“Touch her and you’ll lose that hand,” said Matthias, drawing his xiphos.
“Touch me and you’ll lose your head,” said the guard as he drew his own sword—only to recoil as Lugorix hefted Skullseeker. The other guards eyed the axe nervously.
“Put your weapons away,” snapped Barsine. “Why are men always so eager to fight?”
Matthias reluctantly sheathed his xiphos—and Lugorix lowered his axe, albeit without any of his friend’s reluctance. He knew that if it came to combat, they could slaughter these guards—but once the alarm had been sounded, they’d be meat. Callias looked at Barsine, his eyes narrowing. His guards had kept their weapons out.
“You’re Persian, aren’t you?” said Callias as though this explained everything.
“Yes,” she replied.
“I’d have thought Persian spies could think of better schemes to get themselves into the city.”
“I’m not a spy,” said Barsine calmly.
“Oh? Then what are you?”
“She’s with me,” said a voice.
Everybody whirled to see a heavyset man standing on the dock, dressed in the garb of an Athenian sailor. The guards in front of him whipped out their swords and pointed them at his throat, but he didn’t seem worried. He just looked down at Callias.
“Harbormaster,” he said. “I’ve orders to take this ship into custody and waive all harbor-fees and duties.”
Callias’ face was a study in incredulity. “Who the hell are you?”
“Here are the orders.”
He handed a scroll down to Callias, who unfurled it and began to read. He’d only got a few lines in before his eyes widened. When he looked up, his expression was contrition mingled with what Lugorix could have sworn was fear.
“Of course,” he said. “Of course. She’s all yours.” He climbed back onto the dock, and his guards went with him. As he passed the newcomer, a thought seemed to occur to him.
“Where do you plan to keep this boat?”
“That’s of no concern to you.”
“Anything in the harbor is.”
The man laughed scornfully. “And here you are talking like you’re chief harbormaster! Shall we go wake him up and see what he thinks of your insisting on inventorying this vessel?”
“I’m not insisting on anything. I just wish to know if you’re—”
“—planning on keeping her in the harbor? No. Now get lost.”
Like any good bureaucrat, Callias knew when he was beaten. He left with his guards, intent on preserving what was left of his dignity. The interloper watched him go, then hopped down onto the boat. Ignoring Matthias and Lugorix, he bowed to Barsine.
“I’m Theramenes,” he said. “At your service.”
“But you still haven’t answered the question,” said Barsine.
Theramenes raised one eyebrow. “My lady?”
“Where do we put the boat?”
“In the canals,” replied Theramenes.
It was like the sea was made of buildings—like the ship was sailing on roads. Except there was still water beneath them. Lugorix couldn’t stop staring at the lantern-bedecked windows passing mere meters from his face. He gazed at his reflection in the water, marveled at the occasional bridge that swept above them. He would have thought they would have been seen by everyone as they made their way through these canals, but they were in the industrial part of town. Most of the workers had gone home for the night. Those that did spot them assumed they were merely one more Athenian warship being towed through the canal, rising through lock after lock: strange segmented areas where doors were closed and pumps forced water up to a new level.
The mules didn’t seem to give a shit one way or the other. Theramenes was on the shore with their drivers, leading them as they threaded their way through the maze of freight-canals that led for miles inland, into the heart of central Athens. Matthias and Lugorix stood near Barsine, but she didn’t seem to want company right now. A fact that naturally made Matthias all the more importunate.
“So who is this guy?” he asked.
“Someone who’s going to help us,” replies Barsine.
“A friend?”
“No.”
“Then why do you think he’s going to help us?”
“He works for a friend. Now please, be quiet.”
“Of course. It’s just that—”
“What?”
“—you told us our job was to keep you safe.”
“So?”
“So I’m just trying to make sure we’re doing that.”
“You might want to think about ducking”—this as she did so herself.
