by Andrew James
Dadarshi bowed at the neck and left. Darius stood on the cliff top, staring out over the oasis. The light was soft and clear, the pastel colours of morning delicately flushed with sunlight, the sand pink with it. Behind him came the screams of the wounded having arrows pulled and cuts sewn. From below, sounds of continued battle floated up. At the base of the cliffs, not far from the piles of dead Ammonians, was the spring, with reedbeds stretching away to the east. To the south were the date palms where the five thousand Ammonian warriors had been hiding. Shapes moving among the palms suggested continued fighting, but maddeningly Darius couldn’t tell which side had the upper hand. He glanced back at the reedbeds. Beneath the muted shades of ivory and green, glints of water showed from the marshy ground. The reeds were very tall, hiding the men battling for control. He could see Ammonian cavalry charging and wheeling, groups of their small horses flattening reeds as they attacked unseen targets then retreated, always leaving several animals behind. Darius hoped it meant the Persians had taken the spring and the Ammonians were trying to take it back, but he couldn’t be sure.
A surgeon came with some cotton thread and a silver needle. The wound was shallow, a flap of skin and muscle hanging loose where the blade had slid off his ribs. Darius braced himself as it was stitched. As the surgeon tied the last knot, Dadarshi returned. Darius was about to give him fresh orders when a flock of small green birds deep in the reedbeds suddenly flew up, chattering noisily. A head poked up from the reeds, followed by a body. The soldier climbed onto a lone rock and raised his arms, something flashing brightly in his hand. Darius jumped up and pointed. ‘There! The signal.’ It was repeated three times as the soldier tilted the polished metal. Darius drew his sword, raising it in the air to show he understood. The tiredness fell away from him, the pain dissolved. He couldn’t help smiling. They had taken the spring!
Now Darius’s army had ample water and a secure base from which to protect it. Both his and Phanes’s armies were safe, Siwa as good as taken. It was just a matter of clearing the reeds, digging the pond and lining it with clay. Darius knew the Ammonians would try to dislodge him, but with superior numbers and the benefit of the heights he was confident he could hold them back. Feeling relaxed for the first time since reaching the Two Lakes, he told Dadarshi to break off the diversionary attack. ‘Let them fall back on the spring and help secure it. I want half the archers, a thousand spearmen and five hundred cavalry up here to hold the plateau. They can guard the prisoners as well. Everyone else moves down to defend the spring. And get those engineers digging!’
Dadarshi raised his hand in salute and started to turn away. Then stopped, staring in amazement at the shape tottering unsteadily towards them, its hands, face, helmet, armour, gown and even riding trousers absolutely drenched in blood.
Darius also had to stare for a moment before, with a shock, he recognized Vinda. The noble looked at him with a nervous, vacant stare, as though unsure where he was or who he was with. ‘When the mood takes you, you can fight after all,’ Darius said, picturing again his ferocious attack on the Ammonians.
Vinda’s laugh sounded like the laugh of a madman. ‘You mean I am good at killing people?’ He held up his bloody hands and looked at them, curiosity and disbelief on his face, as though he wondered who they belonged to. ‘You know, Darius, I always despised you for being good at that. I wanted to be the general, the man who kept his hands clean and gave the orders.’ He laughed again, this time sounding bitter. ‘But I wasn’t any good at that this morning, was I?’ There was a manic edge to his voice. ‘Thousands of men lying in ambush and I didn’t bother to look. I would have got you all killed.’
Darius was too embarrassed to answer.
‘Your peasant friend in armour was right. I am no soldier. I shall tell Phanes and Cambyses I relinquished my command in favour of the more experienced man. I would appreciate it if you said no more. I have my honour to consider.’
He walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down. Darius imagined what he was seeing, the piles of mangled, broken bodies. Suddenly Vinda lurched forward. Darius thought in his disturbed state Vinda was going to jump over the edge and instinctively ran to stop him. Instead a stream of yellow liquid shot from Vinda’s mouth. He stood there shaking helplessly with strings of vomit dripping to the ground. It was so far from the normal immaculate Vinda that Darius felt deeply moved. He exchanged glances with Dadarshi. They had both seen it before, a man shocked after the battle by what he had done in the heat of his rage. For the moment at least, the old enmity was forgotten. Even Dadarshi was looking at the filthy, bloodstained noble with more respect. The arrogance and haughtiness had gone, in their place was the man’s bare soul. With infinite gentleness, Darius took his enemy by the shoulders and began to lead him away. After this, killing him was going to be much harder.
