and fell and did not move.
Merodach stood aghast.
'Did an honor guard accompany him?'
'Y-Yes, 0 King,' the chancellor stammered.
'Send them away. If they resist, tell them the noble Callisthenes is under the protection of the King of Gaza, and he will call for them upon the morrow.' The king motioned to the unconscious Greek. 'Take him away. Lock him in the Dolphin Chamber, above the West Hall. Feed him well and see to his every need.' Qainu chortled at the goggle-eyed expression on his chancellor's face. 'I'm not daft, Merodach, and I yet possess a shred of common sense. It's not often I get to flaunt a man like Phanes. We will hold this Callisthenes safe until his return.'
Merodach could only stare as soldiers carried out their master's orders. What manner of madman did he serve?
The encampment site lay scarcely half a mile from the harbor, on the southern edge of Gaza. Barca stopped on the shoulder of the winding road. Egyptian soldiers tramped along, happy to be ashore after two weeks at sea. Torches cast circles of lurid orange light over the heavily rutted track. The Phoenician glanced back the way they had come. Maiumas at dusk was a chaotic sprawl with no identifiable plan, no meticulously plotted grid of streets and cross-streets. Instead, squat, flatroofed buildings grew like a fungus from the beaches and quays, rising to a precarious height along the ridge of sandscoured rock. In the sky above, crimson fingers of sunlight pierced the velvet as stars flared into existence, constellations forming beacons, landmarks for navigator and oracle alike.
The mood in Maiumas spoke of quiet desperation. Men and women labored as they had for centuries, their lives inexorably tied to the sea. They wove their nets by hand; scrounged through refuse heaps for cast-off bits of copper or bronze to forge into hooks; lived from day to day in a broth of fish guts and brine, their eyes rarely leaving the far horizon. In many ways their reliance on the currents and rhythms of the Mediterranean mirrored Egyptian dependence on the Nile. To survive, the folk of Maiumas became intimate with the mercurial waters; they knew the patterns of the winds, where the reefs and shoals were, what time of year the harshest storms arose. They sacrificed to Marna, to Anat, to Resheph: gods of wind and rain, squall and typhoon. In times of dire need, when the gods demanded immediate appeasement, their children were delivered to the priests of Ba'al to be immolated in the sacred fire. The men and women of Maiumas lived with hardship and deprivation, eking what life they could from their pitiless world while the wealthy of Gaza, three miles inland, reaped the rewards of their blood and tears.
Barca scanned the ships moored along the quays. Could any of them have belonged to his family? The house of Barca had wielded powerful influence along this coast at one time, before the disastrous thirteen-year siege of Tyre by the armies of Nebuchadnezzar. That debacle had broken Tyrian supremacy and scattered her more influential citizens to the four winds. His grandfather fled to Carthage; his father, Gisco, settled in Egypt. Barca himself had only the slenderest recollection of those days, images and emotions rather than true memories.
He turned and found Jauharah waiting for him. She smiled. 'You look deep in thought.'
'Remembering,' Barca replied. She fell in beside him as he followed in the wake of a rumbling ox-cart. Soldiers and sailors bantered, and their laughter seemed out of place along the lonely road. 'I was a child the last time I saw the harbors of Tyre, but I remember enough. This place …'
A stone shifted under Jauharah's foot. Barca made to catch her, but their hands stopped short of actually touching. Jauharah steadied herself with an outstretched arm. 'My body still rolls with the sea swells.'
Barca smiled. 'Your balance will return soon enough.' He lapsed into silence, his brow furrowed in thought. Soon, he glanced sidelong at her. 'Your people, they are from this region? '
'Not quite,' Jauharah said. 'My family lived in the Shara Mountains, perhaps a week's ride to the southeast, on the borders of Edom. My father was Bedouin, an exile from the tents of the Rualla, who found refuge with my mother's family. Beyond that, I remember very little about them.'
'Do you miss them?'
