you.'
Nebmaatra sheathed his sword. 'We will finish this soon, Persian,' he whispered to Gobartes as he passed.
The audience chamber lay off the main throne room. By design it was smaller, more intimate, meant to be a place where Pharaoh could greet special guests, foreign ambassadors, even members of the royal family. The friezes and paintings on the walls placed less emphasis on the military aspects of rulership and more on the promotion of the hearth. There were scenes of Pharaoh honoring the goddesses Isis and Hathor, of a husband and wife fowling in the marshes, of children frolicking among lotus blooms and papyrus stalks.
Pharaoh sat on a low dais, smiling, as Nebmaatra led the way into the chamber. His Calasirians took up positions along the walls, their glittering armor incongruous against the pastoral decor. Courtiers, priests, and servants filed in after, roused from their slumber by the commotion. Gobartes, flanked by guards, entered last.
Psammetichus motioned to his servants. 'Fetch the Overseer of Scribes.'
Nebmaatra looked at him curiously. Pharaoh sat still, his nervous twitter gone. His eyes glittered with resolve. For a moment Nebmaatra wondered if Pharaoh had been poisoned. The commander let his eyes slide around the audience chamber, noting the cryptic smile on the face of the old priest, Ujahorresnet. It occurred to him that there were many forms of poison, the most insidious being the poison of words. Words spoken to promote an agenda, to undermine, to cast shadows of doubt on the sound judgement of others. It was a poison with no easy antidote.
Psammetichus had been gone long enough to ingest a lethal dose.
'Majesty,' Nebmaatra said, moving close so as not to be overheard by the milling throng which grew by the second. 'You are tired. Are you sure you wish to conduct affairs of state by the light of the moon?'
'Nonsense, commander. I am fine,' Pharaoh replied. He smiled. 'Indeed, my course of action has never been clearer.' Murmurs swept the crowd as the Overseer of Scribes, hastily clad in a rumpled linen robe, came huffing into the audience chamber. Pharaoh gestured to his side. 'Khasekhem, my friend, assume your position at my right hand.'
Psammetichus waited patiently as the heavy-set chief of the royal scribes readied his palette and papyrus. When he continued, his voice reverberated about the small chamber. 'Regnal year One under the majesty of Horus: Strong of mind, appearing in truth; He of the Two Ladies: Who establishes laws and brings plenty to the Two Lands; Golden Horus: Great of mind and body; the king of Upper and Lower Egypt, lord of the Two Lands: Ankhkaenre Psammetichus, chosen one of Ra, son of Ra, may he live,' Pharaoh recited the royal titular, pausing for effect as his courtiers held their breaths. Their eagerness for Pharaoh's next words crackled, palpable. Even Nebmaatra found himself leaning forward in anticipation. 'To My generals on the eastern frontier, I say this: You have served Me well, now attend My wishes. I send one to you who shall oversee in My stead. His voice shall be My voice. His will shall be My will. He is Nebmaatra, the Sword of Ra, General of the armies of Egypt, Right Hand to the King. Obey him as you obey Me.'
Nebmaatra was silent, stunned, as the chamber erupted in shouts of approval. General? The flush of pride that should have accompanied the moment was stillborn as he realized its implications.
Psammetichus motioned for silence. 'Do you accept this honor, my friend?'
Nebmaatra bowed, an almost perfunctory gesture. 'If it is truly your will, I have no choice but to accept.'
Psammetichus looked askance at Nebmaatra. 'It is a great honor, is it not?'
Nebmaatra's mind raced as he tried to assimilate every factor, every nuance of what this promotion meant. 'Yes, a great honor,' he replied. He could not have been caught any less off guard if Pharaoh had risen and brained him with an axe. The smiles and congratulatory nods of those about him assumed a sinister aspect; the whispered prayers of victory grew thick with imagined mockery.
'Take what officers and men of the Calasirians as you feel you need and make ready to depart. I will be along as soon as my father's funerary rites are concluded. Remember, Nebmaatra, it is not enough to defeat the Persians at Pelusium.' He jabbed a finger at the envoy, Gobartes. 'We must make them rue the very thought of invading Egypt.'
'I understand, Pharaoh,' Nebmaatra said. 'But, in my absence, who will insure your safety?'
