Men of Bronze

11

The Egyptians struck the Greek vanguard less than a mile from Memphis, crushing their center and driving them back toward the Nile as a shepherd drives sheep. The mercenary infantry, still in column formation, could not withstand the deadly effects of an arrow storm coupled with the impact of a bronze and iron wedge of chariots. A man on foot stood little chance against the harnessed strength of two stallions, whose hooves crushed hastily-locked shields and the bodies they strived to protect. The Greek formation splintered; some sought refuge in the necropolis of Saqqara. The larger number of them fell back to the Square of Deshur.

Ahmose rode in the forefront, Nebmaatra at his side, forming the tip of the wedge. The Calasirian Guard followed in their wake. Pharaoh, resplendent in his corselet of golden scales and blue war helm, leaned out and brained a soldier with his axe. Their ruse had worked. The Greeks had been so focused on the Khepri, on the men who had volunteered to play into Phanes' hands, that they discounted the chariots as a tangible threat. Now, they were being shown their folly.

A choking curtain of dust and soil churned up from the horses' hooves obscured the battlefield. Ahmose knew Phanes and the bulk of his hoplites would form ranks in the Square. Once his chariots had penetrated as far as the Way of the Truth of Ptah, Ahmose would order them to wheel. Then, they would drive the Greeks north into the arms of the waiting infantry, crushing them in a vice. Pharaoh grinned as his axe sheared through a Greek helmet.

Pharaoh's chariot reached the western edge of the Square of Deshur. He drew up; his squadrons flanked him. In front of the Egyptians, the Greek vanguard stood in disarray. Beyond their struggling forms, through the dust, Ahmose could see a shining phalanx of hoplites.

"They'll be a tough nut to crack," Nebmaatra shouted. Pharaoh glanced around, seeing his Calasirians around him. In one chariot he glimpsed Tjemu. The Libyan had shaken off his melancholy when the first blows had fallen on the road from Saqqara. He laughed, slinging droplets of blood from his sword.

"But crack they will!" Ahmose said, his breathing heavy through the congestion in his lungs. His charioteer, a man with legs like knotted tree trunks, hauled on the reins, waiting for the order to charge. "I want Phanes alive, if it is possible."

"If it's possible, it will be done, Pharaoh," Nebmaatra nodded.

Ahmose touched the charioteer on the shoulder. With an earth-shaking roar, the Egyptian chariots charged.

Hyperides watched his vanguard crack and slough away like old plaster. Dust and grit choked him, caking on his sweatdampened cheeks and forehead. Pharaoh's chariots were invincible. Oh, his troops had done some damage, gutted a few horses, slew a few men, but nothing like the carnage wrought by the Egyptians. A lull gave Hyperides a moment's respite. Greek soldiers milled about, confused, walking like dead men through the mist of war. Hyperides had expected better of them. Gods be damned! He had trained them better than this! Still, he wasn't a sorcerer. He couldn't forge gold from dung.

His men cowered as the Egyptians charged. The ground underfoot shook, and the sun glimmered through the haze, striking fire from the tidal wave of bronze that hurtled down on them.

Hyperides cursed as his mercenaries stumbled back. He flailed about with the flat of his bloodstained sword, striding out in front so his men could see him.

"Stand, you sons of whores!" Hyperides roared. "Stand and fight! "

He looked back in time to see the sun reflect from a spearhead. For a split second Hyperides froze, mesmerized by the scintillant play of light on bronze, and that instant was enough. The spear punched through his breastplate, his chest, and erupted from his back in a welter of blood. The impact lifted him off his feet and flung him back into the roiling curtain of dust.

With him, the Greek vanguard died.

Phanes saw his light troops dissolve beneath the wheels of Pharaoh's chariots. He motioned to Nicias. "Go forward and rally where you can." The squat captain saluted and hustled to the fore. Phanes felt a chill, and a familiar presence at his side. A sense of loss and longing washed over him.

"Say it, Spartan."

The disembodied voice of a slain Lysistratis echoed through Phanes' skull. "Not as infallible as you once thought, are you?"

Phanes turned. "The battle isn't won. Our soldiers will give Amasis the fight of his life."

The soldiers nearest Phanes glanced around, wondering who it was their commander addressed. Had he lost his sanity? Merciful Zeus! Let that not be true.

"I am sure. But, our victory is no longer a foregone con — clusion. Whatifyoulose?"

Phanes laughed mordantly. "If I lose here, then I will return with a larger force. Egypt is mine, Spartan! She just doesn't realize it yet."

