Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt

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Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 56

by Alexander at the World's End (lit)

to stretch those hides pretty slack, so that arrows and such just flopped off

  them instead of going through.

  To cut a long story short, things were going pretty much our way by this stage.

  The towers were doing their job, and to increase the protection for the work

  crews we’d made up rawhide fences that ran the whole length of the causeway, so

  not a lot was getting through one way or another. Just when we thought we’d

  cracked it, in fact, those bastards on the island turned round and showed us we

  hadn’t. Let me tell you about that, brother, if you can spare the time.

  It was early one morning, and there was a good stiff westerly wind blowing; we

  noticed two Tyrian warships cracking along at a hell of a lick, towing this

  enormous fat old hulk of a horse-transport. It was so broad in the beam it was

  practically round, and it was sitting up in the water like a dog begging. Oddest

  thing about it was two thin masts right forward; they looked like thin, bare

  saplings and they had round cauldrons hanging from the yard-arms, like apples on

  the branches of a tree.

  We were staring at this thing thinking What the hell? when the war­ships towing

  it veered off on either side of the nose end of the causeway, cut cables and

  buggered off at top speed, letting the hulk carry on under its own momentum so

  that it crashed into the front end and actually rode up on the causeway

  broadwalk, for all the world like an otter or a seal. Under the impact the two

  flimsy masts bust, and those cauldrons went toppling down; turned out that they

  were full of this mixture of pitch and naphtha — that’s a kind of lamp-oil they

  draw off out of the rocks in those parts, and boy, does it burn well; doesn’t

  just catch fire like olive oil or lard tallow, it goes up whoosh! and the next

  thing you know is, people are staring at you and saying, Sorry, didn’t recognise

  you without the beard — along with this other secret ingredient they’ve got that

  actually catches alight when it comes in contact with water. Result, the mixture

  slops all over the wooden planking and the props and struts, not to mention the

  towers, the hide fences and quite a lot of people, then drains over the side

  into the water and wham, flares up like hell, and suddenly every­thing’s on

  fire.

  Meanwhile the two warships had come back, along with a whole load of other

  boats, all of them with archers and catapult crews squeezed in right along the

  rails; first they shot the guys jumping off the burning causeway into the water,

  then the other guys who didn’t dare jump for fear of getting shot, and the fire

  took care of the rest. By the time the Tyrians had disembarked their assault

  parties on the causeway, there wasn’t anybody left alive to fight. So they

  knuckled down to their job of breaking up the causeway, while the ships covered

  them against our reinforcements. Between them and the fire, they did as thorough

  a job as you’d ever want to see, and before what was happening had really

  started to sink in properly, down the cause­way slid, its own weight letting it

  simply melt down into the water.

  Enough to make you spit, really. Everything we’d worked at so hard for all that

  time ended up at the bottom of the straits along with gods know how many dead

  workers and the charred scrap of our two beautiful siege towers. It was one of

  those moments of total and abject failure that takes it all out of you, all the

  stuff inside your head and your heart that makes you keep going. For my part, I

  cooked up a big hot fire of my own and started sprinkling my beautiful medicinal

  leaves in big handfuls.

  It was only the day after, though, that the full implications became obvious

  enough that even I, with my head full of smoke and pain­lessness, could get the

  drift of it. While we’d been farting about trying to fill in the sea, the King

  of Persia had been putting his army back together again in Armenia , and he was

  coming to get us. The Tyrians had been deliberately playing us along, letting us

  fritter away our time with our buckets and spades so as to give the Great King a

  chance to get his act together. When word reached them that the Great King was

  ready, they cleared up the mess we’d made, like grown-ups putting away the toys.

  We’d fallen for it, complete in every part. At last, finally, Alexander had made

  a big mistake; a super-jumbo-sized, war-losing mistake that was going to get us

  all killed.

  And that, brother, is why if I wasn’t stuck on this damned bed unable to move,

  I’d be up on my feet throttling you right now; because when the general staff

  urged him to give it up and get out while there was still a slim chance of

  getting away, he stared at them with those ice-cold blue eyes and said no,

  certainly not, because that wasn’t the way he’d been taught the art of war, and

  anybody who even suggested pulling out would pretty soon be reckoning that the

  Great King was the least of his problems. So what if the enemy had pulled down

  the causeway? We’d build another one; only bigger, and wider, with room for lots

  more siege towers. True, thousands of our con­script workers were now dead and

  at the bottom of the straits, leaving us with something of a labour shortage,

  but that wasn’t really a problem; plenty more where they came from, plus all the

  specialist masons and carpenters and engineers he’d had rounded up in Cyprus and

  Phoenicia . History, he informed his open-mouthed heads of staff, would remember

  Tyre as a shining example of Macedonian siegecraft (that is, he implied, if

  History knew what was good for it).

