The Pillars of Hercules

by David Constantine

  Lugorix nodded. He and Matthias raced along the corridor and practically threw themselves down the stairs at the end of it. Now they were on another of those platforms; this one was enclosed, and contained several large bolt-throwers, each one positioned in front of a large aperture to allow for a wide field of fire. The quarter-mile wide moat glimmered beneath them. Flotsam scattered across the water testified to the relentless efficiency of the Macedonian fire. The ship was moving steadily away from the shore.

  “They’re getting away,” said Lugorix.

  Eumenes stared out at the plain. The Athenian defenses had timed it well—had waited till the oncoming assault had closed to a mere several hundred yards before they let them have it. The slaughter going on out there was frightful. But the Leviathans were continuing implacably toward the walls, shaking the ground with every stride, surrounded by a sea of barbarians that kept rippling outward to avoid those feet. For those mercenaries, the dilemma was palpable—cluster around the Leviathans for shelter, but not so close that you got stomped. The bolt-throwers atop the shoulders of the Leviathans fired back, but there was so much smoke hanging over the walls it was hard to see what was going on.

  “This’ll help,” said an officer, passing Eumenes a thin metal cylinder. And then, off his quizzical look—“they’re farseekers, my lord. Put it to your eye. You focus it by turning this dial.”

  Eumenes nodded. He understood now—he’d actually seen the plans for these earlier, back in Aristotle’s lab, though he hadn’t realized they’d already been constructed. It made him wonder just how much else had. Were the Leviathans a design of Aristotle as well? He lifted the farseeker to his eye, and suddenly his vision was transformed. Suddenly it was like he was at one with the object of his attention: as he scanned the plain, he could make out the fur worn by the barbarians—could make out their individual weapons, could see the blood that flew in all directions as a stone crashed down amidst them. Yet still those barbarians kept coming—more of them pouring in from the siege-lines with every minute. But this second wave simply looked more scared than savage—as though they were just as afraid of what lay behind them as the walls that sprawled ahead.

  “The Persians had whips at Thermopylae,” said Alexander, another farseeker in his hands. “To drive their masses into battle. We’ve got something even better.”

  Eumenes nodded. He’d seen the devices on the road into camp—gigantic bellows pumping toxic fumes at those who were about to charge, ensuring that they charged all the faster. The chemicals involved dissipated quickly into harmless smoke, though it was still taking one hell of a chance with the wind. But the barbarians thought they were dealing with the breath of dragons, and preferred a clean death on the walls of Athens to a last few minutes writhing on the ground and puking so hard one’s bones broke. Eumenes turned his attention back to the walls and focused the farseeker on the corner-barbican that the commandos inside the city were supposed to be capturing. Getting them in there had been no easy task; it had involved a great deal of captured weapons and armor from Egypt, not to mention plenty of bribery of various harbor-masters.

  Yet it didn’t look like they’d been successful. He could see Athenians clustered atop the battlements of both inner and outer walls, manning the siege engines that kept on firing out at the waves of mercenaries. He could see every detail of those siege-engines; as he watched, a steam-powered chain spun around a rotating drum, dropping bolt after bolt into that drum and flinging them out at high speeds. Just next to that was another device—just a piece of glass, it seemed, until Eumenes followed the direction it was pointing and saw barbarians literally catching fire as the sun’s concentrated rays hit them. He swung his farseeker back toward the wall, lowered it just enough to take in the moat.

  And stopped.

  “Alexander,” he said. “That ship—”

  “I know,” said the prince.

  “You should take another look,” said Eumenes.

  Matthias stared out at the ship that was making a beeline for the far side of the moat. He turned to one of the bolt-throwers, began loading it—slotted in an arrow-projectile easily half his own length, then pulled back some latches and—

  “Start winching,” he yelled to Lugorix. The Gaul stared for a moment, then bent to the task, letting his muscles pour tension into the super-attenuated strip of leather he was winding back. He kept on winding, till it seemed like the cord must snap—like any moment it would break and take his nose off in the process. Meanwhile, Matthias was busy slotting a rope onto the end of the bolt now encased within the machine. Lugorix suddenly realized what he was planning.