At the northern entrance of Ptah's temple, a skeleton force of peltasts listened to the distant fighting with an awe bordering on the supernatural. They could imagine what went on outside the zone of safety afforded by the temple walls. Hoplites, ranked out in a phalanx with their shields interleaved, would present a hedge of spears to the Egyptians. The chariots would harry them; arrows and javelins would seek out chinks in the Greek armor. Yet, for every Greek who fell, another would take his place, replenishing the phalanx with machinelike efficiency.

The officer in charge at the northern gate, a dispossessed nobleman from Rhodes, wiped at the sweat pouring down his face. He stared at the statues flanking the huge twin-towered gateway, at the images depicting Pharaoh crushing his enemies in the presence of a solemn-faced Ptah, at the hieroglyphs carved deep into the rock on either side of the silver and cedar flagpoles. To get from this entrance to the interior of the temple proper, an intruder had to pass through four such gateways, each named for a king of antiquity. "These sons of whores know how to build a defensive wall," he said, patting the cyclopean stonework. From their summit, his peltasts could hold off a superior force of Egyptians. "Sit tight, lads. It might fall upon us to save the day, after all. Dion, bring me that water skin. This cursed country is like an oven."

The young man called Dion caught up the skin of water and ambled over. He had only gone a few feet when he stumbled and fell. Amid the laughter and the jeers, the officer sprang to his feet, clawing for his spear.

An arrow stood out from the juncture of Dion's neck and shoulder.

The peltasts' laughter died as a howling mob of Egyptian peasants stormed through a door in the side of the gate.

Sweat dripped down Callisthenes' nose. His slick hands clutched the hilt of his sword. This was battle. The real thing. He felt no sense of power, no thirst for glory. All Callisthenes felt was the cold hands of fear. He hugged the wall as Ibebi and the others surged past, slamming into the unprepared Greeks. One of the Egyptians, the stonecutter Khety, took the blade of a spear to his chest. It rammed through his body, exploding out his back. Khety died on his feet. Callisthenes felt his gorge rise.

Another peltast leapt Khety's body and barreled straight for Callisthenes, leveling his javelin. To his credit, Callisthenes did not allow his fear to master him. He darted aside in the last possible second, his foot dragging out behind him, and swung wildly. The peltast skidded on the stones, then tripped over Callisthenes' foot.

The man hit the ground hard, on his stomach, air exploding from his lungs. Before he could rise, Callisthenes spun and drove the point of his sword between the peltast's shoulder blades, into the gristle and bone of his spine. The man spasmed and died.

Ikilled a man. Callisthenes' hands trembled. He looked down at the dead Greek and felt colder still. Ikilled a man of Hellas. There was no glory in this. The cacophony of battle drew him from his reverie.

All around him knots of Egyptians engaged the demoral ized peltasts. He saw Hekaib gut a soldier nearly twice his size. Thothmes wielded a sword like a man possessed, hacking limbs and skulls. Ibebi, he noticed, fought with the cool precision of a veteran. Even stately Amenmose howled and flung himself into the fray. Barca, Pentu, and a handful of others mounted the steps to the parapet.

"Back! Force them back!" he heard Barca yell.

"Force them back!" Barca roared, dashing along the parapet. A Cretan archer gaped at him, his mind not registering what his eyes beheld. The back of Barca's hand sent the man spinning from the parapet. The sound and smell of bloodshed reached into Barca's soul. He felt the Beast fighting against its chains, longing to be free.

Another Cretan spun, notching an arrow. His eyes widened as the Phoenician bore down upon him. Barca loosed a hideous scream, his face screwed up in a rictus of hate. The archer's trembling hands released the arrow too soon. It splintered on the stones of the parapet. As he groped for another shaft, Barca's sword sheared through his collarbone and lodged in his chest. The Cretan gurgled as Barca kicked him free of his blade.

A second peltast charged him, thrusting a javelin at Barca's midsection. The Phoenician weaved, allowing the javelin to pass between himself and the wall, as he drove his shoulder into the peltast's body. The soldier catapulted from the parapet, his screams lost to the thronging mass of fighters below. Barca scooped up the fallen Cretan's bow and a pair of arrows.

Pentu and the others swept the Greeks from the wall. Barca left it to the guard captain to station archers at key points while he rushed to the juncture of the north and west walls to get a handle on the battle taking place in the Square.

He found himself looking down on the right flank of the Greek phalanx. He looked for Phanes as he nocked an arrow. Instead, the Greeks were rallying to a squat man in blood-splashed armor. Not Phanes, but an important fellow, nonetheless. Was it one of his regiment commanders?

