Barca's head snapped up, a frown knitting his brow. An unreasoning wave of anger washed over him, a need to strike out and destroy something. Pharaoh's command rushed back into his mind: Banish your rage. He said nothing, but forced his trembling hands to tie the leather thongs holding his corselet in place. Finally, he spoke. 'I had almost forgotten his name. How did you …?'
'I heard you speak it in Memphis. Later, while you were on the mend, I asked around among Pharaoh's slaves. The tale is out there, if you know who to ask,' she said. 'I was curious, though, why the Greek's commander never pursued you, and why Pharaoh never charged you with murder.'
'What does it matter?' The Phoenician's jaw tightened. Jauharah sensed his discomfort. It was like probing a raw, unhealed wound. She knew she should drop the matter, but her intuition told her to press forward.
'It matters a great deal, Hasdrabal. It matters because it is the difference between guilt and innocence. The law …'
'I know the law! '
'Then you know you're innocent,' Jauharah said.
Barca turned to the railing, his back to Jauharah as he stared out over the choppy sea, his shoulders quivering in barely suppressed fury. The similarities the Phoenician bore to the mythical Herakles struck Jauharah, then. Both hounded unto death for the misfortunes of their youth, both prone to fits of black rage and blacker melancholy.
'Innocent under the law?' Barca said. 'Yes. But the law does not judge a man, only the gods are granted that right. In the eyes of God, my God, I am guilty and nothing I do can ever change that. In a way, Ujahorresnet spoke true. Neferu was a woman of passions and appetites. What choice did she have when her husband ignored her?'
'You can't blame yourself for her indiscretions,' Jauharah said.
Barca spun, bristling. 'Who should I blame? Polydices for doing what any hot-blooded man would do? Her father for raising her improperly? I am to blame. Myself, and none other.'
'What about Neferu?' Jauharah said. 'Does she not deserve a lion's share of this blame you cherish so? Life is organic, Hasdrabal, ever growing, ever evolving. A person's actions are like vines on the arbor, free to take whatever path they choose but influenced by the paths of others. Neferu did not have to fall prey to the lure of the flesh. Polydices could have refused her advances …'
'And I could have stayed my hand,' Barca snarled.
'Yes,' she said. 'You could have stayed your hand. But you did not, Hasdrabal. In a rage you killed your wife and her lover. You reacted the only way you knew how. It was wrong. But, in its own way, it was necessary. If the events of your youth had not unfolded as they did, you would not be the man you are today.'
'Do not mock me,' Barca said, turning away.
Jauharah caught his arm. 'On that night, years ago, you became a man obsessed with honor and fairness. Your anger at yourself drove you to become a better man, a man who neither minces words nor hides behind them. My past has taught me that most men are dull-witted animals whose only concerns are their loins and their bellies. You have taught me otherwise. You are a man I respect.'
A long silence passed between them. For a brief moment the facade cracked and Jauharah saw the grief and anguish that had haunted him for twenty years. Slowly, he forced the mask back into place. 'We make landfall soon,' he said through clenched teeth.
'You have not yet explained what my duties will be. Truly, I cannot understand of what use I will be to you on the field.'
'You will be my ears in places I can't go. In camp, I want you to maintain the House of Life. I will make sure you have whatever you need.' He took his cuirass from her and stared at his reflection in the polished metal.
'They'll be loath to take orders from a slave woman.'
'They will take their orders from whomever I tell them to! And you are no slave, Jauharah. Do you understand that?'
Jauharah sighed. She rose to her feet and helped Barca don his breastplate, buckling it into place as he held it. 'All I have ever known is how to serve. How master Idu took his morning meal; how his children …' her voice caught in her throat. 'How Meryt and Tuya liked to make clay animals for their mother; how mistress Tetisheri enjoyed accompanying me to the markets. The life of a slave is all I've ever known, Hasdrabal. And it was a good life. A g-good life …' Jauharah turned away and sat, hiding her tears.
Barca heard a discreet cough coming from beyond the linen awning. 'General? We are near.'
