'Senmut,' he said. His eyes slid up and down her body. She felt her confidence waver. She was a slave, subservient to his every whim. Her eyes should be downcast. Her …
No! I am a free woman. 'Senmut, order your men to erect the tents around this ruin.' Her voice quavered slightly, then grew stern and commanding, becoming the voice mistress Tetisheri used when her will was not to be questioned. 'This will serve as the general's command post. The tents of the House of Life should go on the desert side of this ruin, unobstructed, so they can receive the benefits of the sea air. The mess tent should go on the side of the ruin facing the harbor, so resupply will not be too difficult. Above all, make the tent rows orderly and neat, like columns in a temple.'
To Jauharah's surprise Senmut inclined his head, saying, 'As you wish.' He turned back to his men and barked orders. 'Not like that, you ignorant wretches! Make 'em neat. . '
Jauharah moved on to the tents that would house any casualties they might receive. Old soldiers, men who had fought in battles since before she was born, deferred to her wishes, realigning the tents to take advantage of the freshening breeze. She consulted with Bay about sending a deputation into the city to replace some herbs and medicines that had spoiled during the sea voyage. The quartermaster agreed, promising to seek her out tomorrow for a list of what they needed. She hid her elation at their nascent acceptance by throwing herself into her work.
It was after midnight before Jauharah's elation faded into exhaustion. She asked after her belongings and learned they had been tucked away in Barca's tent. To the rank and file, she was his woman; they expected her sleeping arrangements to reflect that. Jauharah shrugged. She would sleep on the floor so long as no one disturbed her.
The Phoenician's tent was larger than the others, though beyond that there was nothing ostentatious or gaudy about it. It surely did not reflect the rank of the man who would dwell within. The interior maintained that air of Spartan simplicity. An Egyptian-style bed with a mattress of cord matting lay inside a frame draped with sheer linen panels. That bed, a table, and a soot-stained bronze brazier were the extent of the furnishings. Someone had left a loaf of bread and a jug of beer on the table, alongside an urn of fresh water. Jauharah blessed whoever it was. At least she could sponge off the sweat and grit.
Jauharah found her chest under the table. Beside it sat Barca's battered leather rucksack. His was an unremarkable piece of baggage, worn and scarred from countless campaigns. Jauharah had seen similar rucksacks decorated in the timehonored tradition of the foot soldier: amulets and charms and reminders of various postings tacked to the leather. Barca's had only one, a yellowed ivory uadjet
Her chest was an admirable companion to the Phoenician's kit. She had salvaged it from a nobleman's refuse heap and tried to restore it to its former glory. Crafted of aged cedar, polished from years of handling, and stripped of its gold leaf and precious stones, the side panels of the chest depicted scenes of home and family, along with hieroglyphic prayers to Isis and Hathor. It served a twofold purpose as both coffer and shrine.
Jauharah raised the lid and looked at her meager possessions: a blue-glazed pot holding smaller stone tubes of eye paint and fragrant oils, a sewing kit, a leather pouch of frankincense, a mirror of polished copper, combs and cosmetic tools of wood and bone, items of clothing. She removed a fresh linen shift, dyed blue, a tube of fragrant oil, and an old length of cloth suitable to wash with.
She stripped off her soiled shift and used water from the ewer to give herself a brisk sponge bath, then rubbed the oil into her skin. She took the last bit of water and rinsed the grit and stiffness from her hair. Times like these, Jauharah wished she had adopted the Egyptian custom of shaving her scalp and wearing a heavy wig. She preferred natural tresses to those woven from fiber, but a bare scalp would be so much easier to clean.
Jauharah dressed and put away her things. She settled into the corner nearest the bed and would have fallen right off to sleep had the tent flap not rustled open. Barca stepped inside. He held a pottery flask of wine, still stoppered and sealed. Jauharah noticed a tightness about his jaw, a smoldering fire in his eyes. His brow furrowed when he saw her.
'You did not wish to have your own quarters?'
Jauharah shrugged. 'They assumed we would be … that I'm. .'
'Merciful Ba'al! Do they think this is some kind of leisurely outing?' Barca said. 'That I would bring a woman along for pleasure?'
