by Andrew James
Taking a step forward, Otaneh raised an elegant finger in the air. Cambyses waved him away. ‘No, Spadapati, I was not seeking counsel. I have already decided. Before coming to his senses my brother did me a favour by mustering his levies and marching them to Pathragada.’ Cambyses couldn’t resist an ironic smile. By now everyone had heard of Bardiya’s attempted rebellion, and its ignominious collapse after the prince mysteriously disappeared. ‘Rather than order them back to the East, they can join us. I am sending the baggage train west straight away, the rest of the army will muster in Babylon. We shall reach Egypt just before Pharaoh’s second grain harvest. Psamtek will either have to give battle or watch his grain scatter in the fields. And Stratekos Phanes is sure he will fight.’
Otaneh smoothed the folds of his gown against his chest and stepped further forward. Darius knew that if it had come to war between the brothers the spadapati would have supported Bardiya. And he sensed that Cambyses would dearly love to make Otaneh disappear too. But for the moment the veteran general was too powerful. Having fought in all Cyrus’s campaigns he was closely identified with the great man, and had a reputation for meticulous planning that produced results. To get rid of him would be difficult. Darius doubted Cambyses was strong enough to take such a risk.
Otaneh spoke, the irritation plain in his voice. ‘But what of our supplies, Great King? We will need weapons. Food. Water.’
‘My father kept a stock of arrows sufficient to fight a major campaign.’ Cambyses waved his hand airily. ‘As for food and water, Darius’s Edomites will supply us until we reach Pelusium. Then we shall live off Pharaoh’s crops until we take the city, and then off his granaries.’
‘And if they burn the crops in the fields?’
‘Then they will also starve.’
‘No, sire. They could resupply the city by sea.’
‘Not once we have settled terms with their admiral!’ Cambyses snapped. ‘My emissary with our Phoenician fleet is on the way to conclude the negotiations with him now.’
Otaneh persisted doggedly. ‘It is possible that threatening their harvest will bring them to battle,’ he conceded. ‘But it also remains possible that when they hear of our approach they will burn the crops and sit tight, Great King. What will we eat if there is a long siege?’
Cambyses jabbed the sceptre at Otaneh’s face. His voice was shrill. ‘You’ll have to make sure there is not! I have already told you, Stratekos Phanes says we can bring Pharaoh to battle quickly. It will be down to you to ensure we win.’
Otaneh stepped back. ‘I shall do my utmost, sire. But battle is never certain. What if we lose? How will the army retreat across a desert without supplies?’
Cambyses sighed wearily and looked at Phanes. ‘What if we lose?’
‘If your generals know how to fight we will not lose, Your Majesty. The question should not arise.’
Cambyses laughed delightedly, but the generals stiffened at the insult. Ignoring them, Cambyses gave Otaneh an admonishing look. ‘It will be an incentive to your men to fight hard, Spadapati. There is nothing like the threat of starvation to put fire in a man’s belly.’
Darius already regretted finding Phanes. No one liked a western barbarian sticking his nose into Persian affairs. Especially military affairs. And especially not a Greek, a Yauna – the most disputatious, fractious men on earth, with their violent, unstable gods and constant wars. Though Darius admired Otaneh’s courage in arguing with Cambyses, he could see it would do no good. Cambyses had started pouting, and once he reached the pouting stage further resistance would simply bring on a tantrum.
And Darius needed Cambyses in a good mood. The king hadn’t yet announced his fate.
‘Now, son of Hystaspes. You did well in finding the stratekos. But what should I do about you losing Dukshish Parmys?’ Cambyses gave a thin smile. ‘A pity your friend Vinda has taken to his sickbed. I know what he would say. He was always singing your praises.’
A high voice rang out. ‘Impale him, Great King! Or he will betray you in the end, I am sure of it.’ Darius shivered every time he looked at the Chief Eunuch. There was something undeniably malign about his beaky nose and cold, pouchy eyes. Typical of his kind, Bagapata combined the pride, ruthlessness and ambition of a man with the subtle craft of a woman. Precious, hating to be crossed, but longing for respect, he made for a dangerous enemy.
The eunuch scrutinized him intently. ‘You think Darius a harmless fool, Your Majesty, but there is more subtlety and guile in him than you believe. He has already lied to you about Dukshish Parmys.’