Barca shrugged and took careful aim. He could see the squat man reinforcing the phalanx, bawling orders that Barca could not hear. The Phoenician exhaled …

Nicias staggered, clawing at the arrow that sprouted from between his shoulder blades, lodging in his armor. He turned. A second arrow threaded through the eye socket of his helmet. Nicias toppled; leaderless, his men fell into disarray.

Above the battle, Barca threw the bow aside and caught up his sword.

The fight for the gate was brutal. Callisthenes saw men he had known as peaceful farmers take on the guise of feral beasts — kicking, spitting, and biting. They fought for their homes, their wives, their children. The Greeks fought for their lives. It was a bitter struggle, without quarter or mercy.

Caught up in the press of bodies, Callisthenes found himself near the forefront. Ahead of him, partially engulfed in the shadow of the second pylon, a gateway named for warrior queen Hatshepsut, he saw Amenmose stumble backward. A Greek surged forward, driving his spear toward the old man's belly.

Callisthenes acted from instinct. He batted aside the spear and kicked the peltast in the groin. With the adrenalin coursing through his system, though, Callisthenes might as well have struck the man with a feather. The soldier tried to bring his spear back into play, its head skittering on the stones. Sickened, Callisthenes had no other choice.

His sword struck the man where neck and shoulder joined. It sheared through leather, flesh, and bone, driving the peltast to his knees. A second blow ended his suffering.

"Help me up!" Amenmose ordered. Callisthenes pried his gaze away from the second Greek he had killed and moved to the old Egyptian's side. He was weak, exhausted, and bleeding from a score of gashes. Ibebi materialized at his side.

"Get him back! " he yelled, pointing the way they had come.

"What about you?" Callisthenes draped Amenmose's arm over his shoulder.

"Our infantry is coming! Only have to hold for a few more minutes!" And with that Ibebi plunged into the fighting. He and the others stood firm in the gateway, slowly forcing the Greeks back. Swords and spears licked out. One of Ibebi's flankers went down, his entrails spilling across the stones. Three arrows avenged the fallen youth, slashing into the charging peltast. His corpse snarled the feet of his mates as they pressed forward, intent on securing the gate and, with it, their freedom.

"They only need to hold a moment longer! " Callisthenes muttered. Already, elements of the Egyptian regular infantry streamed through the northern entrance.

Ibebi hurled the young man at his side back and was turning to make room for the Egyptian soldiers when a Greek spear took him low, in the spine. He fell, clawing at the dust as a half a dozen more spears ended his life.

"Where is he? I cannot see him," Amenmose said.

"He is with Osiris, now." Callisthenes slumped against the wall of the gate and looked out over the roiling sea of bodies, his eyes moist. This madness owned nothing of glory. Nothing!

Barca descended the stairs inside the gate, shaking drops of blood from his sword blade. The Greeks had not fought well, but they died well. It was enough for their gods. He wished their shades the best as they crossed the river. The Phoenician's skin burned with fever and he could feel warmth oozing from his gashed side, but he felt no pain. Perhaps it was true about the thrill of battle negating the effects of wounds. Matthias had told him that, once. A pang of guilt stabbed Barca's heart. He had caused the deaths of too many of those closest to him. Matthias. Ithobaal. His men. Neferu.

Guilt turned to rage.

He emerged from the gate and found Jauharah aiding the priests who were tending to the wounded. Her arms were covered in blood up to the elbow; blood streaked her forehead where she had pushed her hair out of her eyes. Those eyes glanced up, catching sight of Barca. She disengaged herself from a young man whose screams of agony intermingled with pleas for his mother. She drifted across to the Phoenician, moving like a woman caught in the grip of a nightmare.

"I–I never imagined …" she trailed off, her eyes roving over the carnage.

"Most never do. This is how peace is kept."

She glanced down. "You're bleeding." Barca followed her gaze. Blood seeped out from under his cuirass, soaking the hem and side of his kilt. She reached for the buckles holding the heavy breastplate in place, but Barca brushed her hands away.

"Later."

"What will you do now?" she said.

Others had clustered around him, their lips framing the same question. He saw Thothmes and Hekaib, Pentu and his temple guardsmen, and beyond the circle of Egyptians, he spotted Callisthenes and Amenmose sitting with their backs against the foot of a pharaonic statue, passing a wineskin back and forth. The merchant of Naucratis had an odd look in his eyes, a look Barca had seen a thousand times over. The look of innocence shattered.