His voice held such a vehemence that Jauharah was taken aback. His tone stung. She stood, her back straight and stiff. 'Do not be troubled, Hasdrabal. I can sleep in the ruin, if need be.'
Jauharah made to leave, but Barca caught her before she could go. The Phoenician sighed, shaking his head. 'I'm sorry. Stay, if it pleases you. The gods know I could use the company.'
'What's wrong?'
Barca tore aside the linen panels and sat on the edge of the bed. He pried his greaves off and tossed them in the corner, followed by his cuirass. He drew a small knife from his belt and pared away the seal on the flask. With his teeth, he removed the stopper, then drank deeply.
Jauharah frowned. 'Hasdrabal? Has something happened?' She crouched at his feet.
'A messenger arrived from Sais bearing ill news. Ahmad did not know exactly what, but I think I know. I think Pharaoh has gone on to the realm of Osiris.'
Jauharah's hand flew to her mouth. 'What? Great Isis! No! That cannot be!'
Barca tapped the wine flask against the bed frame. 'I can't think of any other reason why Sais would risk sending messengers to the frontier. Our placement here has nothing to do with their strategic plans, so they would not change our orders via messenger. Pharaoh has been ill for quite some time. There is no other explanation.'
'Then,' Jauharah scowled, 'where is the messenger? Why didn't he await your arrival? Say he had pressing business elsewhere. Why, then, didn't Qainu's man deliver the message to you himself?'
'Because,' Barca said, a dangerous light in his eye, 'Qainu's loyalty is suspect. Something else I had from Ahmad … his king does not fear the Persians. That means he is either a fool or he has already paid homage to Cambyses. From what I know of Qainu, he is no fool.'
'Do you think Callisthenes is in danger?' Jauharah asked, voicing Barca's own concern.
The Phoenician thought about it for some time. He took another pull from his wine bottle. 'No. That wretched chancellor had orders to escort me into his king's presence. They did not expect I would send a deputy. So, harming Callisthenes would do them no good. Qainu will try something else, that or he'll present the illusion of loyalty and stall until the Persians arrive. Either way, I've doubled the sentries.' Barca's fists clenched and unclenched. 'I'm not accustomed to standing idle. It's not my nature.'
Jauharah sat beside him, taking his hands in hers. Barca shifted nervously. He glanced at her, then looked away.
'You seemed upset earlier this evening,' he said.
Jauharah lowered her head, her hair spilling over her face. It … saddens me to talk of my family. I'm one of those rare souls to whom happiness is denied. To be abandoned by one family and lose another to violence … what else could the gods do to me?'
'You're too hard on yourself,' Barca said. 'True, the Fates have made sure your path is strewn with obstacles, but the gods themselves have gifted you with the wits and the wherewithal to overcome anything. You told me the events of my youth made me who I am today. The same can be said of you. And, despite the pain and the hardship you've had to endure, I am glad you're the woman you are.'
Jauharah nodded. Tears sparkled on her cheeks. She laughed, nervous, wiping her eyes. 'Look at me. An hour ago I was ordering men about like a general on the field. I suppose I should thank you for that, too. Whatever you told them about me must have struck a nerve. Even the captain, Senmut, did as I asked.'
Barca smiled. 'So, you're the spirit of Ma'at who appeared and turned chaos to order. I heard about you. But, I had nothing to do with it. Truth be told, it slipped my mind. Whatever respect you earned was from your own actions, not from fear of me. You showed them confidence.'
'Confidence. I must have learned it from you,' she said. Jauharah opened his hands, staring at the thick sword callouses, the frieze of thin scars etching his flesh. Beneath that veneer she saw the hands of an artist. Long fingers, nimble and quick, driven from the gods' original purpose by chance. She traced each finger, each line, seeing in her mind's eye this selfsame hand wrapped around a sword hilt, drenched in blood. 'Do you … enjoy killing?'
'No,' Barca sighed. He tried to clench his fist but her hands kept it open. 'No. It's a skill, like any other. Some people build great monuments or fashion exquisite jewelry. My skill is at killing. I'm not proud of it, but it is