'Thank you, captain,' Barca said. He crouched next to Jauharah and clasped her hands in his. Her eyes were red and moist; she looked away, but he gently lifted her chin and made her look at him. She saw something flickering in his eyes. 'You are free now, Jauharah,' he said, his voice barely above a whisper, 'and you have an opportunity most people will never understand — the opportunity to remake your life. You can right the wrongs done to you as a child, decide your own fate. That is freedom. We are all slaves in some way or another: to destiny, to class, to blood, to gods, to fear. For this brief moment in time, you are a slave to nothing, to no one. I envy you your freedom, your future, for you have been given something I will never have: a second chance. Use it to make the life you want.' Barca stood and, with a ghost of a smile, caught up his sword.
Jauharah watched him go. For the first time in what seemed an eternity, the tears spilling down her cheeks were not born of grief.
Feluccas crested the waves, their triangular sails tacking in the breeze. Inquisitive faces studied the carved prow of the Atum, with its hieroglyphic symbols and mysterious figures, as the galley slipped past the mole and into the calmer waters of the harbor. They approached the wharfs with a slow sweep of the oars, angling for an empty slip where a crowd had gathered. Barca stood alone at the bow.
Jauharah had stirred an emotion deep within him, something he had thought long since dead. Twenty years dead. Many times in those long years, he had been moved to pity; moved by some dark deed, some painful secret. At Habu last year he had felt an overwhelming sadness for the children slain by Ghazi's wolves. Sadness and pity he knew well, but this … this emotion toward Jauharah was something wholly alien to him. He wanted to sweep her up in a crushing embrace and keep the world at bay. He wanted to fight her battles and allay her fears. He … Barca shook his head, thrusting those emotions aside. This was not the time. Not now. With titanic effort Hasdrabal Barca brought his mind to bear on the task at hand.
For all its cosmetic differences, the port of Maiumas evoked powerful memories for Barca, memories of his home in Tyre. White-washed buildings of stone and brick ascended the dune ridges, rising from the beaches and quays that were the heart of the harbor. Mercantile houses, like armed camps, occupied the waterfront. Here, bales and bundles of goods awaited the caravans that would carry them to the corners of the known world. Incense bound for the new temple at Jerusalem sat beside tusks of ivory destined for the markets of Byblos; ingots of gold, favored by the kings of distant Scythia, were shrouded by bolts of silk soon to grace the shoulders of a Babylonian noblewoman. The wealth of the world poured into Gaza's coffers and, like Tyre, only a select few profited from it.
Wood scraped wood as the ship sidled close to the dock. Ropes were passed from sailor to longshoreman, and a gangplank levered into place. Quayside taverns and stalls emptied at the spectacle of the Atum docking. A festival atmosphere gripped the crowd, replete with street hawkers and food vendors, their voices mingling with the cacophony of tongues rising from the bystanders. Barca gazed out over a sea of turbaned heads and curious brown faces. His eyes locked on a small, self-important man standing apart from the crowd, surrounded by a cadre of soldiers in spired bronze helmets and studded jerkins. The welcoming party.
'Soldiers to the fore,' Barca ordered. Squads of spearbearing Egyptians in golden-scaled corselets and plumed helmets hustled down the gangplank and took up defensive positions around the Atum. Barca followed them down, pausing at the base of the plank. The onlookers pointed, chattering amongst themselves.
The small man pushed past the soldiers and inclined his head in greeting. 'I am Merodach, chancellor to his Highness, King Qainu of Arabia, overlord of Kedar and protector of the peoples of Edom. Who commands here?' He looked past Barca, expecting to see a high-born Egyptian materialize at the head of the gangplank.
Merodach moved in a manner that reminded Barca of the sandpipers he had seen on the beaches of Pelusium — small, brown birds forever flitting between waves, fearful of the water but knowing their next meal would come from the silvery surf. Merodach's features added to the avian caricature: he was small and dark, his wiry muscle hidden by a smooth layer of fat; he had no chin or forehead to speak of, only a long, hooked nose, like a bird's beak,