  “You are not serious,” he said.

  “If you’ve got a better plan,” said Matthias, “now would be a good time to name it.”

  Lugorix didn’t. So he just kept on winching—the resistance against him increasing until he could barely turn the screws any further. Matthias finished attaching the rope—looked up at him.

  “That’s enough,” he said, locking in the springs. “Now let’s aim this thing.” He moved behind the device and proceeded to rattle off a series of directions to a bemused Lugorix, who turned the contraption leftward on its hinges and shoved its nose downward in accordance with Matthias’ instructions.

  “Further left,” said Matthias. “No, a little bit more to the right. Okay, let’s pull up the nose. No, back a bit more the other way—”

  “Will you make up your mind?” said Lugorix.

  “I’m trying to allow for the speed of the ship,” replied Matthias, looking through the sites. “So shut up and move it downward. No, that’s too much. There—that’s it—now to the right… a little further. A little more…okay, here we go.”

  He pulled on a lever; there was a clanging noise and Lugorix cursed as the back of the machine slammed against him—the bolt hurtled away, trailing rope behind it, arcing down toward the lone trireme, finally burying itself in ship’s rigging. The rope sagged toward the ground, but the ship’s forward motion was drawing it ever more taut.

  “Let’s do this,” said Matthias—and before Lugorix could protest he leapt out the window and onto the rope, holding fast with his gloves and boots while he slid down it, rapidly rocketing away from Lugorix, dwindling as he closed in on the boat. For the first time in his life, Lugorix found himself hesitating. Facing down men and monsters didn’t worry him, but a few things did, and he suddenly realized that jumping from the wall of a besieged city onto an enemy ship was one of them. For a moment, he envisioned other members of his tribe beside him, mocking him; spurred by that impetus, he leapt out onto the rope.

  And hurtled downward. The wall shot away above him; he thought he was plunging directly toward the water and then he felt the rope above him, kicking like a living thing as it grew taut and he zipped in toward the boat. All around him was missile-fire: stones arcing down toward the fortress, bolts leaping up from the fortress… he caught a glimpse of that vast army steadily closing the distance between its ranks and the moat—those infernal machines towering above it, leading the way—and then in front of him was a sail and a mast and the stern of the ship, the latter filling his vision as he stretched out his legs and slowed, the rope burning against his gloves until he smelt smoke and leapt off, sprawling onto the deck.

  Matthias stood there, blade out, already hard-pressed by half a dozen men. But those men were too busy with Matthias to have spotted the approach of the second interloper—and even less prepared for the giant axe that started shearing through them as Lugorix waded in. They were taken completely by surprise—and before Lugorix knew it, those who were left were fleeing toward the front of the ship.

  Lugorix and Matthias headed to the stern to find the helmsman. Lugorix led the way as they hacked their way to the man’s side, Macedonians scrambling out of his path and leaping into the water.

  “What gives,” said the helmsman, who was clearly Athenian. The ship slowed momentarily as the rope went completely taut—and then the boat jolted for
ward again as that tether snapped altogether.

  “Who are you working for?” asked Matthias.

  “That’d be you,” replied the helmsman, eyeing Lugorix’s axe.

  “So turn this ship around.”

  The helmsman started to do just that—and ducked as a spear flew past his head, thrown by one of the Macedonians now regrouping further down the deck. Matthias and Lugorix ducked behind some barrels; Matthias unslung his bow, nocked an arrow and fired, catching a Macedonian in the chest. The rest of the Macedonians took cover behind the port forecastle.

  “It’s a stand-off,” muttered Matthias. “There’s more of them but they have to come to us.”

  “You sure about that?” asked Lugorix—gestured at the far bank of the moat. The foremost of the Leviathans had almost reached that bank. One of its arms hung limp at its side, and the rest of it was battered and dented, but as a fighting machine it was still very much intact. Ballistae and bolt-throwers were mounted atop it; a massive and unholy clanking emanated from within.

  “Zeus save us,” muttered Matthias as it crashed into the water and began striding toward them.

