The harbor was still on the alert the night they left, but all the defenses were focused on keeping ships out, rather than on making sure they stayed in. Barsine gave the orders while Damitra piloted—Lugorix and Matthias kept watch on top, but their presence seemed almost superfluous as the Xerxes followed the route that Isocrates had given them, sneaking past a long line of triremes at anchor, and in between some sea-walls, then through a maze of those barely-submerged barricades and out the gate that was operated by Isocrates’ henchman.
By the time dawn broke, Matthias had gone below to get some rest. They were well out away from Athens now, but the summit of the Acropolis was still visible in the distance, as Barsine had given her lookouts a strange cylinder that magnified views. Lugorix had heard that commanders presiding over battles sometimes used magick snakes to inform them of all that transpired beyond their eye. Hadn’t Herodotus said Xerxes used such a creature at Salamis? Perhaps this cylinder was one of those snakes. With the right incantations, maybe it even reverted to snake like form in order to bite the enemies of whoever wielded it. Lugorix felt more than a little nervous putting it up to his eye.
“It won’t bite you,” said Barsine, climbing up onto the deck.
“Because I’m on your side?”
“Because it can’t.” She joined him at the rail, looking out at the fading city. “We’re leaving quite a mess back there.”
“But Alexander lost.”
“Macedonia lost. I doubt Alexander feels defeated.”
Lugorix said nothing. Such distinctions meant little to him. Besides, it felt like Barsine was standing beside him for a reason. Like she had something she wanted to say. Something she was only able to say now they were free of Athens. She cleared her throat.
“Thank you for saving me,” she said in the tone of a someone not used to thanking anybody for anything.
“That’s what you hired us for,” he said gravely.
“Nevertheless. You put your life on the line for me.”
“Why does Alexander want you so badly?” asked Lugorix.
For a moment her face did that thing that faces do when the mind behind them is trying to decide what to say. “He’s afraid of me,” she said at last.
“Why?”
“He knows that I could rule in Persia some day.”
“Despite what you said earlier?”
“What did I say earlier?”
“You’re a woman. So you can’t rule.”
“That makes it more complicated,” she admitted. “But you don’t have to be on the throne to rule.”
That felt closer to the truth. “In whose name would you?”
“Any suitable male member of the Achaemenid house.”
“But why you? What makes you so dangerous to Alexander?”
“Because I’ll stop at nothing to defeat him.”
It wasn’t an answer, and both of them knew it. Lugorix shifted gears. “So that assault on Athens—was it all aimed at you?”
“Nothing Alexander does is ever aimed at one thing. He always has multiple objectives. He’s nothing if not devious.”
“Just like you?”
To his surprise, she laughed. “Are all barbarians this impudent?”
“No,” he said.
“Is that why you left your village?”
“No.”
“So you still won’t tell me.”
Not for the first time, Lugorix felt baffled by this woman. “Why is it you want to know?”
“I owe you a blood-debt.”
“So?”
“So that’s not something a Persian noble takes lightly.”
“It really isn’t that big a deal.”
“I beg to differ.”
Uncomfortable as this woman made him, Lugorix was beginning to get annoyed. “Why should I tell you anything if you won’t tell me why Alexander wants you?”
She hesitated. “He wants me because…” She trailed off, looked uneasy. “I’m the only one who understands how to beat him. All the other members of my house are fighting for the scraps in the east. They’re all in Afghanistan, pinned down by Macedonian garrisons and skirmishers. I’m the only one who came west, to seek the weapons that will stop him. Weapons that Aristotle is the key to.”
“Did you persuade him to leave Macedonia’s service?”
“No. Macedonia’s own actions did that.”
“And you believe he knows how to build these weapons?”
“Yes,” she said. Lugorix mulled this over. He knew Barsine was still hiding something. It wasn’t even that she was telling lies—Persians were supposed to abhor lies. Barsine was telling the truth. She just wasn’t telling the whole truth.
