many men will you rescue if I order an immediate attack? My guess, not many. At least this way you have some kind of chance.'
The Phoenician's brow furrowed, calculating. 'How do I know you'll remain true to your word?'
'I swear it on my honor,' Darius replied.
Jauharah pushed her hair out of her eyes and peered over the railing of the Atum. Over the crash of breakers she could hear Callisthenes ordering the soldiers carrying the wounded to make haste. Behind her, Senmut's men scampered over the rigging, preparing the sail to be unfurled once the oars carried them into the bay. The captain shouted vulgarities at those sailors who moved too slow in their tasks. It had been a chaotic hour, but the pieces of the plan were starting to fit together. Callisthenes and the soldiers carried the wounded up a makeshift gangplank while she, with her orderlies, got them situated and saw to their comfort. They had made better time than she thought. Once Barca arrived, all that remained would be for the soldiers to force the ship off the strand, strike the oars, and make for open sea. It sounded simple enough.
'How many more?' she yelled down to Callisthenes.
The Greek glanced around, mentally counting men as a merchant tallies wine jars. 'A dozen, perhaps,' he said. 'But they are those with the worst wounds, the unconscious. They are expendable, if need be.' Callisthenes frowned as something caught his eye. Jauharah followed his gaze. From the hills ringing Raphia a dust cloud rose into the blue sky.
'Persians.' The word rattled through the Egyptians like an icy breath. Stolid and courageous as they were, every man among the raiding force harbored a deep-seated fear of dying in this barbarous land, unburied, cut off from their families, their ka forced to wander aimlessly through eternity. It was a thought that loosed the bowels of the strongest among them. Its implications flogged them like an overseer's whip, driving new life and purpose into their limbs. As Jauharah watched, they redoubled their efforts.
'Callisthenes!' She ran to the gangplank. 'What did you mean by expendable? None of the men can be left behind! '
Callisthenes ignored her.
Men clogged her path, the wounded and their handlers. Frustrated, her anxiety rising by the second, Jauharah snagged a rope tied to the rail and slithered down the side of the ship. Once her feet touched the sand, she was off and running up the beach toward the village.
The Greek spotted her. 'Jauharah! Damn you, woman!' He nodded to a trio of men. 'Don't just stand there! Follow her and bring her back! ' The Egyptians followed in her wake.
Raphia was deserted. Eerie. She could faintly hear the rattle of stones, the jingle of harness, the voices raised in com mand as the Persians moved unseen through the hills above them. The air was pregnant with tension. As sure as a woman heavy with child would give birth, Jauharah knew something would happen here to shatter the tomb-like stillness. Something violent and bloody.
Quickly, she set about getting the rest of the wounded. The last hut, larger than the rest, contained those soldiers no longer able to move, those with head and spinal injuries. These were patients that were beyond her skill. The papyri Jauharah had studied while in Memphis had been noticeably silent about such trauma, prescribing treatments that mixed magic, prayer, and luck. All she had been able to do was keep them comfortable.
The Egyptians following her stopped, fear and exertion making them short of breath. 'Lady! Please! The Greek wants us back at the ship!'
'You go! I have to get these men to safety! '
'We can't leave you here, lady! '
'Then help me!'
The Egyptians looked at one another. 'How?'
'We need litters! ' she said to her newfound helpers. They nodded and looked around for something suitable. One of them stopped, a burly Egyptian with a strawberry birthmark on his shaven head. Jauharah followed his gaze.
'Barca!' she said. The Phoenician pelted down the goat trail, heedless of the loose rock and scree.
'All of you! Get to the ship!' he roared.
'We need more time!' Jauharah said. 'There area dozen or more left in there!'
Barca's breath came in gasps, his chest racking like a forge's bellows. 'The Persians are coming! We have no more time to spare! Grab those men you can help. The rest — ' he trailed off, touching the hilt of his sword.
Jauharah caught the gesture. 'No,' she said, her voice cracking. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes. 'There has to be another way.'
'Go!' Barca hissed through clenched teeth. 'Get to the ship!' He turned and made to enter the hut.
'Wait! ' Jauharah sobbed, clutching at his arm. He caught her hand in his. Barca knew well the look in her eye, the helpless despair tinged with failure.
'They cannot be left behind,' he said softly. 'Not alive, at any rate. The Persians could use them to undermine morale at Pelusium. Go. Please. Get to the ship. I'll be along.' A sick feeling crept over him as he pushed into the hut.
Sunlight trickled in through a hole in the ceiling, giving the faces of the wounded a grayish pallor. The air was cool, thick with the reek of sweat and the stench of men unable to control their own bodies. Of the fourteen wounded, only two were conscious, and they just barely. One, a grizzled old sergeant, winced as he sat up. His name was Intef; an unlucky arrow had threaded through the rocks of his hiding place several days past, catching him in the lower spine.
'Time to strike camp, sir?' he said. 'Thank the gods … ' he stopped mid-sentence, noticing the grim look on Barca's face, how his hand never strayed far from his sword hilt. The old soldier glanced down at his useless legs and nodded. 'I understand, sir.'
'What is it, Intef?' asked the other conscious soldier, his eyes wrapped and his crushed legs splinted. 'Are we going home?'
'Lay back, boy,' Intef said. 'When next we open our eyes, we'll behold the beauty of the gardens of Amenti.' The young man knew what was coming. He, like Intef, was a soldier to the core. Neither of them begged or pleaded for their lives.
Barca's sword whispered from its sheath. He knelt beside the closest soldier — a boy of eighteen years, blood oozing from beneath the linen strips bandaging his skull. Though he did not know his name, Barca had watched this lad take a blow intended for another man, then kill the bastard who struck him before falling himself. His face was hollow, lifeless; though his chest rose and fell, Barca knew his ka had already departed for the West. Barca glanced up and stared into Intef's hard eyes.
'Quick and clean, sir,' the sergeant said. 'He won't feel a thing.'
The longer he looked at this boy, this soldier, the more his hands shook. He was already dead, Barca told himself. All of them would likely die on the way to Pelusium if they did not die here in the next few moments. Why prolong their suffering? He adjusted his grip on his sword, the hilt growing slick with sweat. What's wrong with me? They're soldiers; soldiers die.
'Do it, sit!' Intef hissed. 'Do it quick and get clear!'
Soldiers die, he repeated to himself, seeking solace in that mantra. Soldiers die. Soldiers die. Soldiers die …
'Mother of bitches!' Barca roared, rising. 'Not today, Intef! You're not going to die today!' He sheathed his sword and scooped the lad up, whirling. Outside, a pair of Egyptians had cobbled together a makeshift litter as Jauharah bound a wounded man's broken legs together with lengths of rawhide. All of them stopped, staring. 'Get some help and get these men to the ship! Damn it! We'll not leave them behind! ' He passed the unconscious lad to one of the soldiers, then glared at the looming dust cloud.
'What are you going to do?' Jauharah leapt up and ran to his side, the relief and pride in her voice tempered with fear for his safety.
Barca snarled. 'Buy us more time!'
'He's planning some deviltry. I can smell it,' Phanes said. The Greek stood alongside Darius, a step behind and to the right out of deference, as they surveyed Raphia from the safety of the ridge line. The beach swarmed with activity as sailors and soldiers made the Atum ready to sail. 'You should have killed him while you had the
