“Wait a second,” said Matthias, “what the hell is that supposed to—”
“She doesn’t care,” continued Lugorix. “Not in the slightest. Persians and Athenians fought wars for almost all of last century. She’s simply interested in defeating Alexander.”
“I’ve made no secret of that,” said Barsine.
“You think all Asia should be ruled by your people,” said Lugorix. “By a single Persian king.”
“He’d dead now,” snapped Barsine. “His traitor brother sits on a false throne.”
“Sure,” said Lugorix. “But even if Athens stops Alexander, how does that free Persia?”
“Alexander is going to throw the bulk of his and his father’s power against Athens,” said Barsine. “Break that power, and you break Macedonia. And as soon as Macedonia loses its ability to control my homeland, tens of thousands of Bactrian cavalry will sweep into Persepolis and Babylon.”
“And put you on the throne?” asked Lugorix.
She smiled, but her eyes held Lugorix in a way that made him feel like a mouse gazing at a bird of prey.
“Females cannot rule in Persia,” she said.
“And magi can’t be female either,” said Lugorix.
That made her laugh. “Look at me,” she said. “I’m just nineteen.” Laughing now, she looked younger than that, but Lugorix wasn’t fooled: this was a girl who’d had to grow up fast. “I can’t rule Persia and I can’t lead my people. But I can do my best to save them.”
“And where do we fit in and how much are we getting paid for it?” asked Matthias.
She stared at him in disgust. “Money is all mercenaries ever think of, no?”
“It’s easy for rich girls to say money doesn’t matter,” replied Matthias.
“You’ll get paid,” said Demosthenes. “In silver.”
Matthias’s face was the picture of indignation. “We were told in gold!”
“But you weren’t told how much.”
“Oh?”
“We’ll give you and your friend two talents apiece.”
Lugorix and Matthias looked at him open-mouthed. A silver talent was a decade’s wages. Demosthenes was offering them enough to retire on. Which led to the natural question—
“In exchange for what?” asked Lugorix.
“Accompanying me and Damitra to Syracuse.”
That took Matthias aback a little. “That’s all? We escort you to Sicily, and get two talents each?”
“It’ll be dangerous,” said Demosthenes.
“Any sea voyage is,” said Lugorix, thinking of the journey from Syracuse to Egypt he’d made less than a year before. The Athenian recruiters who’d hired him at Massilia in the south of Gaul had herded him and the other newly hired tribal mercenaries into the holds of great grain transports that had reached the coast of Sicily after four days of choppy sailing down the boot of Italy. Half a day after that, they pulled into Syracuse’s aptly named Grand Harbor. At that point in his life, Lugorix had never seen a city so big—even now it remained the third largest he’d laid eyes on, after Alcibidia and (of course) Athens. From there, the haul to Egypt was about another week. He guessed it would be a little less time trying to reach Syracuse from Athens—
“I’m not referring to the voyage,” said Demosthenes. “That should be simple enough.” He pointd to the map. “From here around the Pelopponese, and then a straight run to Megale Hellas. Probably make landfall in Tarentum, on the boot of Italy. And then from there to Syracuse.”
Lugorix’s brow furrowed. There was something about all this that wasn’t quite adding up for him. “If you want to fight Alexander, shouldn’t we be remaining in Athens?” he asked. “If Alexander overruns the city, it’s all over anyway.”
“He might try,” said Matthias. “But I think he knows he won’t succeed.”
Lugorix shook his head. “Won’t succeed and Alexander are words that don’t go well together. Didn’t they say Tyre couldn’t be taken?”
“Athens isn’t Tyre,” said Matthias.
Demosthenes cut in. “In terms of physical defenses, that’s certainly true. The moats of Athens are half a mile wide, and patrolled by the latest ironclad dreadnaughts. The walls are lined with rapid-fire bolt-throwers and sulphur-fueled flamethrowers. Each tower contains lenses that concentrate the sunlight into rays capable of frying flesh at a distance of more than two miles.”
“Doesn’t mean Alexander can’t find way his through,” said Lugorix.