  Eumenes didn’t know which was more interesting: what was going on in the moat, or Alexander’s reaction to it. The prince’s attention was totally fixed on the struggle for the ship. Matters weren’t going according to plan—the Athenians had managed to get men back into the barbican, and now they’d done the same for the ship, which was turning around in the water even as a Leviathan bore down on it.

  The question was why the boat was so important in the first place. Eumenes didn’t know. What he did know was that he was looking at a plan known only to Alexander, Philip and Hephaestion. And maybe not even the latter… but as Eumenes studied the marshal’s body language, he realized the man was in on the secret for sure. Hephaestion wasn’t just responding to Alexander’s obvious tension. He knew something. Something specific, and it involved that boat which was rapidly becoming the center of everyone’s focus. For a brief, crazy moment Eumenes wondered if whatever was aboard was the whole point of the entire assault. But then he dismissed the notion as ridiculous.

  After all, nothing could be worth so much.

  The colossus strode through the water. The moat was deep, but nowhere near deep enough—the water came up to the machine’s waist, which kept on moving forward. A lone Athenian warship was nearby; crowded with archers and siege-engines, it unleashed a withering stream of fire—but the shots bounced harmlessly off the armor of the Leviathan. Next moment, the machine lowered one of its arms and unleashed a titanic jet of flame from nozzles set into its wrist. Fire enveloped the warship—men turned into screaming human torches leapt into the water. The burning ship drifted aside as the Leviathan bore down on its quarry.

  “Shit,” said Lugorix.

  Now that it was getting close, he could see the way in which its head had been built to look like a real one—eyes that looked down upon him, giant jagged teeth which decorated a mouth set into an awful leering grin. He could make out Macedonians manning bolt-throwers mounted on the monstrosity’s shoulder—they were firing at the battlements on the barbican. The ship kept on turning away from the oncoming Leviathan but it wasn’t turning fast enough.

  That was when the Macedonians aboard the boat rushed the stern. Matthias’ hands were a blur as he fired arrow after arrow. Lugorix waited till they were almost upon him before he emerged from cover and began laying about with Skullseeker, arcing the axe through the air in great strokes. The blade smashed through a man’s chest while the hilt splintered another’s teeth. But the Macedonians were veterans and pressed in regardless. Matthias stood off to the right, still firing arrows—now at the very rearmost point of the stern, and if anyone came any closer he’d have to drop the bow and draw his blade and make do as well as he could with it. Above them all towered the Leviathan, kicking up waves of such force that the boat was bobbing like a wooden cork. Hatches in the machine’s belly opened; through the Macedonians pressing in against him, Lugorix caught a glimpse of a rope dangling from the Leviathan, its end disappearing into the hold. Next moment, two Macedonians were being hauled up along it.

  Along with Barsine.

  She was kicking and screaming and all to no avail as she was hauled into the belly of the beast. Lugorix stepped forward, lopping the head off another Macedonian—continuing to hack about him with his axe, pressing his advantage until the Macedonians retreated back down the deck. There were only a few of them left now and they knew the game was up—they were leaping up to grab more ropes sidling down from the Leviathan. But whoever was driving the Leviathan had more pressing priorities. There was a clanking noise as the colossus lurched to the side, began turning around. Those Macedonians who had grabbed onto ropes found themselves swinging helplessly—two smashed against one of the machine’s legs and lost their grip, tumbling into the water. Another fell back onto the ship’s deck, his head splitting open like overripe fruit. But Lugorix was already sprinting past him and onto the ship’s prow. And as the Leviathan strode past them he did the one thing he could.

  Jump.

  He hurled himself against the monstrosity’s legs, managed to grab onto the edge of one of its armor-plates. He hung there for a moment, then began clambering up from plate to plate. The fact that the leg was in constant motion made that all the tougher. The Leviathan was now striding back the way it had come, and Lugorix could only wonder what the onlookers on the Athenian walls were thinking as it retreated toward Macedonian lines.