  At this point, a nervous young man called Hegelochus, who held a command in the

  Horse Guards, cleared his throat pointedly and asked what, if anything, led

  Alexander to believe that he’d have any more luck the second time round than he

  had the first. Now, I wasn’t there, so this is all hearsay; but a man I used to

  play knucklebones with had a cousin who was in the same cockflghting syndicate

  as the younger brother of Callas, the commander of the Thracian heavy cavalry,

  who was there; so what I’m telling you now is as close to absolute Platonic

  truth as you’re likely to get in this sadly imperfect world, and Callas said

  that Alexander didn’t like the implications of that question, not one bit.

  ‘Something’s bothering you about this, Hegelochus,’ he said, in that level, calm

  voice of his that sent people who knew him scurrying off in search of abandoned

  well-shafts to hide down. ‘I’d like to know what it is.’

  That young fool Hegelochus cleared his throat again. ‘With respect, the whole

  thing bothers me,’ he said, ‘because I’ve got the strangest feeling I’ve been

  here before.’

  Alexander smiled. ‘Is that so? Now that’s strange, my friend, because we’ve

  known each other since we were both six years old, and I don’t ever remember you

  going abroad even, let alone to Phoenicia. When was this?’

  ‘When we studied together in the school at Mieza,’ Hegelochus replied. ‘That

  time when Professor Euxenus was telling us about that battle — sorry, can’t

  remember the name of it now — where the besieging army sat under the walls of

  this im
pregnable city grind­ing themselves down to no effect until the relief

  force came and scrunched them up.

  ‘ Syracuse ,’ Alexander said. ‘You’re thinking of when the Athenians tried to

  take Syracuse in the Great War. Euxenus told us his grand­father was in that

  army.’

  Hegelochus nodded. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘He was one of the very few survivors,

  wasn’t he?’

  Alexander scowled at that; he’d been made to play the straight man, something he

  hated unless he’d deliberately set it up himself. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure

  you remember the moral of the story. Euxenus said that if he’d been the Athenian

  commander there, he’d have kept pegging away till he found a way to take

  Syracuse , because that was the only way the army was going to get out of there

  in one piece. And then one of us — wasn’t that you, Cleitus? — one of us asked

  how he’d have proposed going about that, since everything they’d tried had

  failed. And Euxenus just smiled, that way he did, and said, “Simple. I’d have

  waited for them to make a mistake.They always do, you know. All wars are lost by

  the loser, not won by the victor.”’ He paused for a moment and looked at

  Cleitus, his head slightly on one side. ‘You haven’t forgotten that, have you?’

  he went on. ‘Or are you saying Euxenus was wrong?’

  (‘I don’t remember saying that,’ I interrupted.

  Eudaemon gave me a long, cold stare. ‘Don’t you indeed,’ he said. I thought for

  a moment. ‘Well, bits of it,’ I replied. ‘That tag about wars being lost by the

  loser — that was a favourite line of mine, I admit. I thought it was pretty

  neat, and it seemed to impress the kids, so I used it a lot to save myself the

  trouble of thinking. But that actual conversation, about what I’d have done at

  Syracuse ; I don’t remember that at all. Sorry.’

  Eudaemon shrugged. ‘Maybe you don’t,’ he said. ‘After all, who’d expect you to

  be able to remember every damn thing you said to a bunch of kids when you were

  teaching them? Maybe you never actually said it at all, in so many words, and

  Alexander remembered it wrong. Doesn’t matter. Alexander’s Euxenus said it, and

  it very nearly got us all killed. And Alexander’s Euxenus was more real to him

  —and, as a result, to me — than you’ll ever bloody be. In fact,’ he added,

  glowering at me, ‘of all the Euxenuses there are or were, I’ll bet you’re about

  the most insignificant of the lot.’)

  So that was that. Hegelochus and Cleitus were in disgrace, we were staying, the

  siege continued, with us trapped up against Tyre like a billet of red-hot bronze

  between the hammer and the anvil. The Tyrians started building up their walls

  with wooden towers so they could shoot fire-arrows directly down into the

  working parties. We stumbled on — there were people getting shot down or

  squashed flat by rocks from the catapults every minute of every day, and we were

  just supposed to ignore it — and in the meantime Alexander got bored and

  wandered off, with his boyhood chums and his pet light-infantry brigade, to go

  hunting tribesmen in the hills. Of course, the bloody clown nearly got himself

  killed; there was this old fool called Lysimachus, who’d been a teacher at your

  school —(‘I know Lysimachus,’ I interrupted.

  ‘No doubt.’)

  — And he’d insisted on tagging along on this adventure. Seems they were playing

  at being people in Homer, they were always doing it; Alexander was Achilles,

  Lysimachus was the old tutor, Phoenix . Anyhow, Lysimachus strayed off and got

  left behind. The tribesmen were all around, dogging the column’s footsteps,

  never coming to grips, just making sneak attacks, shooting arrows and throwing

  javelins and then melting away; a lot of our people got killed, and there was

  bugger all our Achilles and his Homeric knights could do about it; I guess the

  tribesmen hadn’t been to your classes, didn’t know to conduct themselves in a

  fitting manner. Well, everybody was terrified out of their minds; all except

  Alexander, who was absolutely furious. They were spoiling his game, you see,

  there wasn’t anything in all of this for him.