“What?”—but Lugorix was already pushing Matthias down to make sure that the low roof that was sweeping in toward them didn’t brain his friend. Barsine looked at them like they were a pair of clowns—then climbed below deck, leaving Matthias more than a little nonplussed.
“That little minx—”
“Never mind that,” said Lugorix, “what the hell is this place?”
They were in a cavernous cellar, the roof sloping up to a vaulted ceiling. Wooden gates slid into place behind them. Torches slotted into grooves on the wall cast a flickering light on a stone jetty in one corner—and on the iron staircase that rose from it, into the room’s ceiling. The boat slowed, nudging up against the jetty. Theramenes unhitched the mules and climbed up onto the deck.
“So you’re the hired help,” he said.
“Sounds like you are too,” said Matthias.
But Theramenes just smiled. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”
“Where are we?”
“A private residence.”
“Not one of Athens’ fortresses?”
“Come with me,” said the man.
Chapter Four
Wearily, Eumenes climbed the stairs to the top of the battlements. It was just before morning, and the wind off the Mediterranean seemed to cut right through his cloak. Strange how chilly it could be along the coast, even in the midst of summer. Back on the trek to Siwah, Eumenes had thought he’d never mind being cold again. Now, standing on the battlements of Tyre once more, the wind tearing at him like a living thing, he could scarcely recollect the heat of the desert.
But he’d never forget that oasis.
He looked around. Battlements and towers stretched all around him, encasing acre upon acre of ruins and wrecked buildings. Tyre was a city-fortress that had stood on an island just off the coast of Syria. Though it wasn’t much of a city anymore. And now it wasn’t an island either. Before striking east into Persia, Alexander’s army had built an artificial promontory across the narrow channel that separated it from the mainland—had dumped tons upon tons of rocks and silt into that channel so as to drag their war-machines across and batter down the walls. It had been one of the most epic sieges ever—and the slaughter that followed had been even more thorough than that which had taken place at Alcibiadia. Eumenes remembered well the lines of wooden crosses stretching down the shoreline, a captured defender of Tyre nailed to each one, the stench and screams stretching off to the horizon…
“All because he wanted to sacrifice at that accursed temple,” said a voice.
Eumenes turned to see Harpalus stepping from the shadow of a ruined tower. The treasurer looked exhausted, his beard unkempt, dark circles under his eyes. Small wonder, as his work had doubled since the sack of Egypt. And Eumenes knew just how hard Harpalus had already been laboring under the weight of sifting through the Persian finances. When the Macedonian expeditionary force had first crossed into Asia, Harpalus’ job was reasonably simple: ensure what little money Philip had alloted his son went as far as possible. But once Alexander had defeated the Great King’s army and stormed into the Persian heartland, Harpalus’ task became order-of-magnitude more complex. Now he oversaw a vast mobile bureaucracy dedicated to processing the revenue of the richest Athenian province and virtually all the Persian satrapies—not to mention moving the Persian gold reserves out of
Babylonia and back to… wherever Philip and Alexander decided. They were arguing about it. They were arguing about everything. Which was why Alexander had been recalled to Pella, the Macedonian capital—summoned to attend upon his father with all the speed he could muster. In response, Alexander had divided his army, leaving part of it in Egypt under Craterus, while the rest of it returned to Macedonia.
Though it would take some weeks to get there. Alexander and his entourage were well out in front of it now—they’d made camp at Tyre last night and were due to move out this morning. To the dismay of some of his advisers, Alexander was following his father’s instructions to the letter—he was making utmost speed, and if that meant letting the army play catch up, so be it.
“It’s a mistake,” said Eumenes.
“Of course,” replied Harpalus. “Tyre would have paid tribute without him needing to storm it. When I think of all the men we lost—”
“I’m not talking about Tyre,” said Eumenes. “I’m talking about Alexander’s… compulsion to go and face his father directly. Without the army.”
