chance. Now, you'll have no choice but to fight him.'
Darius made a subtle spitting gesture, not deigning to look at the Greek. 'I am no dog. When I offer the flag of truce, I offer it genuinely and without guile.'
Phanes chuckled. 'War is a game of guile, lord Darius. Sleight of hand and deception are weapons as useful as swords and spears. I am not criticizing you,' the Greek said, heading off Darius' angered reply, 'but the goal of any commander is to slay as many of the enemy as he can, by whatever means, while preserving as many lives among his own men as possible. Killing Barca when you had him would have saved many Persian lives.'
'You speak from experience, I understand.' Darius glanced sidelong at the Greek. 'You could have slain him in Memphis, yet you balked. Why?'
'Arrogance,' Phanes said, his eyes narrowing to slits. Though a year had passed, his failures at Memphis yet festered like a septic wound. 'Cursed arrogance. The gods often build a man up only to tear him down again. They find perverse pleasure in the suffering of the gifted. Perhaps that is why His Majesty paired us together, lord Darius. So you might learn something of arrogance.'
'Or so you might learn something of humility.' Darius walked back to where a groom held the reins of his horse, a magnificent black Nesaean stallion caparisoned in purple and gold. The young Persian sprang lightly into the saddle. 'I have learned much from you, Phanes, but learn this from me: if you acquit yourself with honor, it matters not if the battle goes against you. A man in possession of his honor will always triumph, even in defeat.' Darius motioned to his aides. 'I have given Barca an hour, and more. Sound the advance.'
Phanes turned back to face the village as Darius clattered off to join his troops. Honor? Faugh! Honor, no matter how keen, would not stop a sword blade or a spear thrust. Was a dead man in possession of his honor any less dead? 'What are you planning, Phoenician?' he whispered. 'What are you planning?'
Trumpets blared through the hills, ringing off cliffs and echoing through valleys. Barca's mind raced. How do you stop five thousand determined horsemen? By stopping their horses. How, then? The only answer that came to mind was fire. He needed to set the upper reaches of Raphia ablaze.
The Phoenician snatched up the brazier Jauharah had used to heat her cauterizing irons and hurried to the edge of the village. The huts along the goat trail were older than most of the others, their stone foundations reinforced with old ship's timbers — timbers soaked with pitch and encaustic. Barca fanned the coals to life. Working swiftly, he set several of the huts afire.
Sun-dried wood blazed like torches; clouds of black smoke roiled across Raphia, a choking veil that effectively hid him from view. Fire alone, though, would not stop the Persians for long. He needed to snarl their advance. Barca cursed himself for not thinking ahead and ordering his men to rig rockslides along the goat trail. A wall of stone would have slowed them. His eyes lit on a bow one of his soldiers had cast aside, a near empty quiver beside it. He needed a wall …
Above the village, horsemen pounded down the goat trail, heedless of the incline, of the loose stone. They were Hyrkanians, half-wild tribesmen from the shores of the Caspian Sea, reckless and mad with the anticipation of slaughter. They had taken a drubbing since Gaza; they were eager to settle the score. Thanks to the narrow approach, no more than a few could enter the village at a time. The rest, though, could dismount and take up positions along the ridge line where they could ply their bows with deadly effect.
Smoke drifted across the Hyrkanians' path, sending ripples of fear through their horses. One among them sprang from the balking pack. The horse, a fine chestnut mare, floated over the gravel and scree, guided by the gentle pressure of his rider's knees. Hugging the animal's neck, the Hyrkanian plunged into the drifting veil. For an instant the world was black, acrid, a void without light or air, and then he was through.
A single enemy waited on the other side.
Barca sighted down the arrow, his target perfectly aligned. He felt a pang of regret as he loosed. The arrow flew straight and true, slashing through the chest of the mare. The horse reared and buckled, pitching its rider to the ground. Barca heard the snap of bone as the Hyrkanian struck face first and did not move. A second horseman exploded from the smoke; a third. Barca drew and loosed as quickly as he could, his arrows creating a thrashing wall of horseflesh. His last shaft spent, Barca tossed his bow aside and sprinted for the beach. He prayed Jauharah had gotten everyone on board.