Barca glanced out over the battlefield. "I have my men to avenge."

"I'm with you," Thothmes said. Hekaib nodded. "And me." Several other Egyptians expressed an interest in joining their Pharaoh.

"Fine," Barca said. "But know this. Once we leave these walls, you men are on your own. If you fall behind, I'll not drop back and guide you by the hand."

"So be it! " Thothmes bristled. Barca nodded. He stooped and grabbed a fallen shield. The Egyptians followed his lead. Men with no armor stripped the dead, taking their greaves, their helmets. In a twinkling, the farmers and masons and artisans were gone, and in their place stood a score of Egyptian soldiers, faces grim and bloody.

Without a word, Barca led them out through the northern entrance.

The men alongside Phanes fought like the sons of Achilles. They used their spears, their shields, even their bodies to repulse the first wave of chariots. Horses screamed and died. Men leapt from their chariots as their mounts ran amok. Chassis of wood and bronze split apart, tumbling end over end to crush friend and foe without prejudice. Peltasts ranged along the borders of the fray, using javelins, arrows, and sling bullets where they could, to dubious effect.

Phanes perched his blood-blasted helmet on his forehead, inhaling great lungfuls of dusty air as he surveyed the battlefield. He could read it like a scroll, and its didactic text told a tale of defeat. Pharaoh's infantry chipped away at his right flank; his center bore the inverse bulge of an imminent break. Already, his Greeks were falling back, giving ground as the chariots broke over their ranks in endless waves, eroding their numbers with each successive crash. Once their center broke, once the formation split in two, the battle would be over. Phanes tasted gall; the bitter sting of ambitions lost. He cursed himself for falling for the Pharaoh's ruse, his scouts for not properly assaying the Egyptians, his captains for not stoking the fire in his men's bellies. Most of all, though, he cursed the oracle at Delphi for promulgating lies. By his own hand? Bah! With each passing moment, his reign as king of Egypt became more and more a thing of smoke and fog. A fever dream.

Phanes reseated his helmet and waded back into the thickest of the fighting, where men, horses, and chariots tangled in a morass of thrashing limbs and murderous bronze. Egyptians fought on foot, hurling themselves against a wall of Greek armor. Here, with their commander at their side, the phalanx held firm, their shields locked and their spears ripping through man and beast with equal ease.

A weight struck Phanes' shield; from instinct he braced his legs and thrust back, sending an Egyptian sprawling. As the soldier struggled to his feet, Phanes lashed out, cleaving the man's head to the teeth. Another Egyptian charged, spear leveled at Phanes' belly. The Greek commander sidestepped and drove the edge of his shield into the hollow of the man's throat, all but decapitated him.

Beyond the sea of helmets and faces, Phanes spotted Pharaoh's banners. He could see the blue war crown, the axe that rose and fell amid a scarlet rain. Phanes longed to get closer, within sword's reach, but a cordon of Calasirian guardsmen made that impossible. His line could not hold, not for much longer. The cost of Greek lives in stopping the chariots had been too high; too many men died repulsing their infantry charges. With each successive wave, his lines crumbled like a sand bank. It was time to think of cutting free.

"Fall back!" Phanes ordered those men nearest him. "Fall back to the quay! " He could yet save himself, and perhaps a handful of his men.

Corpses littered the Square of Deshur. The Egyptians in Barca's wake drew a collective breath as they rounded the northwestern corner of the temple of Ptah, awed by the carnage that cut a broad arc from the Saqqaran Road to the Western Gate. Most had never seen a battle up close, never smelled the stench of death or heard the plaintive cries of a man dying from a sword-cut to the belly. This was uncomfortably new to them; to a man of Barca's experience, it was commonplace, almost banal. He felt nothing as his eyes scanned the field, fixing on an empty chariot.

Skittish, the horses danced and gamboled, their eyes rolling in fear. Barca leapt onto the platform of the chariot, ignoring the blood left behind by its previous occupant. True to his word, he did not wait for the Egyptians. The Phoenician seized the reins. Thothmes and Hekaib had barely scrambled on, grasping the side rails, before the horses found their rhythm and shot forward. The Egyptians stared at each other as Barca, his face a mask of grim determination, snapped the reins, lashing more speed from the team.

He angled them toward the thickest of the fighting, to where Pharaoh's battle-standard floated above the wrack.

As they drew closer, the sound of armored men in close contact, fighting for their lives, was nothing less than chilling. Even to Barca, who had heard the sound for most of his adult life, the crash of armies sent a thrill down his spine. It was the sound of a vast engine of destruction, its grinding blades lubricated with slick, hot gore.