  Not that it was any less a target for the Athenian defenses. Projectiles and bolts streaked past Lugorix as he kept scrambling ever higher up the Leviathan’s leg. One hit the area where he’d just been with such force that he almost lost his grip. But then he was at the level of the machine’s waist. That was when he was spotted by some of one of the bowmen perched besides the siege-machines on the shoulder. The archer drew back his bow—only to be suddenly hit through the chest by an arrow fired by Matthias, standing on the ship’s deck and watching for just such a moment. The Macedonian fell back screaming and Lugorix breathed a sigh of relief.

  Only to suddenly find a hatch right beside him. An archer leaned out, drew a bead on Lugorix—who hurled himself forward, ducking under the arrow and grabbing onto the man’s arm, pulling himself into the hatch in one fluid motion even as he yanked the man out. Lugorix glanced back at the now-dwindling Matthias, gave him the thumbs-up sign and then continued deeper into the huge machine. He ducked low through some doorways—a soldier whirled to face him and Lugorix cut him down. Moving past the still-twitching corpse, Lugorix could hear plenty of activity coming from the next room. He peered on through.

  It took a moment to take it all in. He was looking at what was clearly the Leviathan’s central hub—a cavernous chamber that occupied what had to be almost the entirety of the machine’s chest cavity. Several wooden platforms were stacked on top of one another, and on on each of them was a massive horizontal wheel, each wheel being turned by slaves, each slave chained to his position on the wheel. Ropes and pulleys and cables were everywhere, all of them cranking and groaning as the wheels turned and the machine lurched onward. Slavemasters with whips and Macedonian soldiers with drawn swords ensured that the pace never slackened.

  Until Lugorix stormed forward.

  So stunned were the Macedonians that they barely even recognized they were under attack until several of their number had already been butchered. Lugorix was a barbarian possessed as he hacked at both cables and flesh; limbs and rope flew across the room as he fought his way forward. A slavemaster slashed at him with a whip—only to be suddenly pulled off his feet by the slaves nearby and gutted with his own dagger. Next moment, the slaves were using that dagger to cut themselves free. As slaves swarmed away from the object of their servitude, the Leviathan shuddered, stumbled—then leaned to one side, shuddered and stopped.

  But Lugorix didn’t. He strode forward, grabbed a wounded Macedonian, shoved him up against the til
ting wall.

  “Where’s the woman?” he growled.

  “Upstairs,” said the man—and those were his last words as Lugorix tightened his grip, crushed his windpipe before he whirled and began clambering up the stacked platforms. Slaves helped him up, cheering. Others were engaged in an orgy of destruction—smashing the wheels wholesale, seizing the weapons of their Macedonian overseers and using them to break open vats set along one of the walls. Black tarry pitch leaked out. A slave hurled a torch—just as Lugorix noticed tubes leading from one of those vats through the wall, in the direction of one of the arms. He remembered how the Leviathan had torched that Athenian ship to the waterline. But he made the connection a little too late.

  “Don’t do it,” he yelled.

  There was an explosion. Sheets of fire tore through the room. Flame began roaring up the platforms as slaves scattered through every exit they could find. Smoke billowed around Lugorix as he climbed through a hatch in the room’s ceiling and ran along a walkway. Two Macedonian guards tried to block his way—he ducked past their blades, and then sliced through them both with a single massive stroke. Blood went everywhere as he pushed past the still-twiching bodies and up some stairs.

  Straight into the control-chamber. A tilted view of the Macedonian siege-lines was dimly visible through two huge porthole-eyes; much closer was the edge of the moat. Levers and tubes filled the room, but whoever had been manning the controls had fled.

  Except for one man. The Leviathan’s captain stood in the center of the room, his eyes trained on Lugorix. He held a dagger in one hand, Barsine in the other.

  “Turn around,” said the captain.

  “And miss all the fun?” Lugorix’s tone was light but his mind was racing. This is where having Matthias around would have been useful. All he had was the axe. It could possibly be used as a throwing weapon in an emergency, but not as a precision one. Which meant he had absolutely no idea how to get Barsine out of this alive. As if realizing this, the captain laughed.