“I’m not disputing that—”
But Lugorix was still talking: “Particularly how good he is at locating the weakest point in any defenses.”
“Which in this case is the defenders themselves,” said Barsine.
“Now that is the primary danger,” admitted Demosthenes. “It was Alexander’s own father who once said that he could take any fortress as long as he could get a donkey carrying enough gold up to the gates. And much as I’d like to say that donkey will be flash-broiled long before it gets near the city-gates, you’re right: Macedonian deployment of Persian money carries as great a risk here as it did in Athens. But that’s all the more reason for speed in your mission.”
“Especially because you’re all missing the point,” said Barsine, gesturing at the map. “The fortress isn’t Athens. The fortress is the Athenian Empire itself. I know how Alexander thinks. Like the Gaul says, he’s adept at finding weak points. His attack will develop on the periphery of the empire and move inward from there.”
“But why would he strike at Syracuse?” asked Lugorix. “It’s on an island.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say he’s targeting Carthage,” said Barsine. “It’s brewing with unrest these days, particularly now that the Baal cults are active again.”
“So why don’t we go there instead?”
“Because we need to go meet somebody in Syracuse.”
Matthias and Lugorix looked at each other. “Are you kidding me?” asked Matthias.
“What’s wrong?” asked Demosthenes.
“Off to meet another mysterious stranger?” said Lugorix.
“Who we get kept in the dark about for as long as possible?” muttered Matthias.
“No need to be so bitter,” said Demosthenes. “Barsine didn’t know if she’d be able to contact me. She didn’t even know if I was still alive. Nor did she know if she could trust you.”
“So who do we need to meet in Syracuse?”
“Someone who is the key to defeating Alexander,” replied Demosthenes.
Matthias scoffed openly. “Who is this superman? Zeus himself?”
“Not quite,” said Barsine. “His name is Aristotle.”
Chapter Six
Pella had changed.
Its numbers had swelled considerably in the time Eumenes had been away. It was still far from the equal of an Athens or a Babylon, to be sure, but more of the swamp around the town’s core had been filled in to make room for the sprawl of city-blocks, all of them laid out in those sterile grids that the kings of Macedonia favored. Eumenes had always seen such rigor as over-compensation—an attempt on their part to prove they weren’t barbarians, that they were proud members of greater Greece. Of course, no sane Greek would have built a city in these marshes, but that was the Macedonians for you. And there were far more defenses in evidence now—a bona fide city-wall, punctuated by the occasional tower. Not really enough to withstand a truly serious siege—but then again, Pella wasn’t a city which expected to ever have to undergo a serious siege. Its invincible armies would see to that.
Yet it was what hadn’t changed that Eumenes found most disconcerting. The city still didn’t feel like an imperial capital. It didn’t even have the vibe of a provincial town. It still felt like an artificial creation—as though the word of a king had established it by fiat, and forced the dwellers in the countryside around it to move within. All around him, Eumenes saw people who looked like they’d be a lot happier on a farm or behind a plow. They glanced up as Alexander’s cavalcad
e thundered past, but it wasn’t clear they realized who they were staring at. There was certainly no cheering.
Which worried Eumenes. These people did what they were told—they thought what they were supposed to think, and their lack of reaction meant that Philip hadn’t given them any cues—hadn’t arranged for any kind of welcoming committee. Certainly nothing worthy of a conquering general, let alone his son.
Ahead, the road narrowed. They rode onto the bridge that connected the city to the palace—a bridge that was essentially a promontory that stretched out into the lake that pressed up against Pella on the south. An inlet led from that lake to the Thermaic Gulf, but it had been filled up long ago, given Macedonia’s lack of anything resembling a navy. The last thing Philip needed was a bunch of warships sailing right into his own backyard and beaching under the walls of his palace.
And it was one hell of a palace.
