The Greek smiled, adjusting the breastplate he had procured. A shield hung from his arm; an uncrested Corinthian helmet perched precariously on his forehead. 'I could not, in good conscience, sit this one out. After Memphis and Gaza, why act squeamish now? As a boy, I dreamed of fighting in a great battle, of making my mark on the papyrus of history. Now,' he thumped his bronze-sheathed chest, 'I have my wish.'
Barca smiled and gripped the Greek's forearm. 'Take your place, then.'
Callisthenes turned and made to join his kinsmen from Naucratis, then stopped. He looked at Barca. 'If I fall,' he said, 'give Jauharah a message for me. Tell her I said thank you. I found comfort in her words.'
Barca nodded. 'You can tell her yourself, after we're finished here.'
Callisthenes waved and vanished in the throng of soldiers.
Barca searched his soul, feeling for that well spring of anger that had sustained him in battle for the last twenty years, and found nothing. The Beast was dead. A chill danced down Barca's spine. Fine. He would fight this battle without the benefit of a red rage. His mind focused on one thing: on seeing Jauharah's face at the end of the day. Whatever he had to do to make that a reality, he would. All hesitation fled from him, replaced by an iron resolve that stiffened with each passing moment.
The Phoenician walked to the crest of the hill and stared away east. Below, beyond the angled palisades, the pennons of the mercenaries hung motionless in the damp air. Through a gray haze of rain, he could barely discern the front ranks of the Persians. He heard the dull rumble of thunder, then realized it was the sound of an army on the move. Soldiers were crossing the interval. They would fight. To his left, he could see the hill tumbling down to the sandy strand; to his right, the colorful banners of the regiment of Ptah.
Barca took up his position at the center of the left wing. The Medjay flowed around him, a guard of honor, presenting a front two hundred shields across and five deep. Left of the Medjay, and anchoring the flank, were the men of Naucratis, five hundred shields across and ten deep, commanded by the Olympian, Oeolycos. Between the Medjay and the Egyptian regiment of Ptah were the Libyans, led by Prince Hardjedef, arrayed in the same formation as the Greeks. The soldiers of Cyrene were held in reserve, despite the protests of their commander, Andriscus. Dark-skinned Nubians ranged ahead, each man bearing a spear, a knotty club, and a shield of thick elephant hide. Otherwise, they were naked. Even their chief, Shabako.
Through the rain, a skirmish line of Persian infantry advanced at a crawl. Thousands of men in loose formation, ten deep, clambered over obstacles and slogged through mud. The moisture had ruined any chance for an arrow storm, but Cambyses was not without options. Those men marching through the gray haze were lightly armored javelineers. Barca had expected as much.
They drew up some three-hundred paces from the Egyptian lines. An order bawled in a sibilant tongue produced a flurry of activity. Each soldier had three ash and iron shafts — one cocked behind his right ear, the other two held ready in his left fist. At a cry from their commander, the soldiers raced forward, propelling their javelins high with every ounce of strength they could muster.
'Shields!' Barca roared. His trumpeter blared the order, echoed by Nebmaatra's on the extreme right. All along the Egyptian line shields sprang into the air, angled to deflect incoming missiles. 'Brace yourselves! Here it comes!' Arching out of the gray sky came a fusillade of iron-heads — a deluge thicker than anything Barca had ever seen. There was a beauty in it, a symmetry of flight as the individual darts reached their apex then gracefully descended, pulled earthward by the weight of their razored tips. Barca watched until the last minute, fascinated.
As impressive as this volley was in flight, its impact was more so. The sound deafened; the hiss of an ash shaft followed by the hammering of iron on shield wrenched prayers from more than one man's lips. Bolts smacked the thick hide bucklers of the Egyptians like the clap of metal on flesh, amplified to the extreme. Javelins caromed off the bronze of the Greek allies, or splintered on their bowl-shaped aspides.
One soldier, a man of Naucratis, risked a glance over the edge of his shield and died as a javelin punched through the eye socket of his Corinthian helmet. Others screamed as iron warheads ripped into every inch of exposed flesh: neck, shoulder, thigh, foot. A Nubian made the mistake of dropping his buckler to clutch at his riven calf. A heartbeat later his body flopped to the earth, pincushioned. Casualties, while not significant, mounted.