Something made Darius pause. He listened, hearing hooves on the ground and marching feet. Puzzled, he let go of Vinda and looked out over the edge of the drop. Down below, the leading units of an army were marching into the oasis.
One look told him they were not Persians. It was not Phanes’s army.
21
The air hung very still over the oasis, the surface of the lakes like glass. The morning sun had burned away the few clouds, turning the ground a lighter shade of brown as it dried the overnight dew. Hundreds of Persians lined the cliff edge, watching in horror as squadron after squadron of outlandish-looking cavalry trotted into the palms. In the limp air, their dust hovered low against the ground. The riders were bare-chested and bronze-skinned, slight men sitting lightly on nimble ponies without so much as a saddlecloth. Small round bucklers were strapped to their left arms, with javelins in their right, and a bundle of spares hanging on a leather thong from their belts. They rode under a banner bearing a crescent moon. Darius had never seen such horsemen or their strange banner before, but Vinda had.
‘Carthaginians?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Has Carthage allied with Siwa against the Great King?’
‘I doubt it. These must be Carthaginian mercenaries. With a hundred thousand Persians in Egypt, Carthage wouldn’t dare provoke Cambyses with a token force. It would be all-out war or nothing.’
After a while Darius realized the horsemen weren’t such a token force after all, and he thanked his lucky star they had arrived too late to take part in the battle. Two thousand horsemen were followed by spearmen marching four abreast, the strengthening sun glinting off bronze helmets and glistening off well-oiled leather armour. When six thousand men had passed there was a gap. Anxiously Darius and the others waited. A small flock of pinkish grey doves settled down to feed on the ground disturbed by the marching feet, then squawked up again and flew off in alarm as another column appeared. This time javelin men on foot, unarmoured, with bundles of darts in one hand and small bucklers strapped to their left wrists. They marched in all morning, fifteen thousand in all, filling the Great Chief’s camp beyond the southern end of the palms and swelling it into the open desert.
‘Perhaps it is all-out war?’ Dadarshi said, as he watched the camp expand. ‘If so, where does that leave us?’
‘If an entire Carthaginian army is about to descend on the oasis, staying here would be suicide,’ Vinda said. ‘We should leave while we still can.’
‘Leaving would be suicide too,’ Dadarshi argued. ‘We need to stay near water.’
‘Then we should march on Siwa,’ Vinda said. ‘Take the oasis and dig ourselves in behind its walls.’
‘You’re forgetting Phanes’s army,’ Darius objected. ‘If we leave, he’ll turn up here expecting our water. Not finding it he will die.’
‘We could send out scouts telling him to carry on directly to Siwa.’
‘The scouts may not find him out there.’ Darius pointed at the desert. ‘But even if they did, he’ll run out of water before he reaches Siwa. We simply have to sit tight.’
He spoke with more conviction than he really felt. Judging from the piles of bodies, about two and a half t
housand Ammonians had died that morning. Persia’s dead and seriously injured totalled nearly five hundred. Whoever the new arrivals were they were not friends, and with their help the Great Chief now outnumbered Darius’s men more than two to one. And who could say how many more of these strange warriors might be lurking out in the desert? Darius felt the first twinges of despair. Everything had been going so well … but now he felt, deep down, that they were heading for disaster.
At the same time, part of him knew it was an irrational thing to believe. Their position wasn’t yet hopeless by any means, not when they held both the spring and the heights. Darius reminded himself that it was only five days until Phanes was due to arrive. They would just have to hold out that long.
In the distance, commands were shouted as the Carthaginians bustled around setting up camp. By contrast, the Persians were slumped on the plateau, packs slung carelessly on the ground, weapons still bloody. After an exhausting night march and a battle, the euphoria of victory was wearing off. Soon their spirits would plunge.
Darius stretched muscles aching from battle, clapped his hands and forced a cheerful note into his voice. ‘Dadarshi, get these men fed! Then put half under arms and divide the rest into labour gangs under the engineers. There’s work to be done!’