Psammetichus smiled, glancing at Ujahorresnet. 'I place my safety in the hands of the gods. Their priests will be my spiritual advisers, my counselors, and my bodyguards if need be. Too long have I listened to the advice of men who seek to gain through deception and poor counsel. This is a new beginning, the dawning of a new era. Go, my friend, and pave the way for victory! '
Nebmaatra bowed, spun, and strode from the audience hall, so deep in thought that he failed to acknowledge the raucous applause following in his wake. He glanced up once, his eye catching the envoy, Gobartes.
The Persian smiled ruthlessly.
The ship was called the Glory of Amon, and its quay had become the focal point of a flurry of activity in the predawn gloom. Sailors and longshoremen worked furiously to get her ready to sail, loading supplies as quickly as the porters arrived with them, scampering up and down the lines and guide ropes. Rowers worked the kinks out of their thick shoulders as they adjusted the sheepskins padding their benches. The Glory of Amon was a bireme, stripped down, its low lethal prow glazed for speed. At full sail she could cut the green water of the Mediterranean like a knife through fat.
By all rights, Nebmaatra should have been beside himself, elated beyond words. He had reached the pinnacle of his dreams. Why, then, did he feel uneasy? He stood to one side, watching the preparations without seeing them, his arms folded across his chest. Was it the timing of this triumph, or perhaps his ultimate destination? He could not imagine a decisive battle fought at Pelusium, not against a Persian army thick with cavalry and archers. They would be in their element on that flat grassy plain. A better solution would be to lure them into the swamps and sloughs of the Eastern Delta and await the coming inundation, let the Nile purge itself of this Persian infection.
No, strategy wasn't the source of his concern. He reckoned that, with enough time and enough men, he could make even Pelusium defensible. Nebmaatra stroked his chin. As he understood it, the idea to send him from Sais did not originate with Pharaoh. It came from the mind of the priest, Ujahorresnet. Why? What possible benefit could the priest gain by promoting him? He had heard cryptic rumors that the old man's behavior at Memphis during the Greek uprising had been something less than beneficial. Yet, since his installation as First Servant of Neith in Sais, Ujahorresnet had been the model of Egyptian piety. Why, then? Did he harbor aspirations after all? Nebmaatra shook his head. 'Politics,' he said.
'I heard the news, general,' said a voice at his side. He turned and saw Ladice approaching. She seemed pale, withdrawn. Alone. 'I would have thought you would be more … jubilant.'
'Why celebrate what may be just a hollow victory?' he said.
'Hollow?' Ladice smiled, a wan gesture that lacked even a shred of her old fire. 'Ahmose told me once he could see in you the ability to inspire men, to lead them to their deaths and make them proud to die. In Egypt's darkest hour, I can think of no better place for you than in command of Pharaoh's armies. My …' Ladice's voice caught in her throat. 'My husband would have agreed with his son's decision.'
Nebmaatra felt a wrench of sadness for Ladice. She was a foreigner, a Greek, adrift on a hostile sea. After the required time of mourning, Psammetichus planned to return her to her family in Cyrene, but even that did nothing to assuage her grief. 'Thank you, lady, but Psammetichus is not his father. He has a simplicity about him; he wants to believe the best in all men, and that makes him a liability in this, as you put it, our darkest hour. Whoever may have engineered this is exploiting Pharaoh's weakness to good effect.'
'Who's behind this conspiracy, general?' Ladice said. 'The nobles? The priests? Does Sais harbor Persian sympathizers?'
Nebmaatra started to reply, then stopped, his eyes narrowing. His mind registered the subtle hint of sarcasm. 'You think I'm foolish?'
'Not foolish, just narrow minded. I do not mean that as an insult. Set your paranoia aside and think, Nebmaatra. What will happen if the Fates smile on you and grant you victory at Pelusium? Egypt will be spared from oblivion, and you will have the power and prestige to exact vengeance on those who crossed you. You have the opportunity to transform this 'hollow victory' into a triumph for you as well as Egypt.'
Nebmaatra said nothing for a long moment, his mind navigating the labyrinth of politics. When he finally spoke, his voice held a note of new-found respect. 'You paint a persuasive picture, lady. Maybe this is a matter of perspective, after all. I thank you for your counsel. Your grasp of intrigue is surely worthy of Ahmose, himself.'
