Or else he’d die trying.
Chapter Seventeen
Perdiccas stared out at the waves.
It was the fleet’s first night out of Carthage, heading east toward Sicily, and that star was about to rise in the west like some kind of demented sun. The Macedonians were nervous enough already. They’d thought the desert was as bad as it got, but that was before they got out on the ocean. All these theories about Athenian seamanship and shipbuilding and maritime tradition were all very well, but the fact of the matter is that the Macedonians just didn’t like the ocean. Yet to win this war they were going to have to beat it.
Which is what they were attemping to do now, thanks to Carthage and its newly revitalized fleet. Perdiccas would have liked to take credit for the alliance with the Phoenicians, but that was really due to Alexander and Craterus. Their back-channel diplomacy been a phenomenal success—not only had it helped engineer a coup that substantially weakened Athenian power, but it had also managed to give Macedonia an ally. A naval ally, no less.
There was just one problem: ultimately, Macedonia didn’t want allies.
She wanted subjects.
Perdiccas stood on the prow of the transport-barge, looking out into the gathering dark. They would need to do it before the comet rose and the light grew too great. Ahead of him he could barely make out the stern of the Carthaginian galley that was towing his vessel, surging up and down as it crashed through the waves. More barges were visible off to each side, each one packed with Macedonian soldiers. Those soldiers were intended for action against Syracuse, which was where this fleet was bound.
But they were to be put to the test much sooner.
Perdiccas signalled the man beside him, who nodded—opened and closed the shutter on the lantern he held in rapid succession. Perdiccas then turned to the other soldiers around him.
“Let’s go,” he said.
A soldier saluted, handed him a wheeled device about the size of a helmet. Perdiccas slotted it onto the rope that connected the barge with that warship up ahead. Then he gritted his teeth and climbed over the side, gripping the contraption with both hands while looping his feet over the rope, clinging to it a scant few meters above the ocean. One of the soldiers leaned out and adjusted the machine that its inventor, Aristotle, had called a pulley.
“Not sure it’s working,” he said.
“It’s working,” said Perdiccas, releasing a catch—and suddenly he was being hauled at speed out over the roaring ocean; the last he saw of the barge was a second man climbing over the side to take the place he’d just vacated. Perdiccas could have just ordered someone to lead the assault, too, but the thought of Craterus sneering at him from the afterlife quashed any such notion. Lead by example—that was the code of the Macedonian general. Was not Alexander always in the forefront of any battle? All these thoughts flashed in an instant through Perdiccas’ head as he zipped along the rope, the sky overhead and waves all around, their spray flashing across him—and then suddenly he was slowing down, the counterspring deploying as the Carthaginian galley loomed ahead of him. He stretched out his feet and made contact, then scrambled over and onto the deck, drawing his blade as he did so.
Only two men stood at the helm, and they both stared at him as though he were a phantom emerging from the sea. Which wasn’t too far from the truth: Perdiccas decapitated the first with a single swipe and stabbed the other through the midriff, holding his mouth shut to stop him from screaming while he lowered him to the deck. Next instant the Macedonian solder who had followed him was climbing over the railing—and reaching into his satchel to pull out iron and flint, striking the one against the other to produce sparks and using those sparks to light the torch carried by the third soldier to arrive. As soon as that torch was flaring, Perdiccas led them forward to the ship’s mast, hacking two more men to bits while the torch-wielder set fire to the sails.
Which was like kicking a hornets’ nest. All of a sudden all the Carthaginian sailors who had been below deck taking their evening meal came pouring out to deal with the fire. But Perdiccas and his two soldiers weren’t waiting around. They faded back toward the stern, crouched behind one of the catapults while they gazed out into a twilight that looked almost like a meadow dotted with fireflies as the sails on warship after warship burnt merrily. And then those fires began to waver and dim. The Carthaginians were good sailors, and ready to deal with any exigency a sea voyage brought. They were getting the fires under control, but the sails were shredded and the ships were drifting dead in the water. They wouldn’t stay that way for long, of course. Spare sails could be rigged. Oars could be deployed.
