. The Phoenician emerged from the temple complex in time to see the Khepri backing water. With a bellow of rage, Barca flung his shield away and rushed down the avenue of sphinxes to the quay, too late to stop their exodus. Though smoke and exhaustion blurred his vision, he could see Phanes standing in the bow of the retreating barge. The Greek smiled despite his defeat.
'You son of a bitch!' Barca roared. 'I will hunt you to the ends of the earth!' The Phoenician swayed, sword falling from his loosening grip. 'To the e-ends …' The world spun. Cold, leaden limbs weighed him down. No. Too much left to do. He needed a ship. A ship. Pharaoh would grant him one …
Figures staggered through the smoke, their bodies pierced by spear and sword, wracked with exhaustion. Tjemu sat in the shadow of a sphinx, a rag pressed to his thigh, his curses lost amid the general clamor.
Nearby, ringed by Calasirians, Ahmose leaned against a stone obelisk. Pharaoh's breath came in wracking gasps and his armor bore witness to the fury of the battle; several scales were missing, others were dented, and a patina of fresh gore dulled the whole. His arms were crisscrossed with cuts and gouges. Disheveled priests prepared bandages and poultices for their king. Ahmose removed the blue war crown and passed it to an aide. Nebmaatra crouched at his feet. The Calasirian commander knotted a scrap of linen around his lacerated forearm.
'So much for Phanes' loyalty, eh?' Pharaoh said. A shout went up from the surrounding soldiers, cries of 'Medjay! Medjay!' as Barca staggered through their ranks. Swords were thrust heavenward; spears clashed on shields. Oblivious to the din, Barca shouldered his way past the Calasirians.
'G-Grant me a ship, sire,' he said. 'A s-ship…'
'Hasdrabal Barca! ' Ahmose smiled. 'We owe you your heart's desire. If it's a ship you want, you will have it.