Alarmed, Darius leant forward and spoke angrily. ‘That’s outrageous, Great King, I …!’
Cambyses held up his hand. ‘Lied to me?’
‘I visited Vinda at his estate, Great King.’ Bagapata leered horribly at Darius. ‘It seems that Darius kept from you the fact that on the day she was taken, he issued the guards with a triple wine ration, making them too drunk to fight.’
Cambyses looked at Darius and raised his eyebrows.
Darius returned the look with what he hoped was gentle humour. ‘It was Nowruz, Great King. Every man is entitled to a drink or two at Nowruz, surely?’ Knowing the king’s reputation as a drunkard, Darius kept his face deadpan. As did the entire court.
But an outraged buzz swept the chamber when Cambyses ignored his Persian counsellors to ask Phanes’s opinion. ‘What do you say, Stratekos?’
Phanes met the counsellors’ outrage with a relaxed smile. ‘Killing him would be a waste, Great King. Promote him. I have seen him fight. He’s a killer. Add him to your guard.’
‘I shall think on it further.’ Cambyses dipped his head to consider. ‘In the meantime, I shall rise.’
Darius looked at the two guards standing stiffly behind the king, and longed to join them. They were Pomegranate Bearers, an elite hazara within the elite regiment of the Immortals, each man’s spear butt weighted with a pomegranate of either gold or silver from the royal treasury. The forty of them who were of noble blood were the King’s Spearbearers, the only men allowed to bear arms in his presence. In groups of four they attended him inside his tent, flanked his throne, guarded his sleeping chamber. If Cambyses promoted Darius to join their number he would have access to the king with a spear in his hand … He waited with bated breath, hardly believing his luck. Surely Cambyses couldn’t be so stupid?
As Darius left the audience chamber he felt a hand thrust through his arm. ‘Welcome back, son of Hystaspes. I am glad you are safe. Though it is a pity your trip was not a little less successful.’ Smelling of sandalwood, Otaneh linked his arm through that of Darius and pulled him out of earshot. ‘We could have done without the Greek viper stowed away in your baggage.’
Darius gave a small smile. ‘Sorry. He claimed he could bring his men with him.’
‘Not much hope of that,’ Otaneh said acidly. ‘He did not even manage to bring his wife and sons. They are imprisoned somewhere beneath Pharaoh’s palace in Pelusium. But enough of politics. I am having some friends around for wine and supper at my palace this evening. Just a light-hearted gathering …’ Otaneh let the words hang. ‘Though I daresay today’s events may crop up,’ he added drily. ‘But all sound men, so you can speak freely. Come and join us.’
The muster fields, west of Babylon, two months later
A ferocious Babylonian sun beat down, reflecting off Cambyses’ gilded armour, flashing off his diamond sword belt. Darius looked away. Everywhere he could smell the sweat and excitement of the vast army. Uncountable divisions, from twenty-two lands as far apart as India and Ionia. Spearmen, slingers, bowmen, horse-archers, camel riders, charioteers, the sunburnt faces telling of gruelling marches across deserts, mountains and plains to answer the King of Kings’ call.
Trumpets blared and drums thundered. On the footplate of his chariot Cambyses raised his war bow high. Thousands of feet scraped in the dust as rank after rank of soldiers fell to their knees and touched their foreheads to the ground. The king pointed the bow
west, towards the Land of Egypt. An earth-shaking cheer erupted and the army rose. With a din like the end of time they clashed weapons against shields and hailed him in a babble of tongues: ‘Cambyses, Xshah-en-Xshah! Cambyses, King of Kings!’
Standing ten paces away from the right wheel of the chariot Darius could see Cambyses’ face glowing with pride. Imagining himself in the king’s place, he burned with jealousy. That sense of injustice always just the below the surface bubbled up, quickening his breath and turning his stomach sour. It was Darius’s army that Cambyses was leading, Darius’s glory he was basking in.
But there was a hint of doubt in the king’s face too. He surely knew it was easy to lead an army; much more difficult to lead it to victory. Darius remembered the evening at Otaneh’s palace, the jokes at the king’s expense, the open ridicule from the military high command, and wondered if Cambyses realized the wolves were already gathering. It hadn’t taken the fool long to offend his important courtiers. If the battle against Egypt was lost, Cambyses would never see Persia again. If that happened, the Empire would be looking for a new king.