In a sense, it was the imperial city that Pella wasn’t. The bridge ended in giant gates set into a huge wall—but now those gates rolled aside with a creaking shudder to reveal a vaulted archway, the walls of which were covered with so many torches that made the interior almost as bright as the day outside. Guards stood on balconies lining the archway, looking down at Alexander as he and his entourage rode beneath them. No one saluted him. No one even acknowledged him. It didn’t seem to bother Alexander in the slightest. He led the procession into a courtyard, where rows of retainers awaited them. The court chamberlain stepped forward, bowing, his words stiff with studied formality.
“Sire,” he said. “Your king is expecting you.”
Eumenes’s eyes narrowed. Your king. Not your father. Again, it didn’t seem to ruffle Alexander. He just gave the chamberlain an easy smile.
“So take us to him,” he said.
Having said this, he dismounted, his retinue following suit. The chamberlain led the way; Alexander walking just a step behind him, with Hephaestion, Ptolemy and Eumenes trailing in his wake. Eumenes doubted that any more than that would have been acceptable to Philip. More guards awaited them at the throne room’s antechamber—their uniforms those of Philip’s personal bodyguard. The chamberlain turned.
“Sire,” he said. “We need you to surrender your weapons.”
That got Alexander’s attention. But his voice remained calm: “Since when was that a Macedonian custom?”
“You’ve been away a long time, sire.” The chamberlain looked more than a little uncomfortable. Eumenes almost felt sorry for him. But he recognized the predicament they were all in now. He had his own sword at his side, but he didn’t surrender it. None of them did. They were all waiting for a sign from Alexander—who was in a delicate position. It was unthinkable that a Macedonian should be asked to surrender his weapons. To go before his father without a sword under those circumstances was tempting fate to its very edge. But the alternative was even worse. Civil war was one thing. But right now Alexander was hundreds of miles from any soldiers loyal to him save the few men back in that courtyard—who were probably being disarmed right now. All this must have flashed through Alexander’s mind in an instant, because that was all the time he needed to decide what to do.
“Keep these safe for us,” he said, unstrapping the blade with which he had carved his way across Persia. He doffed his ram’s-head helmet too, took off his breastplate. Eumenes, Hephaestion, and Ptolemy followed suit. And then the doors opened, and they were led into the throne room.
Which was even larger than Eumenes remembered it. Apparently more walls had been knocked down in order to expand the room still further. It was as though the invalid master of Macedonia could only keep pace with his son’s conquests by expanding the domain of his private chambers. Granite pillars held up the mosaic-encrusted ceiling. Banners on which were emblazoned the royal lion of Macedonia hung from mammoth cantilevered arches that loomed overhead. Alexander and his three companions walked silently toward a massive throne set on a dais against the far wall. Guards stood to either side of that chair. The figure who sat on it was lost in shadow.
Though his voice was not.
“I understand you have a new father now,” he said.
Alexander said nothing. Just kept approaching that throne—which was another new addition. It looked like it was carved from a single giant tree, its arms spreading out like gnarled branches. Alexander walked toward it, trailed by his ever-more-nervous comrades. The guards around the throne were on edge too. They stepped forward to bar his way.
“That won’t be necessary,” said the voice. Its owner shifted in his chair, his face catching the light of the nearest torch. Eumenes drew in his breath even as Alexander halted on the very edge of the dais. He knew Philip had changed, he just hadn’t realized how much. The man who sat in that throne was a mountain of muscle gone to fat, his body mute testimony to a lifetime of battle-wounds. Ten years ago, the arrow of a Thracian archer had taken out one eye, shattering the cheekbone and giving the king the look of a demented cyclops. Five years after that, two fingers had been lost to a Theban cavalryman whose head was severed from his body in the very next moment. But the crowning injury was that which Philip had sustained beside the river Granicus, in Asia Minor—only six months into his Persian foray, fighting the combined forces of the western satraps. The blow of one of those satraps had knocked him to the ground; the blow of another had cut through his spinal column and left him paralyzed from the waist down. But the Macedonian phalanx had swept all before them anyway. Two hours later, Philip was carried off the field of his greatest victory—in no small part thanks to the heroics of his son, who personally killed one of the satraps and stood over his father’s prostrate body while the battle raged on about them. That had been the pinnacle of their partnership. After that, Alexander had been tasked with continuing the war against Persia while his crippled father returned to Macedonia. In retrospect, it was a no-win situation. If Alexander lost, so did Macedonia. But if he won, then he would surpass his father, even while his father still sat on his throne.
