“Let’s get after that wagon,” snarled Matthias. Lugorix nodded.
“What in the name of all the gods are you guys doing?” yelled someone from a window.
“Killing Macks,” said Lugorix—next moment, he and Matthias were riding down the road the wagon had taken. The chariots had bought that wagon time—maybe enough to matter. Through the buildings the walls were becoming visible. They rounded a corner, and had to ride through people racing past them, doing their utmost to escape the Macedonian bombardment which was crashing down like rain all around them. Ahead of them was the end of the road—shots of fire streaking in and around the northwest barbican-fortress, a mass of towers and battlements that stretched across both inner and outer walls. But its interior gates lay open. The wagon charged inside.
“Come on,” said Matthias, as they galloped across the open ground toward the barbican. A huge stone smashed into the ground only a short distance away. Another impacted on the inner wall, sending pieces of the battlements tumbling into the city below. Still another projectile crashed onto the far side of the open ground, near some fleeing soldiers. It seemed to be some kind of vial—and where it had just shattered, a murky yellow gas arose. Lugorix didn’t feel like getting anywhere near it. And now those soldiers who had been caught within the growing cloud were suddenly writhing, clawing at their eyes, rolling over and over upon the ground as though they were possessed.
“Demons,” muttered Lugorix.
“Worse,” said Matthias. “Poison.”
They rode through the gate and into the fortress. Which was a madhouse. It was as though civil war had been unleashed within. They were in one of the courtyards; Lugorix found himself looking up at balconies, ramps and stairs. Men were fighting with each other everywhere. All wore the uniform of the Athenian army.
“Complicated,” said Matthias.
“There,” said Lugorix.
He gestured to the wagon, which had come to rest against the far wall. A door lay open nearby. Matthias and Lugorix rode over to the wagon. A quick look within ascertained that its drivers had fled with the contents. The two men headed through the door, found themselves in a corridor.
“They’ll be making for the outer wall,” said Matthias.
“Or helping let the rest of the Macks inside,” said Lugorix.
“Or both,” shot back Matthias. The corridor ended in a metal ladder. They started to clamber up it, Lugorix becoming increasingly unsure that they were on the right track. But all they could do was keep going. They could hear the noise of combat all around, but this route took them directly into the fortress’ rafters. They went up for what seemed to be at least a hundred feet—rather a long way when one didn’t know what was at the top of it. Finally they emerged onto a platform.
And their jaws dropped at the view.
Chapter Eight
Eumenes walked through the dirt-walled trenches. Macedonian soldiers raced past; those who noticed him saluted. All around were the noises of siege machinery: the clanking of levers, the whir of gears, the crackle of flame as missiles were set alight, the telltale whine as they were released, all of it multiplied by hundreds of times… the sound of impending death, a sound that all too often wouldn’t even be heard on the receiving end. Eumenes could only imagine what it would be like within Athens right now. All the more so as the city hadn’t been expecting this so soon.
For that matter, neither had he. Thanks to Philip, none of them had. The master-manipulator had once again shown why he was the ruler of them all. He’d talked a good game about the schemes to take down the Athenian Empire, the whole time brewing his own plan. Eumenes kicked himself for not anticipating it. The one thing that Philip was particularly proud of was his siege-train—something that was notoriously immobile, save for the few elite engineers who had accompanied Alexander east against Persia. Athens was Philip’s big chance to show the world what he’d been building. Egypt or not, Philip would have eventually struck at Athens. Everything they’d discussed in that meeting had been mere contingency planning.
Except, of course, it wasn’t.
Wheels within wheels, a convoluted chain of logic: for even if they captured the center of everything—even if they took Athens and raped its women, killed its men, sold its children into slavery… even if they won it all, there would still be the West to deal with. There were some empires where the capture of the capital spelled doom for the rest of the imperium. Athens wasn’t like that. After all, Persia herself had taken Athens only to have the entire population flee to the island of Salamis, from where they annihilated Persia’s navy. This time, the people could flee much further, on the backs of hundreds upon hundreds of ships. Without a navy to do the pursuing, the Macedonians were going to have to use the land. So one way or another, Alexander’s expedition would set forth.
But first Philip wanted to gain the greatest prize of all.
The trench through which Eumenes was walking gave way to a tunnel, which in turn led to a chamber carved out of the earth. Windows on the far side of that chamber served as viewing-slits to look out upon the ground between the siege-works and Athens. Several Macedonian officers were in the room, most of them standing around a table poring over charts showing firing angles and trajectory vectors. Alexander and Hephaestion stood in a corner, deep in conversation.
“My prince,” said Eumenes as he joined them.
As always, Hephaestion looked less than thrilled to have a third party enter a conversation between him and Alexander. Alexander, on the other hand, just looked tired. Dark circles were set under his eyes. The nightly drinking sessions had been picking up. That was one thing Eumenes was glad he didn’t get invited to—such parties could be dangerous, as Cleitus and Philotas had both discovered. Alexander had personally killed both men in the midst of arguments while everybody was deep in their cups. Eumenes found it hard enough to deal with his prince sober.