Harpalus nodded. “My sources back in Macedonia tell me that Philip wasn’t expecting that. That he was worried he’d be facing civil war. I’m almost surprised he’s not getting one. His son’s forces outnumber his by almost two to one.”
Eumenes shrugged. “Philip controls the crossing to Europe.”
“You think that would stop Alexander?” asked Harpalus.
“No. If he had to, he’d just march around the entire Black Sea. But the only winners from a civil war right now would be the Athenians, and Alexander knows it.”
“So he’s putting his head straight into the lion’s den.”
“And taking quite a risk.” Eumenes’ tone was somber. “Can you imagine how angry Philip must be by this point? His son strikes Egypt without sanction—”
“—and succeeds—”
“—and no matter what the sycophants around Alexander say, that’ll have made the old man even angrier. Philip’s an invalid, trapped in his palace back at Pella, dreaming of his past glory. He was the one who started the war with Persia—and now he’s had to watch his son conquer the entire empire—”
“Which no one ever expected—”
“No one except him! Zeus almighty, it’s crazy to look back on it all. You remember; everyone figured a best case scenario was liberating the Greek towns of Asia Minor, maybe even set up a defensive line in Anatolia. And then next thing, we’re sacking Babylon! We’ve reached Afghanistan! And Alexander’s still not satisfied! He wants to continue! Whereupon his father says come back, we need to have a little chat! So he turns around, but does he return? No, he hits Egypt instead and ignites a war with the queen of the seas. And so…”
“Here we are,” said Harpalus.
“Here we are,” repeated Eumenes, his agitation draining as quickly as it had filled him. He looked out across the battlements at the tide lapping against the beach. Now that dawn was starting to light the ocean, he could see the tops of masts and siege-engines protruding above the water’s surface—victims of the withering fire that had poured down from the city’s walls during the final assault. Eumenes looked back at Harpalus. “So what did you want to talk about?”
“You know what.”
“If Alexander found us meeting like this, he’d say it was a conspiracy.”
“He thinks everything is these days. He’s convinced that there’s a spy among his inner council.”
Harpalus’ eyes widened. “A spy for Athens?”
“A spy for Philip.”
“Zeus. Who knows of those suspicions?”
“Besides me—Hephaestion, certainly. Craterus, probably. Beyond that, I’ve no idea.”
“You and I need to stick together,” said Harpalus.
“That’s why we’re having this conversation.”
“If Alexander’s getting this paranoid, the others will seek to take advantage of it.”
Eumenes nodded. “They already have. Meleager—”
“I heard. He’s been imprisoned.”
“You mean executed.”
Harpalus leaned against the battlements as though he’d been struck. “What? When?”
“Four nights ago. Back in Egypt.”
“Does Alexander even plan to announce it?”
“He’ll probably tell the army he died in a skirmish with Arab raiders or something—give him a grand funeral, lots of tears, a moving oration, all the usual trappings now he’s safely dead.”
“Safely?” Harpalus’ tone bordered on incredulity. “Meleager was the ultimate loyalist. He would never have—”
“I know. His downfall’s thanks to Craterus. Who saw his chance to rid himself of a rival, and used Alexander’s mindset to make it happen. So now he can put a more pliable man in command of the part of the phalanx that’s been left back in Egypt.”
Harpalus seemed to be struggling to absorb all of this. He gazed out at the ocean, slowly shaking his head. Eumenes almost felt sorry for him. Buried in his figures and charts, the treasurer had gradually lost touch with the intensifying pace of court-politics… had lost touch, too, with just how much the character of his boyhood friend Alexander had changed. Eumenes knew there was a time when Alexander and Harpalus had been inseparable. But the fantastic success visited on Macedonian arms had transformed everything. Harpalus looked back at Eumenes, his gaze hollow.
“So what happened out there?” he asked.
“We almost died,” said Eumenes.
“I mean, what happened when you reached the oasis.”
“The priests hailed him as Son of Zeus.”
