‘it’s not like we actually put the poison in the honey ourselves. It’s
naturally poisonous. Really, it’s just a tragic accident, this tainted stuff
getting in with the good stuff. It’s like when the Thracian cavalry got the
shipment of tainted wheat. There was no way anybody could know just by looking
at it.’
He grabbed my arm. ‘We know,’ he said.
‘Nobody can prove that,’ I pointed out.
He stared at me. ‘We know,’ he repeated.
I looked into his eyes until I had to look away. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Look,
this can’t be the only register, it’s just a stock list, tells ‘em how much of
everything they’ve got at any one time. There’s got to be another one somewhere
that says who’s been issued with what. You know, the one we have to seal when we
draw stuff.’
Peitho thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t seem to be here,
though. Well, of course,’ he went on, ‘they wouldn’t keep it here, would they?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Think about it. All that sort of thing’s got to go through to the
Quartermaster’s office. I’ll bet you what happens is that each set of stores
hands in their returns to the QM’s clerks every night, so they can keep the
tally up to date. That’s where those tablets’ll be,’ he went on, ‘in the
Quartermaster’s office.’
I sat down on a barrel. ‘Fantastic,’ I said. ‘That’s that, then.’
He sat down beside me. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘We’re looking at this the
wrong way, you know.’
I looked up. ‘We are?’
‘Sure,’ he said, with a decisive nod. ‘We’re looking at it from the point of
view of two evil bastards who’ve managed to lose a jar of poison they were
planning to kill people with. That’s not how it is at all.’
‘Explain.’
‘How it is really,’ he said, ‘is, we — or rather you, you’re the one who knows
all about fucking bees - you have reason to suspect, because of something you’ve
heard just now, you have reason to suspect that the latest batch of honey might
be tainted. Maybe even dangerous, so, being a responsible and conscientious
officer, you’re going to dump the whole consignment, just to be on the safe
side.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Well, it’s what anybody would do.’
‘All right, then. Imagine your dismay when you find that one of these jars has
somehow already been issued—’
‘Issued out of turn,’ I pointed out. ‘Against regulations.’
‘Quite. Some clerk’s going to get his arse kicked for that, if there’s any
justice.’
‘Heads will roll,’ I agreed. ‘A mistake like that could have cost hundred of
lives.’
Peitho looked up. ‘Still might,’ he said. ‘Come on, you’d better get yourself
over to the Quartermaster’s, quick as you can.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Why me?’ I added. ‘You’re coming too.’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he replied. ‘You’re the fucking bee
supremo. How would I have got involved?’
I sighed. He had a point there. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll meet you back at your
tent when I’m done.’
‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Just in case. I mean to say,’ he explained, ‘if
something has gone wrong and half the camp’s dead already, I think I’d rather
not be associated with you just now. You do see, don’t you?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said.
‘Logic,’ he replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A nd that, dear brother, is how I came to be a hero of the war, a man who saved
the lives of hundreds of his comrades. As someone pointed out to me, on a
strictly arithmetical basis, number of lives saved, I was among the top five
great and glorious heroes of the war, because most of the jokers who got awarded
the laurel crown and the desirable giftware for saving lives only saved one or
two, or at the most five or six, in some battle or other. True, they risked
their lives, got themselves carved up, whatever; but if you go by end result
rather than circumstances surrounding the act of heroism in question, they were
nowhere compared with me.
The reason why I was such a great and glorious hero was that if I hadn’t raised
the alarm, that jar of deadly poison would have gone in the wine for drinking
the Queen Mother’s health on her birthday, and the consequences of that would’ve
been drastic, to say the least. Hundreds, in fact, is quite definitely an
understatement. Make that thousands.
So great and glorious a hero was i, in fact, that it wasn’t enough for me just
to get my laurel crown and desirable giftware from my superior officer (a man by
the name of Diades, Chief Engineer; nice enough man in his way); no, I was to
receive my rewards and honours from the hand of Alexander himself— ‘Perfect,’
Peitho said, when I told him.
I frowned. ‘Actually,’ I replied. ‘I’d rather there wasn’t any fuss at all. In
fact, the sooner the whole thing’s forgotten about—’
‘I’m not talking about your stupid fucking laurel crown,’ Peitho said testily.
‘I’m talking about killing Alexander. You do remember, don’t you? Our plot to
assassinate the King of Macedon?’
‘What are you talking about?’ I said.
‘Gods, are you dumb or what? Here’s a golden opportunity, handed to us on a
plate by some god who loves us— I was shocked. ‘You’re not suggesting I kill him
while he’s giving me my award?’ I said.
He looked puzzled. ‘Why the hell not?’ he said.