Having taken the salute, Cambyses cracked his whip high above the traces. Bronze bits jangled in the horses’ mouths and the white stallions broke into a trot, chariot wheels turned, the cart rumbled forward. With a thunder of marching feet the numberless divisions followed. Darius jogged alongside the chariot, clutching with intense satisfaction the silver-butted spear that had been awarded in a ceremony that morning, as a badge of his new status. Cambyses had made him a Pomegranate Bearer, raising him to his personal guard and bringing his own death one step nearer. But the accursed eunuch’s warning had made the king wary. Despite the nobility of Darius’s blood, Cambyses had not yet given him a gold spear or allowed him to attend in the royal tent.
Never mind. Darius would bide his time.
The huge army stopped for lunch. Passing the roped-off enclosure where the forty King’s Spearbearers were eating, a gruff voice called out, ‘Darius! What’re you doing here? Thought you were playing nursemaid to one of the Imperial princesses?’
Standing inside the enclosure was a short, squat noble with a blunt manner, thick neck, fleshy cheeks and pot-belly. Next to him stood a younger spearman, both sipping clear goblets of fruit sherbet. Darius recognized the noble at once, dressed as always in a gown patterned with turquoise and yellow chevrons bearing the family emblem of a soaring falcon. ‘I was,’ he replied, laughing. ‘But she sent me back to look after you, old man.’ Megabyzus wasn’t really that old – in his mid-forties, he was younger than Hystaspes – but Darius was surprised he was still fighting.
They hugged, kissed on the cheeks and Megabyzus clapped Darius on the back. ‘I’m sorry to hear what happened,’ he said kindly.
‘It’s in the past now.’
‘Plenty more ducks in the pond, eh? And believe me, they’re all much of a muchness. Been married to my wives for twenty years now and still can’t tell them apart. Still, I see the old fool has given you a silver spear. First sensible thing he’s done since he was crowned, silly old sod. What’s he doing taking us across the desert without any water?’
Darius remembered that as well as being an old friend of his father, Megabyzus was also a close friend of Otaneh. ‘Steady,’ he said, looking around to see if anyone was listening. Other than Megabyzus’s nephew, Gobryas, the young soldier next to him leaning casually against a gold-topped spear, no one was paying attention.
‘Oh, he can’t touch me. My second wife’s Queen Cassandane’s younger sister, remember? The old battle-axe would tear his balls off. If he’s got any, that is.’
Gobryas’s laugh sounded like rusty iron being scraped. Like his uncle he was a maverick who drank too much, ate too much and trained too little. Unlike his uncle he was as thin as a whip and hard as iron.
Carpets had been spread beneath a covered awning and well-dressed guardsmen sat on them cross-legged as they ate. Megabyzus invited Darius to share the Spearbearers’ excellent lunch, which he did with pleasure. Megabyzus might prove to be a useful ally. Despite his unpromising looks they were a military family through and through, and Megabyzus was widely respected, a man who kept his feet firmly planted on the ground.
Trumpets blared the order to strike camp. ‘Come back this evening. We’ll share some wine,’ Megabyzus suggested. Having promised he would, Darius got to his feet and set off to find his own unit, working his way along the column of brightly decorated wagons that housed Cambyses’ favourite wives and concubines. The column stretched on and on. When Darius came to the last of the royal women they were replaced by satraps and courtiers and their families, the wives of the Immortals, the royal eunuchs and scribes, each accompanied by their personal baggage train. Beyond them he just made out the huge carts carrying the royal tent with its furniture and ornaments and a large silver drum mounted on a wagon, carrying Cambyses’ supply of sweet water from the River Choaspes. Bleating in the distance were the flocks of sheep for the king’s table, and marked by the glitter of spears and gilded bows of Imperial archers were the heavily guarded camels carrying the royal treasure. Beyond them were more carts with wood and equipment for siege engines, spare arms and armour, forges, iron, copper and tin for bronze, seven and a half million arrows in bundles of thirty, plus a string of fine warhorses and another of horses for Cambyses’ two chariots.