Harpalus shook his head. “Zeus knows what he’d have done to them if they hadn’t.”
“And then he went inside the temple. By himself. No bodyguards, no nothing. No witnesses. We waited. And waited. To the point that we wondered whether the priests had been paid by the Athenians to kill him and ride hell for leather out the back door. And then, just as we were about to bust in ourselves, Alexander comes out looking like….” Eumenes trailed off, wondering how to phrase it.
“Like what?” asked Harpalus impatiently.
“Like a man who’s just been told his heart’s desire.” Eumenes thought it over. “But also… like a man who’s just had the surprise of his life.”
There was a long pause.
“And he was in there for the better part of an hour,” added Eumenes. “So if it was a revelation from Zeus-Ammon, it was rather a long one. Presumably fairly specific too.”
“Those damn priests. They could have said anything.”
“Assuming it was the priests.”
Harpalus mulled that one over. “But he didn’t tell you what the message was?”
“I’m not sure he’s even told Hephaestion. Whatever happened in there is between the prince and the gods. But he’s been acting stranger than ever in the weeks since. The paranoia, the moodiness, the drinking—”
“We might be able to piece some of it together,” said Harpalus.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Well. Doesn’t it strike you as funny that we’re here?”
“In Tyre?”
“Yes. In Tyre.”
Eumenes pondered this. Try as he might, he couldn’t see what Harpalus was driving at. “It’s a natural place to stop on the way back north. And Alexander was never a man to resist revisiting the scene of one of his greatest triumphs—”
“Right, but he captured this city so he could sacrifice at the temple of Melkart. That was the whole point, remember?”
There was no way Eumenes could forget. Melkart was the Phoenician incarnation of Hercules, who Alexander had idolized since boyhood. In the wake of Siwah, Eumenes had begun to suspect that identification might have become a literal one, though he hadn’t given it a tremendous amount of thought—largely because it seemed to be overshadowed by Alexander’s claim to be the son of the father of the universe. But now he found himself wondering if Harpalus knew something
he didn’t. Still, it didn’t add up.
“Melkart was just an excuse,” he said. “You know that as well as I do. Tyre was the headquarters of the Persian navy, which Alexander needed to neutralize—”
“Athens had already done a good job with that,” said Harpalus. “Back when she took Egypt from Persia, thirty years back. Persia only had a few ships left—”
“Where are you going with this?” asked Eumenes.
“The ambassadors from Carthage,” said Harpalus.
Eumenes nodded. He’d personally handled that particular problem. The Carthaginian ambassadors had been at Tyre for ceremonies to Melkart when Alexander sacked the place. It had made for a tricky diplomatic situation, since Carthage had been a Phoenician colony—founded by Tyre itself centuries ago. But Carthage had long since passed out of Tyre’s political orbit and become a major power in her own right—until Athens had subjugated her and made the city the crown-jewel of her western empire. Eumenes had suspected at the time that Alexander would have killed the ambassadors out of hand had they not technically been under Athenian protection—it would have meant war with Athens before he’d even finished with Persia. So the ambassadors had been permitted to leave Tyre unscathed. But somehow they were still in the picture.
“What about them?” he asked.
“They’ve been in contact with Alexander,” said Harpalus.
That drew Eumenes up short. “What?”
“Sending him gold. And African ivory. Which naturally went through the treasury—”
“Bribes?”
“Maybe. But they included correspondence. Which was sealed… but I have my ways.”
“Correspondence is supposed to go through my office,” said Eumenes, realizing even as he spoke the words just how petulant he was sounding.
“What can I say?” Harpalus spread his arms out. “Our prince likes to keep the left and right hands far apart.”
“But—what in Hades’ name did the correspondence say? What was the message?”
“They weren’t messages—they were maps.”
“Maps of what?”
“The location and layout of other temples of Melkart-Hercules.”
“He’s got temples all over the place. I could name several right now.”
The Pillars of Hercules Page 6