A second volley followed. A third. Darts protruded from the earth like stalks of grain. A few daring souls snatched them up and hurled them back down the slope.
Barca felt javelins glance off his shield, skitter off his breastplate. Impacts slowed to a trickle, then ceased. He glanced around the rim of his shield. The javelineers were pulling back, beating it through the muck in an effort to escape any retaliatory strike the Egyptians might mount. Barca felt anticipation flowing from his men; they looked at him, their eyes begging permission to give chase. No. That would be playing into Cambyses's hands.
'Cinch up your balls, brothers! ' Barca thundered. 'Those were love-taps compared to what's next! Move the wounded to the rear! Check your interval! '
'He's there, on their left,' Phanes said.
'How can you tell?' Darius squinted, shading his eyes from the rain with a gloved hand. Despite his age, the young Persian carried himself with all the cool and aplomb of a seasoned campaigner.
Phanes smiled, and it was not a gesture of mirth. 'You could hear them chanting his name.'
'I will pull my soldiers back so your hoplites can take the point,' Darius said. His soldiers, like the whole of the army, were a heterogeneous mix cobbled together by the King's will, alone. Most of them spoke no Persian, forcing him to issue commands through an aide well-versed in a sort of pidgin Aramaic. Darius motioned for his adjutant. Phanes stopped him, his manner brusque.
'No. Let your troops soften up their position. My men will form the third wave.'
'As you wish,' Darius replied. Both men fell silent as the Persian light infantry retreated back across the jagged battlefield. They had loosed their javelins; now, they faded behind the gathering heavy infantry and went into reserve positions. All across the Persian front assault troops found their marks and massed for a charge.
They did not have long to wait. Trumpeters shrieked their orders from the center, from beneath the King's standard.
The Egyptians waited in anxious silence, not moving, not speaking. Barca wondered if all breath had fled them. A horn brayed, and through the mist he could see the flash and glitter of enemy infantry. Cambyses' army was a patchwork of levies drawn from the far-flung corners of his empire. The Immortals, so named because their ranks were always at ten thousand — never more, never less — formed the core of the invading force. Around them were arrayed the men of Persia, Media, Chaldea; turbaned Cissians from the mountainous regions east of Susa fought beside Assyrians from the upper Euphrates, while Hyrkanians from the fringes of the Caspian Sea worked in tandem with their one-time enemies, the Sacae. The Great King of Persia employed his share of mercenaries as well: hoplites from Ionia and Caria; peltasts from the eastern Aegean; savage Thracians; even remnants of the Cimmerian horde.
At this distance Barca could not tell which of Cambyses' myriad legions approached; truth be told, he didn't care. He was ready for this fight to be over.
'They're terrified,' Barca said, his voice carrying. 'Look at them! The rain hides well the stains on the front of their trousers, stains where they've pissed themselves! ' The tension cracked. Men laughed, jostling one another. 'Would you not piss yourself if you were in their place? Those men are about to die, not for their homes, not for their families, not even for gold! Those men are about to die because Cambyses wishes it! He wants Egypt! He wants to prove he is a better man than his father! Cyrus was wise! Cyrus knew what Cambyses is about to learn … that Egypt belongs to no man but Pharaoh!' Jeers and catcalls rose from the ranks of the mercenaries.
The enemy moved in a close formation, swaying with that curious stride only noticeable when large groups of men march together. Banners and pennons sprinkled the enemy ranks, splashes of color in the oppressive gray. Barca heard a commotion behind him. He half turned as a runner dashed up with a message from Pharaoh. Mud spackled the boy from his belly to his toes, and his round face was pale, tight-lipped. Dark eyes rolled across the broad enemy front. He ran rampant over his tongue as he tried to deliver his message.
'Slow down, lad,' Barca said. 'Take a breath and look at me.'
The runner exhaled slowly and tried to focus on Barca. 'T-The Immortals are moving against the center. P- Pharaoh, in his wisdom, h-has pulled back from the front. His Majesty will oversee the commander of the regiment of Amon.'
Barca dismissed the boy with a wave. So, Pharaoh has tasted combat and found it too sour for his palate.