Wheels squeaking and drivers screaming, the great procession began to move. With the horses’ fittings of gold, their knotted manes and tails and the courtiers’ finery, it looked to Darius more like a royal pageant than an army.
Step by step they edged west. Progress was infuriating slow. Oxen needed resting every five days to avoid sprains. Wheels broke. Carts overturned. Between Jerusalem and the Philistine city of Gaza, hawk-faced Edomites suddenly appeared on the fringe of the column, driving asses laden with grain, water, oil. But Darius saw few of the promised sheep. What the Edomites brought was a diet fit for cattle, but it kept the Persians moving.
The Sinai Desert shook beneath the army’s feet as it advanced along the Horus Road from Gaza, an azure sea to its right, a blinding afternoon sun in its eyes. Once, Darius looked back, astonished at the size of the dust cloud rising behind him. Columns of men faded into it like ghosts in a mist, the sunlit dust swirling like flecks of gold, choking his nose and throat and making his eyes water. Knowing he was part of something huge and momentous, Darius drew his headcloth across his face, wound it thickly over the top of his helmet to shade his eyes, and marched on.
Eight days after leaving Gaza, Pelusium came in sight. Gulls shrieked and wheeled above the salt flats. Through the smoke of burning crops, the city’s ramparts flashed yellow with bronze. The ground had been scorched before them and Egypt’s army was waiting. Pharaoh had been warned of Persia’s attack.
14
Pharaoh was a sun-glittered god, and his army knelt before him. Darius heard them worshipping him with hymns and praises carried on the wind. Pharaoh raised his hand and turned the palm skyward to his father, the Sun-God Ra, and, drawn irresistibly, eighty thousand men rose from bended knee. ‘The Persians are godless!’ he shouted. ‘They worship fire and thin air. They cannot defeat us.’ He told them that victory was theirs, and their rousing cheer showed they believed him.
Three hundred paces away, Cambyses’ chariot pennants snapped noisily above Darius’s head. The Griffin Standard danced purple and gold in a sea breeze. ‘Egyptians are fanatics,’ Cambyses complained as the waves of cheering rolled towards the Persian army. ‘How can they burn their own land? If Pharaoh told them to cast themselves into the flames, they’d do it.’
Darius watched Phanes standing straight-backed beside the chariot. He had just seen the sons he left in Egypt dragged in front of the Greek mercenary phalanx and their throats cut, as revenge for his betrayal. Their blood had been mixed with wine and passed around the Greek ranks to be drunk. After a sight like that the gods alone knew what turmoil must be raging in his head, but Darius could see lit
tle sign of it on his face. The man was as cold and calculating as ever, dealing efficiently with a steady stream of enquiries from messengers and junior officers, clarifying orders, receiving status reports and making final preparations for the coming battle. Apparently unaware of anything beyond his immediate focus, Phanes scribbled an answer to a query on a scrap of linen, handed it to a red-gowned Imperial messenger and turned to the king. ‘Pharaoh is their weakness, Great King, not their strength. Kill him, and Egypt will collapse.’
Cambyses shifted uneasily on the footplate. Darius realized he must be thinking the same applied in reverse. The Egyptians would be hoping to kill Cambyses and put an end to the invasion. To make up for the failure of the Edomites, knowing that his life depended on victory, the king had donated two thousand sheep from his personal flocks to ensure every man would be fighting with meat in his belly. But not taking any chances he had dressed unobtrusively. The diamond-studded sword belt was gone, his gilded fish-scale armour was hidden beneath a yellow gown and plain brown cloak, a loose yellow headcloth was pulled under his chin and knotted over his tiara. The only marks of royalty were the diadem strapped discreetly across his brow, the magnificence of his chariot and horses, and the throng of nobles, King’s Spearbearers and Pomegranate Bearers packed tightly around him.
Standing among these Pomegranate Bearers, Darius let his eyes wander. A fine layer of dust had settled over everyone’s armour, dulling the shine. Other than that the men were immaculate, purple cloths knotted over bronze helmets, faces serious but composed and calm. Everyone around Darius was a veteran, used to the anxious wait before combat and the sudden, explosive violence that followed. Only Cambyses looked nervous, staring straight ahead like a seasick man on a ship. And Darius knew why. He was standing directly opposite the dreaded Greek phalanx.