Just not in time.
As soon as the three-man squads had crossed the ropes, the Macedonians aboard the barges had lowered their own oars and started rowing hell for leather. Even as the Carthaginian sailors were thinking they had the situation under control, the barges came surging out of the dark, slamming into the back of the warships, the Macedonian soldiers throwing out grappling hooks and pouring onto the ships.
It was over fast.
Most of the Carthaginians were slaughtered, their bodies thrown overboard to feed the sharks and whatever else cared to dine on them. Of those who remained, most were chained and put to work rowing. A scant few were allowed on deck to perform the other tasks that crewing a ship required. But all such tasks were carried out under the watchful eyes of the Macedonian soldiers. The fleet would continue on to Sicily to play its part in the final battle—but under new management. As for Carthage herself, her time would come.
When her ships returned.
The latest viceroy had arrived from Athens. But the people of Syracuse weren’t paying much attention. They were too busy working alongside Athenian soldiers to rig the defenses of Syracuse. Ammunition was being prepped. Siege-engines were being hoisted up all the towers. Sections of the wall that had fallen into disrepair were….
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Leosthenes, looking over the list of preparations. He’d only just gotten off the boat from Athens and up into the Ortygia and already the bad news was pouring down like a river of shit. He handed his purple general’s cloak to a servant, took a goblet of wine from another. Memnon was busy unfurling the maps of both Syracuse and Sicily.
“That’s the problem with having an island in the middle of a maritime empire,” he said. He slid some paperweights over the edges of the maps to keep them pinned down, looked up at Leosthenes. “You tend to get complacent. Unprepared for the possibility that an enemy might actually reach you.”
“Tell me about it,” said Leosthenes. He’d been sent out here in the wake of Hypereides gaining ascendancy on the council. The good news was that Leosthenes had seen the writing on the wall—had chosen the correct side in the duel between the council’s two rivals. Phocion was now under house arrest. But just as Leosthenes was congratulating himself on yet another arrow dodged, Hypereides gave him his reward for services rendered.
An appointment to head up the defenses of the west.
Leosthenes still didn’t know whether that was a death-sentence, a way of getting him out of the way, or a genuine belief that he was the right man for the job. Maybe all three. It was clear enough that none of the other archons wanted to take the job of taking on Alexander. Either they thought Leosthenes might pull a miracle out of his ass, or they wanted to make sure that someone else got the blame. Not that Cleon had set much of an example. One of Leosthenes’ first priorities was to make sure the fortress of the Ortygia was as impregnable as its reputation, since there had been way too many forced entries lately. He scanned the map of the city, looking over its defenses while Memnon took an initial look at those of the island.
“What’s this?” asked the old man. He was pointing at the section of the Sicilian coast that the dotted line which denoted Alexander’s bridge had nearly reached—at the red squares hastily inscribed along that coast. The lieutenant in charge of the briefing leaned forward.
“We’ve got
five thousand men there,” he said. “Waiting to repulse Alexander. As soon as his bridge gets within range.”
Leosthenes and Memnon looked at each other in shocked silence. The archon was the first to break it.
“Get those men off that beach,” he said. “Now.”
The lieutenant looked confused. “But sir—this was the defense strategy agreed upon before your arrival. It’s the only way to make sure that Alexander—”
“Kills us all,” snarled Leosthenes. “Don’t you get it, man? Anytime you start talking about the only way to fight Alexander, you’re as good as dead. Now pull those men off the beach before I kill you myself.” The red-faced lieutenant saluted—then started for the door.
But it was already too late.