‘Well...’ Unusually for me, I found I had trouble putting my thoughts into
words. ‘It wouldn’t be right,’ I said. ‘Not when he’s being so—’
‘Nice?’
‘Well, for want of a better word, yes.’
Peitho stared at me as if I’d just sprouted wings out of my ears. ‘I don’t
believe it,’ he said. ‘A bunch of dried leaves and a three-obol tripod, and you
go from being the man who was prepared to wipe out a whole generation of
Macedonian aristocracy in one hit to some sort of Ideal Soldier. Dear gods,
Eudaemon, if this wasn’t so bloody serious I’d wet myself laughing.’
He was starting to annoy me. ‘It’s nothing to do with the damned crown,’ I said.
‘And yes, I still believe Alexander’s got to go. I’m really behind that, every
step of the way. I just can’t see how I’m going to murder him face to face like
that.’
‘Why not? Afraid of hurting his feelings?’
I kicked over a stool. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you tell me. There I am in his
tent. When do I stick him with the knife? Before he hands me the laurel crown or
after? I know; it’s his mother’s birthday, he might offer me a drink to toast
her health. I could slash his throat out while he’s pouring me a cup of wine
with his own hands. Or should I wait till he’s turned his back to pick up the
tripod he’s going to give me?’
Peitho shook his head. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘it’s a bit cold-blooded. That’s
how it goes. I’m afraid there just isn’t a polite way to murder someone.’
<
br /> I folded my arms and looked away. ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘if I killed him there and
then, I’d never get out of there alive. What makes you think we’ll be alone in
the tent, for one thing? He’s never alone. These days, when he goes for a crap
behind the mess tent, there’s half a dozen ambassadors with him, not to mention
the duty philosopher.’
‘All right,’ Peitho said, ‘you may have to take out a bystander. Big deal.
You’re a soldier, that’s what soldiers do. They kill people.’
I shook my head. ‘This is getting worse and worse,’ I said. ‘And even if I do
succeed in killing Alexander, and six assorted staff officers, what then?
Standing over the bodies with a dirty great knife in my hand, it’s not the sort
of thing you can bluff your way out of.’
Peitho thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re in there, getting
your award for being a great hero. While you’re there, some clerk or adjutant
goes berserk and kills the King. You’re too late to stop him, but at least you
manage to wrestle the knife out of his hand and cut him down before he manages
to escape. Who knows?’ Peitho added sourly, ‘Maybe they’ll give you another
laurel crown for that.’
‘Nobody’s going to believe it,’ I said. ‘I’d be committing suicide, and you know
it.’
He glowered at me. ‘You’re the one who’s so desperate to be a hero,’ he said.
‘Why not be a real one instead of a bloody fraud?’
‘I resent that,’ I said. ‘And you’re beginning to get on my nerves.’
‘So?’
I could see that things were getting out of hand. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘it isn’t
helping matters us being at each other’s throats. At this rate we’ll end up
killing each other before we so much as lay a finger on Alexander. Just accept
it, I’m not going to kill him when I go to get my award.’
‘Fine. A wonderful opportunity wasted.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said patiently. ‘What I can do while I’m talking to him is
to try and set up a real opportunity. One that won’t get me killed.’
Peitho heaved a long sigh. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s hear it.’
‘Try this,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘While he’s giving me the crown I whisper
to him that I’ve got to see him alone. Urgently.’
‘You going to give any explanation? Or just rely on your silver tongue?’
I marshalled my thoughts. ‘I’ll tell him I know all about a plot against his
life,’ I said. ‘That’ll do the trick. He’s always ready to listen to stuff like
that. Imagines plots and conspiracies everywhere, he does.
‘What, like ours, you mean?’
I ignored that. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘when we’ve got him on his own, with no guards
or adjutants or hangers-on, no witnesses — That’s how you do these things, must
be. Careful planning. Thinking about it first. Not like that crazy bastard who
assassinated King Philip.’
Peitho didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘All right,’ he admitted, eventually.
‘I can see the logic. Well, I’ll leave you to it. Best of luck. You’ll need it.’
‘I’ve always hated it when people say that.’
I never could be doing with polishing armour; oil and sand and a little twist of
rag, round and round till your wrists ache. It all seems so pointless, somehow;
the plain fact is, bronze isn’t meant to be all golden and shiny, its natural
state is that sort of dull, rich brown, like oxtail soup. The patina is nature’s
defence against verdigris and corrosion; scour it off and there’s nothing
between the bare metal and the malice of nature.
Still, I polished up my armour, and the rest of my gear, till I looked like one
of those rich-kid soldiers who have five slaves employed full-time bulling kit.
Don’t know why; perhaps I thought that Alexander would be more likely to trust a
well-turned-out soldier than a scruffy one, or maybe I just needed to keep
myself busy while I waited for my interview.