It was music to the Beast.

The Phoenician gritted his teeth. His chariot crossed the intervening ground. A forest of clashing spears rose before them, swaying like saplings in a squall. The wounded crawled among the dead, some begging for succor, others for death. Barca hauled on the reins, his muscles knotting as he slewed the chariot sideways. The wheels skipped and chattered on the pavement.

Ahead, Greek and Egyptian were locked in death's embrace. Those not dancing with the reaper surged forward in search of a partner. Peltasts targeted the chariot. Javelins flew. One thudded into the wood of the chassis, near Thothmes. Another found a different mark.

The inside horse collapsed, the javelin cleaving its heart. Unbalanced, the other fell, flipping the chariot on its side and spilling its passengers. Barca, his body a compact ball of muscle and sinew, rolled to his feet with the grace of a gymnast. His companions fared worse. Both Egyptians struck the ground hard, leaving patches of skin across the abrasive stones. Thothmes regained his senses first. He clambered to his feet, casting about for his sword.

A peltast broke ranks and charged Hekaib. The Egyptian presented a tempting target: a man on his hands and knees, fighting for breath. An easy kill. He took two steps forward, his arm cocked back over his ear.

Barca intercepted him. His shield knocked the javelin aside as he rammed his sword through the soldier's body. Behind him, Thothmes rushed over and helped Hekaib to his feet.

"Merciful gods of the desert!" a voice roared to Barca's left. "You know the value of a good entrance!" Tjemu hobbled up, his weight supported by a broken spear. The Libyan bled from countless small wounds, though Barca judged most of the gore spattering him to be Greek.

"And you know you're supposed to leave me someone to kill, Libyan," Barca said, clapping the smaller man on the back. Tjemu grinned ruthlessly.

"These Egyptians got their hackles up." He glanced around, seeking a familiar face among Barca's men. "Where's that old maiden, Ithobaal?"

Barca's jaw grew tight. He shook his head. Tjemu's shoulders slumped. "Did he die well?"

"He died as a Medjay should," Barca replied. "But he died in vain unless we stop Phanes."

"Then why are we standing here yammering like old women while that bastard makes good his escape?"

Ujahorresnet and the other priests stood together in the thick shadow of the hypostyle hall. They were unguarded, but with battles raging inside and out, where could they run? No, best to stay put and pray.

Ujahorresnet prayed for a different outcome.

The First Servant of Neith knew his prayers had gone unanswered when he saw a blood-splashed apparition crossing the columned hall. Phanes ripped his helmet off and threw it aside. Sweat and blood matted his dark hair. His lips curled in barely contained rage.

"You have failed," Ujahorresnet said.

"Not failure!" Phanes snarled. "Merely a setback." Men withdrew around them, sprinting to the quay to make the Khepri ready for departure. A rear guard of hoplites fought a delaying action against the Egyptians. The sound of fighting echoed through the hall.

"You are tenacious, Greek. I'll give you that. Have you not the wisdom and the humility to know when you have been bested? "

" Bested? Not by any length, priest. All that has changed is my focus. If I cannot give Egypt to Cambyses, then I will engineer its destruction. Your confederates have become a liability." Phanes pointed to the cowering knot of priests. "Kill them."

Ujahorresnet interjected himself between his countrymen and the Greeks. "Let them go," he said. "Don't force me to sacrifice myself to save their lives."

Phanes and the old priest stood toe to toe. They stared at one another without flinching. Neither man gave back an inch. The tableau could have held for an eternity, but Phanes' time was limited. "I would have liked to have been your friend, Ujahorresnet," the Greek said. "When I return, perhaps we can meet under different circumstances and share a glass. I give you your life, and theirs, though I will doubtless live to regret it." Phanes motioned his men away, then stopped. A slow smile spread across his features. "This place, it's full of oils and unguents?"

Ujahorresnet nodded.

"Good." He turned back to face his soldiers. "Burn it! "

Smoke guttered from within the hypostyle hall. Flames gnawed at the stones, searing away ancient layers of paint and plaster. A thick black haze drifted across the battlefield. Through it Barca stalked like Death personified. Egyptians formed at his back, creating a fighting wedge with the indomitable Phoenician at its tip. The remnants of the hoplites, cut off by the flames, locked shields and braced for the final thrust, their palisade of spears all that remained between Barca and his prey.