Groaning good-naturedly, the soldiers came to life. Ropes were thrown down the cliff face, waterskins hauled up from the spring, hand mills taken from packs and grain coarsely ground. Camel-dung fires were lit, dough flung hissing against hot rocks to bake. When the plateau was a hive of activity, Darius called Dadarshi over and pointed down at the spring. It was open on three sides, with the cliffs rising above it on the fourth. Darius knew that as soon as work started on the pool the Ammonians would attack, advancing in a large arc, launching missiles at his engineers. He studied Dadarshi’s face. ‘How would you fortify it?’
Dadarshi sucked on his teeth. ‘Going to be a bastard of a job, that one, sir. That marshy ground’s got no guts. Bank it up, stand on it in armour, and you’ll just …’
A ram’s horn screeched five long notes. After Pelusium, the sound always scraped Darius’s nerves. Coming from the Ammonian camp, eight men left the shelter of the trees, with a ninth slightly ahead. Fifty paces from the cliff the eight stopped and tilted their faces up; the ninth man shuffled on with an odd, staggering gait. Thirty paces from the cliff he stopped, and shouted up in faultless Greek: ‘Persians? I wish to speak.’
The man’s shuffling gait and stooped shoulders weren’t those of a warrior, but Darius could see he wore gaudy Siwan warrior’s dress: a long, elaborately patterned coat hanging open at the front, a red loincloth, a yellow woollen sash. Two tall ostrich feathers rose sideways from his hair, which was plaited on the right side into braids and almost clean-shaven on the left. His grizzled beard was trimmed to a sharp point, thrusting forward and down from his chin. Leather sandals were laced around his ankles, above them his shins were shaded in a dark pattern, with the same pattern repeated on his forearms.
It felt strange to hear such perfect Greek in the mouth of such a barbaric-looking man. But it could do no harm to hear what he had to say. Darius stood at the edge looking down, bow in hand. ‘Speak.’
As the Ammonian approached the cliff the dark shading on his shins and forearms resolved into an intricate web of diamond tattoos. Sunlight highlighted beads of ivory and gold in his braids. He was about forty years old, the chest and stomach beneath his sash flabby, the hair on them grey. Rather than the high-domed forehead and narrow features of the Ammonians, his face was full, almost round, restless brown eyes set deep beneath hooded, insincere brows. Already repelled by the man’s nightmarish dress, a gut instinct warned Darius not to trust him. ‘That’s close enough,’ he said, signalling his archers to train arrows on the Ammonian’s chest.
The Ammonian stopped and gave a hesitant smile. ‘I am Sutekh-Irdis, Great Chief of the Desert Lands, ruler of the tribes of the Libu and Worshipper of Ammon. This is my land. You are not welcome here.’
Darius hid his surprise. This was the Ammonian king? He looked furtive and ridiculous, a scheming courtier rather than the leader of a warrior tribe. Letting his voice carry strongly across the oasis, Darius replied, ‘I am Dariyavaush, son of Hystaspes, son of Arsama, of the Royal House of Parsa. I am a Persian, of Aryan blood. I command …’ He looked at Vinda, who nodded, ‘I command the Persian forces in this oasis. And I claim it by right of conquest for the King of Kings.’ A great cheer rang from the Persian ranks.
‘By right of conquest?’ the Great Chief asked mildly as the cheer died down. ‘That is a large claim for such a small force.’ He motioned back towards the newly arrived army. ‘There are many men here who might dispute it.’
‘Let them. In a day or two your mercenaries will grow tired of thirst and see things differently. Then I shall drive them back into the desert.’
Sutekh-Irdis’s smile faded, his mouth turning hard. ‘Your attack this morning was skilfully planned, Dariyavaush, son of Hystaspes, but your neck is stiff. Tell me why you make war on my people?’
‘The King of Kings does not make war on your people. He makes war on you! You, your god, and the Prophetess you incited to curse him.’ Again the Persians cheered. ‘He sent you friendly emissaries but you spurned them. Perhaps with Pharaoh gone you thought to spread fire and destruction, to rebuild your ancient empire? That was a foolish dream. It has put your people in danger. Send the King of Kings earth and water, hand over the Prophetess, and they may yet be saved.’
‘That will not happen.’
‘Then it must be war.’