Though two could play at that game.
“I was exiled from my tribe,” he said.
“Because?”
“They found me guilty of killing my parents.”
If that surprised her, she didn’t show it. “Did you?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“My brother.”
“He framed you?” Lugorix nodded, but now Barsine was looking skeptical. “You’re telling me the penalty for patricide and matricide is exile?”
“It’s his tribe’s ultimate punishment,” said Matthias.
They turned to look at him as he climbed onto the deck. He was swaying as he walked toward them, and it wasn’t just because of the pitching of the deck. As the smell on his breath amply confirmed.
“You’ve been drinking,” said Barsine.
“Some wine I took from Demosthenes’ place. Good stuff.”
“So drink below. I’m talking to Lugorix.”
“Who happens to be my friend.”
“Which is why you need to back off,” said Lugorix. “We’re talking about my parents.”
Matthias’ expression was that of a hurt dog. “You and I have talked about that before.”
“Not while only one of us was sober.”
“Don’t do this to me,” said Matthias.
“Do what?” Lugorix was aware the situation was getting volatile, but he wasn’t sure precisely why. Matthais knew all about his family—should have known better than to barge in on a conversation about them. But then he saw the way the inebriated Greek was looking at Barsine, and he understood all too well.
As did Barsine.
“It’s time I cleared up any misconceptions,” she snapped. “This isn’t like in the stories. I’m not a fairytale princess. I’m a real one. I’m a daughter of the royal house of Persia. I’ve hired both of you for your services, in return for which I will deliver you two talents apiece in silver when I get my hands on Aristotle. Is that clear?”
From the expression on Matthias’ face, it was all too clear. He turned and stalked off, climbed back down the hatch. Lugorix sighed. Then met Barsine’s gaze.
“So are we kidnapping Aristotle?” he asked.
“That won’t be necessary. He and I will see eye to eye.”
“Just because he ran from Macedonia doesn’t mean he’ll work to defeat her. He may just want to keep a low profile.”
“I had in mind an offer he can’t refuse.”
Lugorix looked scornful. “You really think he needs money?”
“Who said anything about money? The only currency that means anything to a mind like that is information. That’s how you bait his kind of hook. And we don’t have much time: as soon as Alexander finds a chink in the armor of Athens’ empire, the whole edifice will come apart at the seams. By the way, what is it about your friend that makes him such an asshole?”
It took Lugorix a moment to register the switch of subjects. “I prefer the term troublemaker.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“His father was a builder by trade and a wrecker by nature. Matthias ran away to sea when he was fifteen but he tried to seduce the captain’s wife. So he enrolled in the Athenian marines, but they threw him out for insubordination. So he joined the mercenaries. That’s where
I met him.”
“And you’ve been inseparable ever since,” said Barsine sardonically.
Lugorix shrugged. “He’s my friend.”
“Even though he lacks all social graces?”
That made Lugorix laugh. “You think I have them?”
“That’s different. What makes you so close?”
The question annoyed Lugorix. How was he supposed to explain it? We’re soldiers. We’ve saved each others’ lives. We’ve fucked whores side by side. “We’re both exiles,” he said.
She stared at him for a long moment. “I know the feeling.”
From his perch atop the bluff overlooking the Danube, Eumenes could see at least half the army, a carpet of men and beasts extending along both sides of the sloped banks, with barges and warships moving in stately procession between them. The occasional elephant was visible—there were eighty in all. Cavalry outriders patrolled along the hills, keeping a watchful eye on the endless treeline beyond. For the last several days they had been moving ever further into terra incognita. The army was watchful in a way it hadn’t been during the initial, downstream portions of the river. All the tribes in that area had been decimated beneath the walls of Athens—and now what was left of them had either offered submission or fled into the vast northern forests. There was of course no pursuit; Alexander knew better than to chase stragglers into those tractless woods, beyond the edge of the known world.