Yet now the prince went down on one knee before the king.
“Rise,” said Philip tonelessly. “Come closer.” Wordlessly, Alexander did so. Eumenes and the others remained kneeling, watching as Philip reached out for his son, who leaned down and embraced him. Was this all for show? Eumenes had no idea whether one of them was about to try to strangle or stab the other.
But then Alexander stood up and took a few steps backward. Philip looked over his son’s shoulder at the three men he’d brought with him. He greeted each of them by name. Each of them knelt, addressed him as lord and king. For a moment, the years swept away—for just a moment, Eumenes was a child again, being introduced by his long-dead father to Philip at a banquet filled with Macedonian nobles. Philip had been in his twenties then—a bull of a man more impressive than anyone Eumenes had ever met. He remembered that almost palpable sense that this was a being for whom anything was possible.
But then he rose and beheld the ruined king before him.
Philip turned toward his son. “I understand Harpalus is no longer in our service,” he said.
“He was a traitor,” said Alexander. “In league with Carthage.”
“In league with me, you mean.”
Alexander said nothing.
“That’s what you thought, isn’t it? That’s why you killed him.”
“He was in league with Carthage,” repeated Alexander.
“I hope somebody is,” said Philip. “Because unless we reach a deal with them, it’s going to be very difficult to finish what you started down in Egypt.”
“I’ve given you a great victory,” said Alexander.
“You’ve given yourself a great victory.”
“All I’ve conquered is in your name.”
“I summoned you so we could talk frankly and this is the prattle you spout?”
“What would you have me say?” asked Alexander.
Philip’s hands shook. Spittle dribbled down his beard, and he wiped it away. His eyes gle
amed. “I’d have you admit that there’s such a thing as winning a battle but losing a war.”
“I don’t intend to lose a war with Athens.”
“Executing your competent subordinates is an excellent way to ensure you do. First Meleager, then Harpalus—who’s next?”
“I was thinking you had in mind me.”
Philip smiled grimly. “In truth, it had crossed my mind.”
“Although then you’d have no general able to command your armies.”
The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Eumenes knew what both were thinking. Parmenio: Philip’s best friend and most trusted general. Eumenes recalled the king’s words—“the Athenians elect ten generals every year, but in all my life, I only ever found one.” Parmenio had been the king’s right-hand man across his consolidation of greater Macedonia—but he’d died in a skirmish mere days before Granicus. Had he lived, the rest of the Persian expedition would almost certainly have been entrusted to him, and Philip wouldn’t have had to rely so exclusively on his son. Then again, the secret to Parmenio’s success had been his caution—something that Alexander had thrown to the winds in his conquest of Persia. Parmenio might never have achieved so much. Certainly Parmenio would never have struck at Egypt and triggered a war with Athens without Philip’s leave.
Which was, of course, the whole point.
“Harpalus wasn’t my spy,” said Philip.
“Then who was?”
“You’re assuming I had one.”
“Of course you did.”
Philip nodded. “Look at the man standing next to you,” he said.
“What?” Alexander looked at Eumenes for a brief moment—Eumenes frantically shook his head, but Alexander was already looking past him at—
“Ptolemy,” said Philip.
What happened next was almost too fast for Eumenes’s eyes to follow: Alexander whirled toward Ptolemy and felled him with a punch to the jaw that sent him sprawling. He was about to leap on the fallen man when—
“Enough,” said Philip. And such was the force of his voice that Alexander stopped, looked at his father with an expression of smoldering rage. The guards on either side of the king gripped their spears, but Philip seemed to find the whole thing amusing. “It’s almost refreshing to see that you’ve still got weaknesses,” he said. “And yet: how many times have I told you that your emotions are akin to the reins of a chariot? You either hold them tight or else you’ll be undone. Perhaps by being blind to truths beneath your very nose.”
The Pillars of Hercules Page 9