survive without it? What's more, would he want to?
The Atum was a troop transport, wide of belly and long of keel, packed to the railings with soldiers of the elite regiment of Amon. They, along with the garrison at Gaza, would, under Barca's command, harry the Persian advance. Barca suspected, even before the rumors started, that Phanes had drifted down the Euphrates to Babylon and attached himself to the court of Cambyses of Persia. A solid move on the Greek's part. Cambyses longed to accomplish what his father, Cyrus, had been unable to do: extend his dominion over the lands of Egypt. Like his sire, Cambyses would soon learn a hard lesson: the Negev Desert was too formidable a barrier for an army to cross. Barca had little doubt that a soldier of Phanes' caliber could find a way to ferry an army across the inhospitable wastes of Negev to within striking distance of the eastern Nile. Could a soldier of his caliber stop him?
Barca put his back to the rail and folded his arms across his chest, watching. In the waist of the Atum, the Nubian boatswain kept a brisk cadence; the oarsmen bellowed their songs in time with his staccato drumbeats. Further aft, the captain harangued a sailor at the tiller, his words drowned out by the rising song, the clack of oar locks, and the hiss of water sliding past the hull.
With Ahmose ill and Psammetichus an untried ruler, Barca had no illusions about the coming months. It would be a hard fight; Egypt's fate rested in the hands of the selfstyled kings of Arabia, Bedouin bandits who controlled the scant water resources of the Negev desert. If they could be convinced to side with Egypt, then Cambyses — and Phanes — could be dealt with before ever reaching the eastern frontier. If not, if Arabia fell under Persia's spell … well, if that happened, he prayed Psammetichus had the stomach for a prolonged war.
Barca spotted Callisthenes moving toward him. The months since Memphis had wrought serious changes in the Greek. The fat merchant was gone, dead, slain in the fighting at the Northern Gate only to be reborn as the lean figure who cat-footed across the Atum's deck. Callisthenes still bore some resemblance to his former self: a shadow of a paunch; a fold of loose skin under his chin; the ever-present scarab amulet thonged about his neck. But everything else about the man had changed, including his temperament. Barca could tell as he approached that the Greek was in one of his now-frequent sour moods.
'You could have handled this without me, you know,' Callisthenes said by way of greeting. He leaned over the rail. Below, several sinister grey fins paced them.
'How many times must I defend my decision with you? You are politic, my friend,' Barca said. 'I have neither the stomach nor the inclination to play games with the Arabians. I will have my hands full assaying the Persian approach. I need you to act as my liaison to the governor.'
'And the woman?'
For all his Egyptian sensibilities, Callisthenes yet retained a Greek's contempt of women. To the Hellenes, women served a two-fold purpose: to bear sons and manage the affairs of the home. They had no legal rights beyond those enjoyed by slaves. Of course, there were exceptions. Spartan women were free to own property, to participate in the gymnasium; older Athenian women were accorded more leeway in their public dealings. On the whole, though, a Greek woman's life was one of bitterness and pain.
'What about her?' Barca said. 'Jauharah's people are Arabian. She knows their tongue, and we'll have need of our own interpreter. I'm evidence enough of her skills as a healer. She will be useful.'
Callisthenes spat. 'There's no use for a woman in the vanguard of war, Phoenician. You know that better than any man here. Why is she really with us? Are you taken with this woman, or are you seeking to atone for the past?'
The look in Barca's eyes as he stared at Callisthenes turned the Greek's blood to ice. Rage piled upon fury, like clouds in a thunderstorm, waiting to unleash elemental ruin at the slightest provocation. Callisthenes realized with a shudder that the only thing keeping him alive at that moment was the Phoenician's iron will.
'I spoke out of turn. Forgive me,' Callisthenes said glumly. 'I am so far out of my element that death would be a godsend right now. You just don't understand, Barca. If I help you, men will die. If I do not, if I bury myself beneath invoices and bills of lading, those men will still die but their blood will not be on my hands.'
'I understand guilt, Callisthenes. Better than most men, I understand it, but there comes a time when we must rise above guilt and do what is expected of us. We must prove ourselves worthy.'