From the ridge line, Persian archers loosed a hail of death on Raphia. As the first arrows thudded around him, Barca braced himself for an impact, for the feel of a razored tip slicing through flesh to shatter the bone beneath. The Phoenician scrambled for cover. He flattened himself against the seaward wall of a small fishing shack, listening to the crack of bronzeheads on wood. He thrust aside a veil of netting and peered through the door, through the round window cut into the back wall. Soldiers had cleared the trail and moved into the upper reaches of the village as their brothers lobbed fusillades over their heads. Barca turned back to face the sea.
Beyond the strand the Atum backed water, its prow rising and falling on the swells. Senmut's voice could be heard as he howled orders and curses. On the stern, he could see a wall of helpless faces, Jauharah and Callisthenes among them. Suddenly, the drumming of arrows slowed. Barca risked a glance around the corner of the shack. On the ridge line, the bowmen tossed their empty quivers aside and were clawing for another.
The lull was the opening Barca needed.
The Phoenician pushed away from the shack and hurtled for the ship. Without pause, he unbuckled his cuirass and shrugged out of the heavy carapace, hurling it aside as he flung himself into the sea. With powerful strokes he swam through the breaking surf, vanishing under water then reappearing. He gasped for breath. His chest ached; his limbs felt leaden as he forced muscle and sinew into action. Salt spray burned his eyes and reminded him of every scratch and cut he had accumulated over the last week. He glanced up. A rope snaked down from the stern of the Atum. The frayed end lay just out of reach. Barca drew on his dwindling reserves of stamina, propelling himself forward with one last burst of speed. His fingers brushed the rope.
'He's got it! ' He heard Jauharah's voice as she yelled to the Egyptians. 'Pull!'
Soldiers and sailors hauled the rope inboard. Barca clambered up the side of the ship. Shouts of triumph erupted around him as he grabbed the rail and pulled himself over.
'Thank the gods! ' Jauharah said, helping him to his feet. Barca stood on shaky legs. He turned to face the dwindling shoreline. Phanes waded into the surf, striking the water with his sword.
'How does it feel? You son of a bitch, how does it feel?' Barca clutched the railing white-knuckle tight.
'I want to finish this, Barca! '
The Phoenician laughed recklessly. 'Then hurry to Pelusium! I'll meet you there! '
18
Pelusium guarded the door to Egypt.
In ancient times, Egypt's boundaries extended into the heart of Palestine, to the very banks of the Euphrates River itself. Inside this sphere every king, prince, or potentate owed his position to the whim of Pharaoh; to maintain this goodwill, yearly tributes were sent to Memphis, to Thebes. Failure to tithe properly, or not at all, met with swift reprisal. Inevitably, Egypt entered periods of decline where these foreign rulers could reassert their independence. Wars flared up, trade ceased, and common men suffered for the ambitions of their liege. With the return of vigorous pharaohs, the violence would subside; order would rise from the ashes of chaos. It was a cycle as perennial as the rise and fall of the Nile.
Barca sat on the crest of a hill, one of three anchoring the Egyptian position, and watched the sun rise. He ate a light breakfast of day-old bread and grilled fish, washing it down with a crock of beer. Earlier, scouts had reported that the main body of the Persian army had crossed the desert and were approaching. Finally, three weeks of waiting, of counting the hours until battle, were at an end.
On the morning the Atum put in to Pelusium, three weeks past, Barca was made aware of Nebmaatra's promotion. He saw nothing amiss in it. The Egyptian was a capable man, unaffected by the in-fighting that was the hallmark of the nobility. There were worse men he could serve. Barca sought him out and briefed him on everything that had happened: their arrival in Gaza, Qainu's duplicity, the Bedouin attack, the retreat to Raphia, his encounter