  Anyhow, when Phoenix went missing, Alexander freaked out and said they had to go

  back and find him. None of the others wanted anything to do with that,

  understandably enough; they were in enough shit as it was. But no, Alexander

  insisted, he’d caught a whiff of honour in the breeze and went off after it like

  a bad dog after a hare. So there they were, completely lost, surrounded by these

  tribesmen who were knocking them off like ducks on a pond; and night falls, and

  everybody knows they aren’t going to see tomorrow, because the tribesmen have

  started up their spirit dance, which means they’re going to attack and finish

  the job, and there’s thousands and thou­sands of them out there, according to a

  friend of mine who was on this jolly. Our boys know they’ve got no chance,

  because they haven’t been able to get a fire going — sudden downpour of rain,

  all the kind­ling soaked through — so they can’t see spit, they’re completely at

  the mercy of the enemy. At this point, when it really couldn’t get any worse if

  it tried, Alexander gets up without a word, takes his cloak with the hood and a

  long dagger and walks away. Twenty minutes later, he’s back; he’s only snuck up

  on the nearest enemy camp, scragged a couple of sentries, lit a torch in their

  fire and come bounc­ing back with an absolutely enormous grin on his face, like

  a boy who’s just killed something. Think about it, brother; the king of the

  known world, prancing about stalking sentries; everybody else was scared out of

  their wits and he was off playing.

  But he’d got a torch, and they were able to light a fire and see to keep a

  lookout, and what with one thing and another the enemy didn’t attack; and the

  next day, by the purest fluke, they stumbled across old Lysimachus, curled up in

  a bush and whimpering with fear. Alexander didn’t like that, completely out of

  character for his role in the make-believe game, but he’d got what he came for

  and they headed back. Made it, too, though they left a lot of their own behind,

  littered all over the trail like bits of crust and apple-cores a bunch of untidy

  kids leave behind them as they go. And of course, Alexander’s the great hero who

  single-handedly saved everybody’s life, and the fact that the whole trip was a

  disastrous failure — well, History knows better than to record that. But old

  Lysimachus, who’s desperate to get back in the lad’s good books after disgracing

  himself, he stands up at the next council of war and starts going on about how

  Alexander’s really braver and better than Achilles ever was, and how even Homer

  himself wouldn’t have been able to find words to tell the story like it should

  be told; and Alexander’s face melts into this huge self-satisfied smirk.

  Well, now he’s back Alexander calls a council and says there’s been a change of

  plan. Forget the causeway, he says, it’s obviously not going to work, any fool

  could have told you that. Nobody says a word; and Alexander goes on and says

  that the only way t
o take Tyre is to fit out special warships with

  battering-rams mounted on them and go smash in the seaward walls. So we do that,

  and it’s an absolute disaster. The ships just can’t get in close enough, the

  water’s too shallow, except in one place and the enemy’ve realised this and

  dumped huge great rocks there to obstruct the shallows and keep ships from

  coming in.

  But Alexander won’t be beaten. He’s really away with the wood-nymphs now;

  sometimes, when he isn’t thinking, he’s calling the place Troy instead of Tyre,

  every day he’s sending heralds demanding single combat with the enemy’s champion

  — they’re just standing there in their watchtowers looking embarrassed — and

  when they tell him about the rocks he just frowns and says, ‘Well, if they’re in

  the way, you’d better fish them out again.’ Bugger me, Euxenus, he was serious;

  so we had to build ship-mounted cranes for hauling up these rocks — under fire

  all the time, remember, and the rawhide screens we’d used on the first causeway

  to keep the arrows off were useless, because these new towers the enemy had

  built meant they could shoot right over the top. Also, the enemy sent out ships

  and boats of their own, and soon they were fighting ship to ship; they’d sent in

  these little ships that were all planked in to protect their men from our

  archers, and they’d nip out, cut the anchor cables of the dredgers and scoot off

  again before we could do anything about them, though eventually we swapped the

  cables for chains, and that put a stop to it.

  So Alexander called a council of war and said the ships weren’t working, time to

  finish off the causeway, which was clearly their only hope of taking the city.

  So we finished the causeway — we were using the rocks the dredgers were pulling

  up out of the shallows, and if that wasn’t the dumbest thing; pulling trash out

  of the sea at point A and slinging it back at point B — and we set up battering

  rams on it, but they don’t do any bloody good, the wall’s made of huge blocks of

  stone cemented together.

  So Alexander called a council of war and said stuff the causeway, concentrate on

  the ships. Finally, after we’d nearly filled up the hole the dredgers had

  excavated with the bodies of our dead, we managed to bash a hole in the seaward

 

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