They sailed through that ocean for days and nights and never saw any land the whole time. And all the while that hairy star grew nearer—so close now it could be seen during the day as well, reflecting on the dark water all around. Except sometimes that water wasn’t dark. Sometimes it barely even seemed like water: sometimes they were immersed in seaweed that stretched off in all directions like the world’s biggest carpet, so thick it might have caught a lesser ship in its tendrils. Yet the Xerxes kept on plowing forward, eventually putting that strange otherworldly sea behind it. Now they were back in water, and it was once again getting rougher. Lugorix gripped the rails as the waves slapped against the ship, rolling her from side to side. He barely noticed Matthias come up on the deck behind him.
“What’s that?” asked Matthias.
“Ocean,” replied Lugorix absently.
“No,” said Matthias, “what’s that?”
This time the urgency in his voice was sufficient to make Lugorix turn around—and follow the direction in which his friend’s finger was pointing: up, at a forty-five degree angle, off toward where the morning sun was rising from horizon. A dark shape loomed there, considerably smaller than the Moon would be. At first Lugorix thought it was the comet, but that was off to the north. This was something else. And it was steadily gaining height.
“What the fuck is that?” asked Lugorix.
“My question precisely.”
“And what makes you think I’d have the slightest idea? Get Eurydice up here.”
Matthias looked abashed. “She and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms these days—”
“Just do it,” hissed Lugorix.
Matthias did. He got Barsine while he was at it. The four of them stood on deck and watched the bizarre object for a few more moments. Eurydice trained a farseeker on it.
“Shit,” she said.
“Can you clarify that,” said Barsine.
“Shit. I think—sorry…I think it’s inflated animal skins.”
“That fucker’s an animal?” asked Lugorix.
“The skins of them. Filled with, um, lighter-than-air gases so it floats.” She adjusted the magnification of the farseeker. “With a basket beneath it.” Another adjustment—“and a man in that basket.”
That did it. The farseeker was passed around like the hemp-pipe back at the Dryad’s Tits. When it got to Lugorix, he saw a man with black beard, dark skin, embroidered hair, turquoise garments: unmistakably one of the Phoenicians. And he was holding his own farseeker, staring right back at them. Lugorix resisted the urge to wave.
“Just below him,” said Barsine.
Lugorix lowered the farseeker slightly—and now he could see the rope stretching down from the basket. He lowered the farseeker still further, following that rope down across the sky, all the way to where it met horizon.
“Those Carthaginians,” said Barsine. “Trying to find out where we are.”
“Well, now they know,” said Matthias.
“We need to pick up the pace,” said Eurydice. She turned to the hatch, climbed below. Matthias followed her like a puppy-dog, leaving Lugorix and Barsine there for a moment.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“They’re only a few hours behind us.” But she wasn’t meeting his eyes.
“I mean what else?” he asked.
“I need to get below,” she said—pushed past him. He must have been more afraid of the answer than he realized, because he didn’t even attempt to stand in her way.
“A balloon,” said Kalyana.
“A what?” asked Eumenes. They were looking through one of the slits in the turret—studying that object high ahead and to the west. It was the first interesting thing they’d seen for a few days. Eumenes had been starting to think they were on the wrong track….
“Aerial reconnaissance device,” said Kalyana. “Filled with gases that give it flotational capabilities—”
“Does it have combat capabilities?”
“Not unless you are rash enough to get below it. They are looking for the Persians.”
“Well, they can see us too.”
“Yes, but we now know where they are as well. And we may presume the lady Barsine is not that far ahead of them, no?” Eumenes nodded. As he watched, several lines of smoke began to curl over the western horizon, rising up below the balloon.
“And now we know they don’t just rely on sail,” said the Greek.
Kalyana nodded. “They would be most foolish to venture so far west of the Pillars with only that.”