Callisthenes frowned. 'How can we say we are worthy of survival and the Persians are not? Is that not the purview of the gods? When I killed those soldiers in Memphis, I also widowed wives and orphaned children. I ended the bloodline of their fathers and inflicted soul-searing grief on their mothers. Where is the glory in that?'
Barca said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke the words came quietly, without bravado or embroidery. 'It is not a question of worth or glory. The fabric of your life is woven at birth, Callisthenes. Those soldiers wished you dead; they wished your wife to be widowed and your children to be orphaned. Why? Because you stood in the way of their survival. Did you live because the gods thought you more worthy? I don't think so. I think you lived because it was not yet your time. When it does come, all of the worth and glory in the world will not spare you from that killing blow.'
'Then why are we here? Why do we fight? Every oracle from Siwa to Delphi has foreseen Egypt's fall. What difference will it make if we meet them in Gaza or await them in Pelusium?' The Greek's shoulders slumped. An air of defeat hung about him like a well-worn cloak.
Barca smiled. 'Because the gods hate a quitter. Look, my friend, I agree with you, in spirit at least. But going bellyup and awaiting death has a foul stench to it, does it not? By nature, men are violent; we are fighters. We fight our way from the womb, and we fight against going to the grave. I don't know why the gods made Fate our master then gave us a fighting spirit, perhaps only for their own amusement, perhaps to give us a thirst for life. All I know is I have a duty to perform, and in the course of that duty, men will die. To perform my task to the best of my ability, I need you. That's why you are here. We won't stop Cambyses at Gaza, Callisthenes. We are here to slow their advance, to scout out their numbers. We are here to be a thorn in the bastard's side.' Barca chuckled at that thought. He straightened and clapped the Greek on the shoulder. 'A nugget of advice, my friend: don't dwell too long on the word of priests and oracles. They have been known to spread falsehoods. Ready yourself. We'll make landfall soon.'
Jauharah watched the exchange between Phoenician and Greek from her perch in the stern of the Atum. An awning and partition of linen kept the glare off — both from the sun and the lecherous sailors. Since boarding she had overheard snatches of jokes and rude comments as she went about the daily chores she set for herself of fetching water and cooking Barca's meals — though he ordered her to stop serving him as a slave would a master. Most of the crew thought the Phoenician had brought his concubine with him. Others simply stared at her with a possessive hunger that made her skin crawl.
Barca kept telling her she was free. Pharaoh's gift. Free to choose where to go, where to stay. She had been a slave for so long, though, that the idea of freedom terrified her. Every night, she prayed she would wake in Memphis, in the villa of master Idu, rested and ready for a day of baking bread, making beer, and serving the needs of the family. Every morning, she woke to find her prayers unanswered.
Barca twitched the partition aside. 'We'll make landfall soon,' he said, moving to where Jauharah had laid out his panoplia. He glanced sidewise at her. She sat cross-legged on the deck polishing his bronze breastplate. With a soft cloth she applied a thin coating of oil to the ridges of sculpted muscle, to the lapis, ivory and gold uadjet inlaid in the chest. The oil would stave off the caustic effects of the salt air. Barca exhaled. 'You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known. A thousand times have I told you to stop that, and I'll hazard a guess that it will take a thousand times more before it penetrates that thick skull of yours.'
'If that's your way of thanking me for making sure you don't leave this ship looking like a tousle-headed rube in corroded armor, you're welcome.'
'The gods have mercy on the man who takes you to wife,' Barca said, grinning.
'Your Greek friend does not care for me, I think.'
'Callisthenes? Oh, he's a good man, for a Greek.' Barca knelt and fitted bronze greaves over his ox-hide sandals. The natural flex of the metal kept the greaves snug about his calf. Next he drew on a linen corselet, padded to absorb the weight of his cuirass. Barca stopped in mid-gesture and laughed. Jauharah stared at him, questioning.
'I used to hate his people,' he said, 'hate them with a passion known only to madmen. If someone had told me then that I would come to call a Hellene friend, to defend him to another, I would have cursed him as a lying wretch and split his skull to the teeth. Strange, these little ironies of life.'
'Not all Greeks are like Polydices,' Jauharah said, her voice barely above a whisper.