The Ammonian shuffled his feet, scratched his armpit, hawked and spat. ‘You will let us take our dead for burial.’
‘Fifty men may approach the cliff, unarmed. My archers will fire if they have any doubts.’
‘Agreed. You have prisoners?’
‘Three hundred.’
‘What do you want for them?’
‘Time to heal my wounded. Grant a ceasefire for five days.’
Sutekh-Irdis leant his arm against the cliff and laughed. ‘So Stratekos Phanes is five days away? Why not ask for something I can give?’
‘Those are my terms. If you do not like them I will start throwing your warriors over the cliff tomorrow at sun-up.’
‘Some of the men you hold are dear to me. If you harm them, by the horns of Ammon I swear I will kill you slowly, cut by screaming cut.’
A hard glint came into Darius’s eyes. ‘Grant a ceasefire and I will release sixty each morning, starting tomorrow. If you attack I will throw them off the cliff.’
The Great Chief looked angrily at Darius from beneath his hooded brows. ‘In the name of Ammon, I will leave you with the spring for five days. Do not ask more of me than that.’
Darius noticed he had chosen his words carefully. ‘You will swear an oath?’ he asked.
The Great Chief lifted his right hand to tug at the braids on his head and laughed. ‘You think I am a savage who cannot be trusted on my word?’ Lowering his hand he plucked the cloth of his coat between forefinger and thumb, holding up the embroidery, a pattern of green palm fronds against white cloth. ‘See? Fine craftsmanship, made by civilized men who fear the gods, just like you Persians. You want to dam our spring to water Phanes’s army when it arrives. Release my men unharmed and I swear by Ammon that I shall not interrupt that work for five days.’ Then he shuffled away.
Darius watched him go then turned to Dadarshi. ‘I wouldn’t trust that man to piss in a pot. Tonight I want pickets and watch fires every fifty paces around the spring, and along the base of the cliff. Cut down palms for wood. Question the prisoners and find out if any are his sons or brothers. Set a strong guard.’
In the distance Ammonian drums rumbled in constant threat, while the crack of Persian axes echoed off the cliff face, followed by the crash of palm trunks stripped of their great woody fronds hitting the ground. The area around the spring turned from marshy green to pure sandy brown, as the re
eds were cut back and long trails of their stubborn, ivory-coloured roots were chopped up and dragged away. Men from the diversionary attack filtered through the palms towards the spring, carrying their wounded. Beneath the watchful eyes of Persian archers, a burial party of fifty Ammonians worked all afternoon dragging away their dead. Unimaginable numbers of flies swarmed around them, rising in loud frenzy as a body was moved or turned. Persian dead were carried to the heights and exposed, while a magus purified the ground with prayers. Vultures and crows circled, landing to feed as soon as the sky burial party had withdrawn down the slope.
The sun sank quickly, the light faded, dusk fell, and with the need for secrecy over, Ammonian campfires flared alight. Persian fires joined them, cooking the camels and horses that had died in battle. Darius sat alone with his back to the tombs, his helmet, hood and shield on the ground beside him, sword belt still buckled around his waist. Dadarshi and the other commanders had gone to check on their men, Zariadris had gone down to take control of the forces defending the spring. Vinda was sleeping in an empty tomb. Ten paces from Darius a sentry was leaning against a rock eating lavash bread and boiled camel.
In Darius’s hand was a juicy steak of horsemeat between layers of hot bread. There had been no time to eat during the day, now he wolfed down the meat hungrily, each mouthful washed down by a gulp of date wine. As he ate he turned the battle over in his mind, trying to draw lessons from the way the Ammonians had fought and wondering how to counter their new Carthaginian allies. He was dog-tired but satisfied with the day, looking forward to a solid night’s sleep.
Licking the meat juices from his fingers, Darius sharpened his weapons and oiled the blades against the heavy night dew. From the palms below he could hear a soft scraping as the breeze dragged trailing fronds across the ground, and a persistent rattle as the higher fronds clattered together. His weapons sharpened, he sat for a moment to enjoy the peace. Later the night would grow cold, but the evening was still mild and clouds of gnats floated in the air. Lizards with whiplash tails scurried into their holes, others with bulging eyes came out to hunt. In the reedbeds, toads rasped their raucous tune, bats swooped on jagged wings above his head and something deadly hissed in the dark.