"Phanes! "

With that ear-splitting roar, Barca loosed the Beast from the prison of his soul. He moved through the Greeks like a farmer threshing grain, reaping a bloody harvest among them. Spears thrusting at him he turned aside, swords whistling toward him he deflected, and men seeking to stand against him he struck down with impunity.

In his wake Hekaib and Thothmes fought to emulate him. The Egyptians were madmen, but to the Greeks they were the lesser of the two evils. Men who stood no chance against Barca threw themselves against his comrades with zealous fervor.

Their ends came quickly.

Hekaib fell first. He could not maintain the brutal pace Barca had set. His lungs burned; his arms and legs felt like leaden weights. Each step, each thrust, became agony. His mind wandered back over the years, seeing again his wife and children, the laughing face of Ibebi, dour Menkaura. Homage to thee, Osiris.

Hekaib stumbled, his shield falling. A shadow loomed out of the smoke; a hoplite surged in and drove his eight-footer into the little man's belly. The Egyptian screamed once, then fell silent as a sword hacked through his neck.

Thothmes turned in time to see the head and body fall in different directions. Spears and swords licked out, driving him back. Blood sheeted from a cut on Thothmes' scalp, blinding him. He tripped over a corpse. Thothmes rolled over on his stomach and clawed at the gory stones, fingers seeking the hilt of his sword. His will, his spirit, did not falter, but in his mind he knew it was time. He knew …

A hoplite spear, driven through his back, freed his ka to travel to the next world.

Through the haze of katalepsis Barca did not see the two Egyptians die. His eyes were fixed on the far side of the hypostyle hall. He hacked his way through the last of the Greeks and rushed alone into the inferno.

"Phanes! "

Precious oils and fine linens fed the flames equally as well as common lamp fuel and resin soaked rags, creating only a sweeter smelling miasma to burn the lungs and sear the eyes. The Phoenician emerged from the temple complex in time to see the Khepri backing water. With a bellow of rage, Barca flung his shield away and rushed down the avenue of sphinxes to the quay, too late to stop their exodus. Though smoke and exhaustion blurred his vision, he could see Phanes standing in the bow of the retreating barge. The Greek smiled despite his defeat.

"You son of a bitch!" Barca roared. "I will hunt you to the ends of the earth!" The Phoenician swayed, sword falling from his loosening grip. "To the e-ends …" The world spun. Cold, leaden limbs weighed him down. No. Too much left to do. He needed a ship. A ship. Pharaoh would grant him one …

Figures staggered through the smoke, their bodies pierced by spear and sword, wracked with exhaustion. Tjemu sat in the shadow of a sphinx, a rag pressed to his thigh, his curses lost amid the general clamor.

Nearby, ringed by Calasirians, Ahmose leaned against a stone obelisk. Pharaoh's breath came in wracking gasps and his armor bore witness to the fury of the battle; several scales were missing, others were dented, and a patina of fresh gore dulled the whole. His arms were crisscrossed with cuts and gouges. Disheveled priests prepared bandages and poultices for their king. Ahmose removed the blue war crown and passed it to an aide. Nebmaatra crouched at his feet. The Calasirian commander knotted a scrap of linen around his lacerated forearm.

"So much for Phanes' loyalty, eh?" Pharaoh said. A shout went up from the surrounding soldiers, cries of "Medjay! Medjay!" as Barca staggered through their ranks. Swords were thrust heavenward; spears clashed on shields. Oblivious to the din, Barca shouldered his way past the Calasirians.

"G-Grant me a ship, sire," he said. "A s-ship…"

"Hasdrabal Barca! " Ahmose smiled. "We owe you your heart's desire. If it's a ship you want, you will have it. But not today. Rest, Hasdrabal. The gods know you have earned it."

"C–Can't. ." Barca collapsed to his knees, his face pale. Nebmaatra caught his shoulder before he could topple, easing him to the ground. Frowning, he unbuckled Barca's cuirass and tore away the sodden linen bandages. The slash in his side had widened. Through the weakened sutures, Nebmaatra saw the moist red-blue of viscera.

"Fetch a physician!" Nebmaatra motioned to one of his Calasirians.

"How bad is it?" Ahmose said.

"He's lost much blood."

The Phoenician stirred. His words, when he spoke, came out slurred. "S-ship … y-you … must. ."

"Whatever the physicians' need will be put at their disposal. I owe this man too much to allow him to die," Pharaoh said. He reached out, patting Barca's arm. "You hear me, son? You don't have my leave to die. Not while Phanes yet lives."

Hasdrabal Barca groaned as the darkness rose up about him.