Jauharah sighed. 'Not particularly. I have forgotten so much. My only clear memory is of the narrow chasm leading to the heart of Sela, the rock-cut fortress where my family dwelt. The air in that crevice was always cool and moist, no matter how hot the surrounding desert got, and in the evening it smelled of garlic and searing meat. I can recall kneeling on a ledge beneath the sentry posts praying my father would never return from trading in Elath.'
'You disliked your father?'
Jauharah hugged herself, shivering despite the warmth of the evening. 'He was barbaric, even by Asiatic standards.' Jauharah employed the Egyptian term used to describe the inhabitants of Palestine: Asiatic. Usually preceded by `wretched' or `cursed', the name encompassed Syrians, Phoenicians, Ammonites, Israelites, Moabites, Edomites, and Arabs. To Egyptians, all Asiatics were one in the same. 'I had six brothers and four sisters. A fifth sister was born, and in a rage my father bashed the infant's head against a rock. Later, my mother defended what he had done, saying sons were a sign of strength and daughters a reminder of weakness. My father did not need another reminder.'
As she spoke a sheet of white-hot anger blurred the Phoenician's vision. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms until they bled. He could tolerate many things, but violence against children went against his grain. Slowly, he brought his rage under control. His voice, when he at last found it, was tight. 'I have never been a father, but I know in the depths of my soul that I would love my daughters as much as my sons, and none of them would have anything to fear from me.'
'That's one of the differences between you and my father, Hasdrabal. Where you are noble and kind beneath a hard exterior, he was loathsome and weak. I hope …' Jauharah stopped. Barca turned to see what was wrong, and she waved him on. He could see she was flushed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Respecting her wishes, Barca continued on. Jauharah melted into the baggage train.
Ahmad approached. He and his men led the Egyptians, and already the two cadres were mingling, trading knives, belts, and trinkets. 'Trouble with your woman?'
Barca glared at him. Wisely, the Arabian let it drop.
'How long since you left Egypt?'
'Two weeks. We left Sais and sailed for Pelusium, thence to Gaza. Why?'
Ahmad leaned close to Barca. 'A messenger arrived two days past, from Egypt I'm told. Heard from my men in the palace that he bore ill tidings. Thought you might know what it was about. The old Pharaoh has been ill, has he not?'
Barca's face betrayed no emotion. So, word of Pharaoh's poor health had spread to the frontiers. Did the Persians know? Most likely. 'He is an old man,' Barca said. 'Old men are frequently down with this ailment, or that. If Psammetichus leads the army rather than Ahmose, it changes nothing. Tell me, you said you have two hundred men. At full strength Gaza is supposed to field a thousand. Where are the others?'
The Arabian captain shrugged. 'The King is not as quick to replenish our numbers. Instead, he hires mercenaries from among the Bedouin of Sinai as guards for his caravans and his person. Ask me, it's like letting the lions shepherd the flock.'
'You and your men are not his personal guard?'
'That honor belongs to a sand-rat named Zayid. The King calls him his general, but he's nothing more than a desert brigand. Bah! We used to stake his kind out over anthills before Qainu stole his father's throne.'
'What of the Persians?' Barca asked. 'Does Qainu not fear them?'
'Why would he?'
'Should Cambyses win, he will depose Qainu and install a satrap, a puppet he can easily rule. Your king does not seem the type, from what I have heard, to sit idly by while his throne, and his source of income, is handed off to another.'
'He is already a puppet.' Ahmad looked pointedly at Barca, and the Phoenician read the revelation in the Arab's dark eyes. 'I like you, Phoenician, and I will do what I can to aid you against the Persians. But only against the Persians, if you understand my meaning.'
Barca nodded, his eyes like a winter storm — icy and wrathful. 'Perfectly.'
Callisthenes awoke in the arms of a woman.
He gave a start, wondering who the Arabs had thrown him in with. The back of his skull felt tender, and his