“We were wondering where you’d got to,” said Alexander.
“Your father detained me,” replied Eumenes.
Alexander smiled wanly. “Let’s hope that’s not literal,” he said.
“If it was, would he be here?” muttered Hephaestion.
“He wanted to talk with me about logistics for the march up the Danube,” said Eumenes.
Alexander glanced over his shoulder as though he was speaking too loud. “What about it?”
Eumenes handed Alexander a scrollcase. “All details in there, Alexander. Men, horses, equipment, machinery, food, supplies, everything.”
“What about intelligence on the local tribes?”
“We already have the data on that,” said Hephaestion, breaking in.
“You have the older figures,” said Eumenes. “That data has now been revised.”
“Revised?” asked Hephaestion. He looked incredulous; after all, it was his network of spies. “You mean the scouts and traders got it wrong?”
“No,” said Eumenes. “They got it right. It’s just that the tribal populations have changed.”
“Why the hell would they have changed?” said Hephaestion—and then broke off, as he realized that Alexander was laughing. Eumenes couldn’t help but smile; apparently Alexander had never bothered to mention this part of Philip’s plan to Hephaestion. Hephaestion managed a grin that fooled no one.
“What am I missing?” he asked.
“What do you know about the walls of Athens?” asked Alexander.
Hephaestion stared, not enjoying this Socratic exchange in the slightest. “They’re going to be a tough nut to crack,” he replied.
“How many Macedonian soldiers do you think will be killed storming them?”
“Too many,” said Hephaestion.
“Exactly,” said Alexander. “By definition, too many.”
There was a pause.
“And such soldiers are our scarcest resource,” added Alexander.
“Sure,” said Hephaestion, “so that’s why we use mercenaries—oh.” He broke off as he finally saw the p
oint—managed a broader grin this time. “Did you see them on the road, Eumenes?” he asked.
“In untold numbers,” replied the Greek.
The platform was roofed and made of stone, protruding out from the inner wall, allowing one to look over the lower, outer wall and at the plain surrounding Athens. Fire and smoke cut across the sky as more and more projectiles streaked in toward the city. The Macedonian siege-lines were dimly visible through the haze. The moat that surrounded the outer walls looked like a sea on which a storm was raging; as Lugorix watched, slabs of rock impacted around one of the Athenian warships in the middle of the moat—and then there was a crash as another landed directly on top the warship, sending pieces of meat and wood flying through the air, leaving nothing remaining of the ship.
“There,” said Matthias, pointing along the platform. Lugorix nodded—they ran to the end of the platform, started down some stairs that led along the underside of one of the arches that connected the outer wall with the inner wall. The steps were steep—and as the two men clambered in toward the inner wall, they could see that it had been swept of defenders, that now soldiers were raising the ramps and barring the grilled doors that gave way to the battlements on either side, effectively blocking off access from the top of the north and west walls to this corner barbican-fortress. Those soldiers wore Athenian uniforms, but so did the men who they were firing darts and arrows at through slits in the grilles.
“More Macks,” said Lugorix. “Trying to seal off this corner of the city’s defenses.”
“Let’s take ’em,” said Matthias.
“Thought we were here to find Barsine.”
“We need to let the Athenians in here or we’ll never reach her alive.”
Lugorix nodded. They reached the wall and turned toward the closest of the doors. Lugorix charged forward while Matthias halted and began firing arrows. They whizzed past Lugorix and buried themselves in backs.
The men holding the wall-gate turned, just as Lugorix reached them and swung Skullseeker, taking off two heads with the first blow. The Athenians on the inner wall just outside the barbican-fortress began cheering. The remaining Macedonians had their swords out and began swiping at the Lugorix, who used his axe to stave off their blows while Matthias kept on firing.
It wasn’t the first time the Gaul had trusted himself so totally to Matthias’ razor-sharp precision—an arrow passed so close to his head he could feel its breeze; blood sprayed against his face as that arrow found its target in a man’s throat. He used the space that bought him to step back and swing the axe again, curving it low, slicing through a leg, then pulling the blade back to block another flurry of blows aimed at his chest. He shouldered into the man opposite him, knocking him to the ground—kicking in his head as he brought the axe down on the rope that held the ramp to the rest of the inner wall up.
That ramp came down with a crash; the Athenians outside clustered forward, pressing up against the iron-wrought door, shoving their spears through the bars at the Macedonians battling Lugorix. That did it: the Macedonians fled, two of them leaping down to a platform just below the summit of the inner wall, a third racing to another staircase that led along the nearest arch, back up to the outer wall.
That last man was the only one to make it—Lugorix’s axe caught one of the men as he leapt to the platform; Matthias’ arrow hit the other in the leg, causing him to trip as he landed—stumble, fall screaming off into space. Even before he hit the ground, Lugorix was already opening the gate, letting in the Athenians, who charged past him and Matthais. An officer bringing up the rear stopped to acknowledge the two.
“What’s the situation elsewhere?” asked Matthias.