Eumenes nodded. He got on his knees, stuck his head through the hatch in the floor—met the eyes of his pilot. “Steam,” he said. “Let’s do it.” The man nodded. Moments later, there was a clanking noise, and a rumbling. Smoke began billowing from the stacks aft and rear. Same with the other two vessels in the squadron—and now suddenly the three ships were surging through the water at what seemed like unholy speeds. Eumenes could hear the cheers of the commandos aboard them echoing across the water, merging with those aboard his own vessel. He wished for a moment that Alexander could be there to watch this. He suddenly realized that Kalyana was staring at him, a half-smile upon his face.
“Earthly glory,” he said. “I used to appreciate it too.”
“Nothing earthly about this,” said Eumenes sharply.
Kalyana’s smile was now a full one. “And if your men truly understood that, the last thing they would be doing is cheering.”
Ptolemy looked up at the balloon, off to the southwest. The Carthaginians now had a bird’s eye view of the entire situation—the trade-off being obvious enough: that now everyone knew exactly where they were too. The escalating situation was forcing everyone to show their hands. He stared through the farseeker at the lines of smoke emitted by the still-unseen Carthaginan ships—then swung the farseeker back to the left, looking due south at three more lines of smoke. It was as he suspected—he wasn’t the only player trailing in the wake of the Carthaginians. But he had no telltale smoke to reveal his position. His craft was configured so that he didn’t need it. Meaning that the Carthaginians knew where he was, but the Persians and any other pursuers didn’t. That would give him a momentary advantage. One that he resolved to make the most of. He signalled to his crew to prep the weapons, rig the ship for action.
They were accelerating now, throttling the Xerxes up toward maximum speed. Lugorix gripped the rails, felt the spray dash against his face. The water was shot through with whitecaps now. They kept plowing forward, up and down waves, though it seemed like there was far more of the latter—almost like they were charging downhill. He looked up at that strange floating craft dangling over the horizon behind him.
There was a flash of fire from just below its basket.
For a moment he thought the contraption was going up in flames—good fucking riddance—but then he realized that the fire was travelling at high speed…straight toward him, hurtling in on the Xerxes like the lightning of the gods.
“Shit,” he said. But it was like he was in a dream. No one below him could hear. Not that their hearing would do any good. The flame roared overhead, crashed into the ocean about twenty meters ahead of the Xerxes. Eurydice and Matthias scrambled on deck in a hurry to see what was up as
the boat pitched up and down in the wake stirred up by the object’s impact. The daughter of Aristotle trained her farseeker on the faraway basket.
“Artillery,” she said. She handed the farseeker to Lugorix just as another flash lit the sky. Lugorix peered through the device to a platform that had been hoisted up below the basket—a large metal tube was mounted on it, and three Carthaginian soldiers were busy aiming the device at the Xerxes. Then that view was obscured by flame as the projectile they’d just fired hurtled in. This one fell just short of the Xerxes, sending up spray.
“Two misses,” exclaimed Matthias.
“Idiot,” snarled Eurydice, “they’re bracketing us.” Barsine was already disappearing back down the hatch. Moments later, the Xerxes suddenly lurched hard to port, turning on an angle that practically had Lugorix retching over the rails. No sooner had his stomach adjusted to that then the Xerxes went hard to starboard. He wished Barsine could make up her mind. Another projectile crashed into the ocean—another spray of water, another near-miss. The Xerxes continued to pick up speed and it started to occur to Lugorix that there was something wrong with the speed—that they were going too fast. Certainly faster than they’d yet managed to go. Perhaps the Xerxes had one final reserve of power it had been saving for this moment. Eurydice had that astrolabe out, was measuring the position of the sun, the comet, the Carthaginian war machine—
“What’s going on?” whispered Matthias.
“Shut up and hold on,” said Eurydice.
“Looks like they’ve started the party,” said Eumenes, his farseeker never wavering from that balloon. It was getting nearer—not because it was heading toward them, but because they were catching up to the ships to which it was tethered. He swiveled his view onto the horizon, adjusted the focus—swore he could see the merest hint of a mast. He lowered the farseeker, turned to Kalyana.
The Pillars of Hercules Page 33