With a last look, Nebmaatra tucked his helmet under his arm and stepped outside. It was time to attend Pharaoh.
At first glance the camp was a hotbed of activity, almost chaotic. But there was an underlying sense of order to it, a method that spoke well of Nebmaatra's abilities as an organizer. Soldiers rushed to their mustering points. Servants handled water, food, spare weapons and equipment. Priests and scribes bore baskets of correspondence for safe-keeping in the House of Life. Every man knew his place. Nebmaatra's chest swelled with pride.
Through the apparent chaos, he caught sight of Barca and Jauharah. They walked arm in arm, at their own pace. Soldiers, servants, priests, and scribes flowed around them. The pair stopped at the side entrance to the House of Life.
Nebmaatra watched, knowing he witnessed something intensely personal.
There were no drawn out goodbyes, no histrionics. Their hands touched for a brief instant; their eyes locked, a strained smile. Then she was gone, vanished into the depths of the House of Life.
Barca looked at the sky, closing his eyes against the spattering rain.
Nebmaatra approached him. 'Sleep well?'
'Like the dead,' Barca said. 'You?'
'As a babe at his mother's breast,' Nebmaatra said. Both lied and the other knew it.
'We may have to goad them,' Barca said. Nebmaatra nodded. The Phoenician continued, 'They know their preferred tactics will be useless, but we cannot let Cambyses retire from the field. He must attack today.'
'Strange,' the Egyptian said. 'I spent three weeks dreading this day, sick with the anticipation of it. This could be my last among the living, and now that it has dawned, I'm eager to see the end of it.'
'Then our places have changed, my friend,' Barca said. 'I am near paralyzed with dread. It's a new sensation for me, and I feel shamed by it.'
'Are you becoming mortal, Barca?'
'I've been mortal,' Barca said, extending his hand to Nebmaatra. 'Now, it seems, I'm becoming human, again.'
Nebmaatra nodded and clasped his hand. 'Fight well, Hasdrabal son of Gisco.'
'I'11 see you when this is over,' Barca said, turning. Nebmaatra watched him go, watched him vanish as Jauharah had in the swirl and eddy of humanity.
'I hope so,' the Egyptian muttered. 'I hope so.' His heart suddenly heavy, Nebmaatra turned and walked to Pharaoh's tent.
Pharaoh sat on his golden throne and listened to the rain. He had dismissed his courtiers, his advisers, even Ujahorresnet, in order to compose his thoughts in relative peace. The golden scales of his armor clashed as he shifted; of gold, too, were his arm braces, decorated in raised reliefs depicting the gods of war. Instead of the crook and the flail, the hereditary tokens of rule, his hands caressed the haft of an axe.
It was an elegant weapon. The slightly curving handle terminated in a flared bronze head, and the whole was overlaid with gold. The scene on the blade depicted Pharaoh smiting a captive with the label 'Beloved of Neith' beneath. A gift from his father.
Father.
Ahmose had been a lifelong soldier, a man born to the art of war. Psammetichus wondered where such a man's thoughts dwelt in that hour before battle. Did Ahmose second guess his strategy? Did he spend time praying to the gods for luck and success in battle? Or did he just sit quietly and think of the wives he left behind, the children?
He conjured an image from memory. An image of his father as a younger man. He imagined him sitting in this same tent, alone, an axe in his hands. What would Pharaoh do? Where would Pharaoh turn? The answer would not come. Psammetichus could only remember his father as a man, laughing, swapping jests with his generals, drinking wine.
Perhaps that was the answer.
Nebmaatra and Ujahorresnet appeared at the door of the tent. The general carried the blue war crown. They bowed to Pharaoh.
'It's time, 0 Son of Ra,' Nebmaatra said.
'Wait.' Ujahorresnet held a small pottery figure in his hands, decorated as a Persian with the name of Cambyses inscribed on it. He placed it at Pharaoh's feet. Psammetichus raised an eyebrow. Quickly, Ujahorresnet explained, 'In the time of the god-kings, magic was wrought this way. The ancient ones would smash the effigies of their enemies to insure their power over them would not wane.'
'I should do no less than the god-kings, eh, my friends?' Pharaoh rose and, after a moment's pause, brought his heel down on the Persian effigy. 'I wish it were as easy as this.' Pharaoh accepted the crown from Nebmaatra, and together they rushed out to take their positions.
The priest lagged behind to gather up the shards. Inside the Persian figurine was a smaller effigy, also of pottery, faceless and undecorated. A pair of shenu, name rings, was inscribed on the broken figure.
Ankhkaenre Psammetichus.
Barca moved among the mercenaries, not with the pomp of a general, but as a man, stopping along the way to share a joke, to give a greeting. He laughed, and the mercenaries laughed with him. Barca was a man they could follow. Not born of noble blood, not a man who would command from the rear ranks, but a soldier like themselves. A man who would fight, bleed, and even die with them. Nubian, Libyan, Greek, Medjay. As disparate as they were, divided by culture and language, they were bound by the same awe, the same fascination, the same love for their Phoenician general.
Barca carried himself with the supreme self-assurance of a man comfortable with war. Whatever roiled in his soul did not project to his exterior. The face he presented to his soldiers was the face of a man who wore the heavy bronze cuirass as a second skin; the sword he carried was an extension of his hand, and the shield on his arm virtually weightless. He would face the enemy alone, if need be.
But there would be little need for that. Slowly, as if the sound would dispel the glorious apparition of their general, a chant rose from the ranks of the Medjay.
'Bar-ca! Bar-ca!'
It carried from man to man, from throat to throat. Four thousand. Eight thousand. Twelve thousand and growing.
'Bar-ca! Bar-ca!'
The Nubians in the front ranks bounced on the balls of their feet, chanting in their tongue, a frenzied dance of war meant to secure victory. Their muscular backs gleamed with moisture. Libyans and Greeks pumped their spears heavenward or clashed them against their shield rims. Nowhere else along the Egyptian line was this sort of display going on. The native troops heard the clamor and marveled. Had the mercenaries gone mad?
'BAR-CA! BAR-CA!'
And amidst this furious storm, Hasdrabal Barca stood alone. His face was solemn as he drew his sword and saluted his men. 'Brothers!' he cried as the chant reached its crescendo and began to ebb. 'Brothers! It's no hard thing for men like you or Ito risk our lives in battle. It's our lifeblood, our calling. But, these Egyptians, these men who have come here to defend their homes, their wives, their children.. these men are the true heroes. Today, foreigner and native will stand shoulder to shoulder, and for a time, we will all share the same cause. The cause of Victory! '
'Victory!' The cry rippled through the mercenaries. Hearing it, the Egyptian regiments took up the word. 'Victory! ' The cacophony grew, until finally the combined voices of sixty-five thousand men shook the foundations of heaven.
'Take your marks! For Egypt and Victory!'
The clamor redoubled as the soldiers found their marshaling salients with the ease of men accustomed to battle.
A figure threaded toward Barca from the direction of the Egyptian camp. At first, the Phoenician thought it might be a messenger sent to deliver some last minute change of plans. As he slogged closer, Barca recognized the face under the helmet.
'Callisthenes?'