“The Macks are concentrating on this corner of the wall,” said the officer. “Just bombardment so far, but they obviously planned to open the barbican’s gates from within.”
“Still might,” said Lugorix. As he spoke, he was scanning along the structures around them, looking at all the gates and ramps and arrow-slits set into the walls. He realized that Matthias was doing the same—
“Zeus,” said Matthias, pointing. Lugorix followed his gaze, down to where a group of men had emerged from a small door at the very bottom of the inner wall, right against the moat. They looked like ants down there. But two of them carried a carpet-sized bundle.
“Must be them,” said Lugorix. Which was when a chorus of trumpets sounded from the Macedonian lines—followed by an almighty yell that echoed, intensifed, was taken up by far too many voices. The shouting carried in across the plain, but already the source of it was becoming visible.
“By Taranis,” muttered Lugorix.
“Here they come,” said the officer.
“I don’t believe this,” said Hephaestion.
“Believe it,” said Alexander. “It’s how the king thinks. Always in search of a bargain.”
That was putting it mildly, thought Eumenes. It was a truism that in war one used mercenaries for the dirty work, but this was taking that maxim to new heights. Philip’s recruiters had hired more than fifty thousand barbarians from the tribes of northern Thrace—had promised those barbarians first crack at ransacking Athens once they’d breached the walls, along with a hefty bonus for doing so, and all the loot they could haul out of there. Undoubtedly it was an offer that sounded great in the huts along the Danube—but in practice it meant that they were cannon fodder, intended to give the Athenian defenses something to shoot at besides the Macedonian machinery that would comprise the main thrust of the assault. And even if not a single one of them made it to the walls, that was still all to the good.
“The king has depopulated the entirety of the eastern Danube,” said Eumenes. “The figures are all in those scrolls, but it’s all the tribes. Triballians, Getae, Serdae, the lot: when we march through the region, we’ll face almost no resistance. Even if the barbarians manage to break down the walls of Athens, their numbers will be so thinned down as to be laughable.”
“Not a very sporting way to win war,” said Hephaestion.
“You don’t win wars by being sporting,” replied Alexander.
The room shook as though the place was being hit by an earthquake—a rumbling that became steadily louder. Alexander led Eumenes and Hephaestion over to the window-slit, the officers standing there stepping aside to let the three men through. The rumbling kept on building in intensity. It seemed to Eumenes like the sky was falling in—like the earth was about to swallow them all up. A vast shadow fell across the window.
The ground was black with men moving toward the walls—many of them pushing mantlets ahead of them for added security as they closed on the Athenian defenses. There were thousands of them, and they kept pouring out from behind the Macedonian lines, boiling up like ants whose nest had been disturbed. Battle-cries echoed across the plain, drifting among the listeners who stood atop the walls.
“Let’s move,” said Matthias.
They raced along the battlements and down the first staircase they came to. That led to a passage, which ended in a trapdoor—they hauled it open and clambered down a ladder as fast as they could, reached another passage that led along the very edge of the inner wall, past a series of arrow slits. Lugorix didn’t bother to look out those slits.
Matthias did.
“Fuck,” was all he could manage. Lugorix skidded to a halt, glanced out. At first he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was like the horizon itself had come alive, raised itself up toward the skies. Then his eyes focused.
Much as he wished they hadn’t.
“What the hell are those?” he muttered.
They looked like the titans themselves had returned to earth: gigantic man-shaped figures stalking across the landscape toward the city. There were three of them, the carpet of men around each parting as massive feet lifted into the air and shook the earth with their impact. Lugorix looked up at Matthias, his eyes wide with astonishment.
“They’re some kind of siege machinery,” said Matthias. “Probabl
y a few hundred mules in each one, with levers and gears to amplify everything. Look, their feet are hardly rising. What counts is forward momentum—”
“Don’t care how they’re doing it, said Lugorix. “I care about beating them to the bottom of the wall.”
There was a noise all around them like a thousand birds alighting. The Athenian defenses were swinging into action. They’d endured the bombardment in silence until now, waiting for the actual assault to start. As Lugorix dashed past more arrow-slits, the view blurred as the walls unleashed thousands upon thousands of projectiles of every shape and size. Moments later, the missiles began striking home, scything great swathes into the Macedonian onslaught. Lugorix caught a glimpse of a rock bouncing through the first wave of men, smashing them each time it made contact with the earth; he saw another projectile impact and detonate with a force that sent soldiers flying in every direction. The defenders were causing frightful damage to the oncoming infantry; the mantlets behind which that infantry was cowering didn’t seem to be having much effect on the stones heaping up such slaughter. But the gigantic machines were a different story. Lugorix saw huge bolts smash into the side of the foremost one—but it just kept coming.
Matthias stuck his head out an arrow slit. “Those Macedonians are at the edge of the moat,” he said. “Wait a minute—oh shit.”
“What?” asked Lugorix.
“They just got picked up by a ship.”
“Athenian?”
“It flies that flag. But I’m sure that’s about it.”
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