Which didn’t mean that one couldn’t make some deductions about what was out there. Scouts were well out ahead of the columns, in some cases many miles up. Eumenes had spoken with a trader last night who had talked with other merchants who dealt in amber; that trader claimed to have conversed with a man who had walked along a coast far to the north and looked out upon an ocean littered with giant chunks of hardened sea. Those were his exact words. To Eumenes, such claims seemed a sure sign that the man was lying through his teeth—one more tall tale to throw in there with all the ones about dragons and monsters. But the notion of a coast on the other side of all these forests made sense—or at least, it accorded with the theories of the geographers that the world that encompassed the Mediterranean was in turn surrounded by the Okeanos—the world-ocean. So Eumenes had scrupulously recorded the babblings of that trader, the same way he kept detailed notes of all such conversations; not just from an intelligence-gathering perspective, but also with a more long-term goal in mind, for once Athens was defeated, what else would be left save exploration and the pushing back of the frontiers of the unknown?
But at least for now they were on the move. Out of benighted Pella and godforsaken Macedonia. Eumenes had hated every day he’d spent there in the aftermath of the attack on Athens. For the sake of appearances, he’d even had to stay with his wife. Artonis: it had been years since he’d seen her, and he hadn’t missed her for a day. She hadn’t either, from the looks of it. She was the daughter of one of the Macedonian barons; their marriage was purely political, and all her servants were spies for one faction or another. Being with her was like being an actor in a play; one wore a mask and performed one’s role. Eumenes’ was to tell her all about his adventures while god knows how many other ears hung on every word and she asked ever more probing questions about Alexander. He knew better than to give her honest answers.
The fact that he didn’t know those answers himself made it easier. When one was with someone every day, one could lose track of how they were changing. They could become a different person under your eyes, and if they did it gradually enough you’d never even notice. Eumenes had followed Alexander into Asia because he’d believed him to be a man of destiny. But now the prince didn’t even seem to think he was a man. And yet Eumenes owed him everything—for Alexander had been the first to see his ability, and had promoted him above the heads of jealous Macedonians until Eumenes administered the nerve-center of a mobile empire larger than any the world had ever known. And if he knew a growing disquiet about his master, well, surely he wasn’t the first servant to have known that…
A shout plucked Eumenes from his reverie. He whirled in his saddle to catch a glimpse of Macedonian soldiers riding through a gully about a quarter mile away, closing on a pocket of woods, moving like hunters who had just picked up a scent. Automatically, Eumenes gripped the reins and rode down after them—conscious in so doing that he was now out of sight of the rest of the army, entirely within the purview of the perimeter-patrols that were now converging on a particular area of the forest. He heard more shouts, and then the unmistakable clang of steel on steel.
Combat.
Eumenes knew he ought to turn around and ride back to the river. But it was a long while since he’d gotten close to the action—in fact, he hadn’t seen combat since the pitched battles in Persia. Almost without thinking, he spurred his horse among the trees, saw mounted tribesmen closing from both directions. And then all at once they were on him—he twisted in his saddle to avoid a descending blade, then sheared off the man’s face with a sudden backhanded swipe of his sword. The tribesman fell to the ground screaming and Eumenes’ horse trampled him, before careening straight into the steed of yet another tribesman. This time the distance was too close for Eumenes’ sword—but not the tribesman’s dagger which sliced into Eumenes’ armor and stuck there. Even as the tribesman tried to pull it free, Eumenes was dragging that man from the saddle, hurling him onto the ground, where another Macedonian ran him through with a spear. More Macedonians rode past.
But now Eumenes reined his steed in, drew it up short. If this skirmish was the first part of a larger attack, then his responsibility was to be back with Alexander, not out beyond the edge of the perimeter. Catching his breath, he stared down at one of the dead barbarians. The blood that obscured the man’s features couldn’t mask the fact that this didn’t look like any tribesman Eumenes had seen. He wore thick furs of some animal Eumenes didn’t recognize; his legs were practically bowed from spending so much time in the saddle. There were strange tattoos up and down the man’s arms. The shouts and screams up ahead were receding: the tribesmen were drawing off, galloping back into the forest. And Eumenes could see why, for their quarry had eluded them: another rider bolted in amidst the Macedonian cavalry—a Macedonian courier, the one who the tribesmen had been chasing.