Wasn’t the first time I’d been in The Presence, face to face —well, you know
that, because I’ve told you. But I knew as soon as I put my head under the
tent-flap that something was drastically different.
For one thing, the tent was next best thing to empty. I remembered thinking, the
last time, how the great man’s quarters were only just on the tidy side of
cluttered — everywhere you looked there were things, bits and pieces he’d
acquired in the course of his great adventure — the Shield of Achilles he’d
pinched from the priests at Troy, for example, the severed ends of the Gordian
Knot, the swords of mighty Persian warriors he’d slain in hand-to-hand combat,
gifts of rare and precious tableware from kings and governors, relics (he was a
sucker for those; shinbones of giants, genuine dragons’ teeth in a little jar,
Hercules’ toothpick, Perseus’ left sandal, Theseus’ toenail-clippings, you name
it, some toerag had palmed it off on Alexander of Macedon). Now there was
nothing but a bed, a big wooden box the size of a coffin, and a single
service-issue folding stool.
And Himself, of course. He was sitting on the bed, staring blankly into space,
his mouth slightly open. He stayed that way for about as much time as it’d take
to count to forty.
‘Eudaemon,’ he said, eventually, without turning his head. ‘Euxenus’ brother.
Come in, sit down.’
You know that feeling you get when you know something’s badly wrong? I had that
feeling. Hey, do you remember that old man who lived up near Acharnae, the one
whose house we went to when we were lost up that way one time? Yes, of course
you do; seemed quite normal, till he pulled out that trunk from under his bed
and in it was his dead wife. I expect you remember how he insisted on
introducing us, like she was still alive. Well, it was that kind of creepy,
I-want-to-get-out-of-here-now feeling. Can’t say why I felt like that, exactly;
maybe it was just the sight of that big wooden box that brought back the old
memory. Gods only know what he’d got in there. His clean clothes, probably.
Well, I sat down, perched on that folding stool like a pigeon on a thin branch,
and waited. He was still staring into space. Carried on doing that for a very
long time, until one of the men who’d brought me in, can’t remember who it was
but it was one of the inner circle, made a sort of coughing noise and said,
‘Alexander.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he replied, still staring into thin air. ‘All right, dismissed.’
I could tell the man didn’t want to go, but he couldn’t very well disobey an
order. A moment later, there was just me and Alexander. I’ll be straight with
you, Euxenus, I was scared. Well, you know I’ve never liked creepy stuff.
‘They tell me you’ve done a very great thing,’ he said, ‘saved the lives of your
fellow soldiers. That’s good.’
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t seem like I was expected to say anything. I just
sat there.
‘It’s a good feeling,’ he went on. ‘I think I’m supposed to give you something
now.’ He turned his head and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Do you think he
knew?�
�� he asked.
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, never mind. I expect he did. A man like him, he’d have seen it. Doesn’t
matter. You’re very fortunate, you know. We’ve both been very fortunate, to have
known him. Still, you’d have thought he’d have mentioned it. Unless he was
supposed not to, of course.’ He smiled at me. ‘It’s been hard for me, you know,
coming to terms with it. If he’d said something, just given me some sort of a
clue, maybe I’d have been able to cope with it a little better. Anyway,’ he
said, ‘that’s enough of that, where’s that crown thing I’ve got to give you?’ He
looked around. ‘Doesn’t seem to be here. Would you be terribly disappointed if
we forgot about that? After all, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?’
I nodded stiffly. I knew I had to do my bit now, the speech about the conspiracy
I’d so carefully worked out; but all I wanted to do was get the hell out of
there. ‘Alexander,’ I said, ‘there’s something I have to tell you. It’s really
important.’
He looked up at me. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
I looked round, the way I’d practised. ‘I need to tell you when we’re alone.’
‘We are alone,’ he pointed out. ‘Fire away.’
I remember one time when I was a kid and I’d scrambled up into that old apple
tree in the top corner of the big field at Pallene. There was a big fat apple
all on its own right at the end of a long, thinnish branch, and I’d set my heart
on that apple. I remember the feeling of utter disgust when suddenly I wasn’t in
the tree any more, I was on the ground with a broken branch between my legs and
my head feeling like someone’d just belted it with a big smith’s hammer.
‘Go on,’ he said.
I looked round again. I suppose I was trying to create the impression that even
though we seemed to be alone, there were hidden listeners hiding everywhere.
Hiding behind what, gods know, since the place looked like it had just been
raided by the bailiffs.
‘It’s a conspiracy, isn’t it?’ he said.
It felt just like being punched very hard in the pit of the stomach; dizzy,
frightened, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Just sat there.
‘It’s all right,’ he went on. ‘I know. I know all about it.’ And he smiled.
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 61