“Thank the gods,” he muttered. “They almost had me.”
“Forest must be full of the buggers,” said someone else. A chorus of questions followed, but then—before Eumenes could intervene—the voice of an officer barked above the clamor: “In Zeus’ name, let’s get him to the river. Those bastards could be back at any moment.”
Soldiers saluted as the officer designated one patrol to keep covering this section of the forest while the other escorted the courier back to the Danube. Eumenes cantered in among that second patrol—there were more than a few eyebrows at suddenly finding one of Alexander’s top lieutenants right in their midst. In short order, Eumenes was riding alongside the courier.
“My lord,” said the man as he spotted the general’s stripes on Eumenes’ shoulder.
“You have correspondence?”
“From Pella. The king. A satchel of papers.”
“Then why in Hades did you ride through the forest? Why not just follow the army up the river?”
The messenger looked sheepish. “I was taking a short-cut. Between bends in the river.” He caught sight of the look that Eumenes was giving him. “We were told the eastern part of the forest was clear!”
Eumenes kept his voice level. “By who?”
“The fleet captains back on the Black Sea.”
“Who are safe back on their boats at the coast. And can thus indulge in such fantasies. Next time, stay within sight of the river.”
“My lord.” They rode out onto that river bank, the columns of marching infantry parting to let them through. The messenger’s eyes went wide as he saw the fleet arrayed out on the river—his eyes focused in particular on the massive octere that was Alexander’s eight-leveled flagship, altho
ugh it wouldn’t retain that status for much longer. Soon the deeper-keeled warships would have to turn back, and the fleet would rely ever more heavily on the barges, some of which were bigger than the warships, and crammed with men and horses and supplies.
Most of the boats were far smaller, of course. Eumenes glanced at the skiff that was now reaching the shore; barely larger than a typical fishing vessel, and manned by three Macedonian sailors. They helped the courier in; Eumenes climbed aboard as well and they rowed out to Alexander’s flagship.
So far Alexander had spent all his time there. He hadn’t even bothered to go ashore; indeed, neither had any of his high command, which was why Eumenes had felt compelled to check out conditions shoreside for himself. Now he was returning to the flagship with a messenger from Philip, which struck him as more than a little ironic. Eumenes wondered what that messenger carried. Hopefully not orders. That might be awkward. Alexander had made it all too clear that he regarded himself as his own law out here. But the messenger was evidently carrying something of importance—his sealed satchel testified to that. Eumenes led the weary courier up a lowered ramp and onto the deck of the flagship, past bodyguards, beneath folded sails and between rows of ballista—and then into the pavilion-tent that occupied the entirety of the rear portion of the deck. This was Alexander’s command center.
Which also meant it was a lounge and drinking-parlor. Alexander had been holed up in here with Hephaestion for the last few days, his mood darkening the further up the Danube they got. Eumenes had been trying to stay clear of him, which wasn’t easy. But that was one of the reasons why he’d gone to the shore earlier—obstensibly to conduct a personal inspection of the vast moving city that was the Macedonian army, but also to stay out of Alexander’s hair. Eumenes entered the pavilion to find the prince and Hephaestion and two officers playing dice on a table littered with charts and maps.
“So what’s this about a skirmish on the shore?” asked Alexander.
“Scythians,” said Eumenes.
The reaction to that made him want to laugh. It was as though he’d tossed a burning brand into the center of the pavilion. No one wanted to hear that one of the fiercest tribes in existence—right up there with the Amazons themselves—was on this part of the Danube. Scythians were supposed to be way out in the steppes. Everyone stared at Eumenes—everyone except Alexander, who just looked like he’d been expecting this.
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