The Macedonian Hazard

by Eric Flint

  He shifted his shoulders and went back to the Wiki article on water purification to see if he had missed something. They couldn’t produce the membranes that were used to filter water in the twenty-first century, nor the clear glass and UV lights to disinfect water that way, but chlorine was poison, and in too large a dose it could kill you just as dead as the diseases that it stopped. The computer pinged an incoming packet.

  He called it up. It was a private message from Cleopatra to Thessalonike. He used the touchpad to drag the file to the printer without looking at it.

  When the message printed, he folded it up and looked at the clock on the computer screen. It was synced with the clock on the Queen and it read 10:15 P.M. local time.

  In an age before electric lights, that was well after just about everyone’s bedtime. The letter would wait for tomorrow.

  May 10, 319 BCE

  Thessalonike took the letter from her servant, opened it, and began to read. Then she took the letter to a small lamp and held it over the flame as she thought. Once it was lit, she dropped it on a brass tray and let it burn. She did have connections with the Cabeiri, but the organization wasn’t strong here. Not since her father Philip II’s death. Alexander hadn’t been a member and hadn’t wanted to be. She went to her table and started writing her own letter in code. The Mysteries were not for everyone. Certainly not for Cassander. She would ask about Calix and Olympias, but she would not decide what to do with the information until she got it. And that was going to take some weeks. Her courier would have to find the mistress, the high priestess of the Cabeiri cult in Macedonia.

  Having done that, she put on the new gown made of white linen and went to see Aella, the wife of Ennis, who commanded over two hundred cavalry.

  * * *

  Aella bowed, but not like she really meant it, Thessalonike noted. Thessalonike didn’t make an issue of it. She needed Aella, and Cassander needed Ennis’ horses. Instead, she waved Aella to a chair and had servants bring the new distilled drink called ouzo. It was a product of a distillery that Malcolm Tanada had introduced.

  “The ship people have such wonders,” Thessalonike conceded as the slave poured. “But they have such strange ideas. Ideas that threaten the very fabric of our world. Worse even than Alexander’s putting upstarts like Eumenes in command of Macedonian nobles.”

  Aella nodded and her eyes shifted to the slave girl who was pouring the wine. By now it was common knowledge that the ship people opposed slavery, but still Aella didn’t appear to want to speak of it in front of the slave, in case she was the only slave in Pella who didn’t already know. Or, as if Aella felt that if she didn’t say it in front of a slave, it wouldn’t be real.

  Thessalonike waved the girl away, and said, “Yes, their views on slavery are a horror, but those views are really just the point of a long and heavy sword that if not blocked will rip society asunder. They are even more fanatical democrats than the mob at Athens.”

  “They want to make us all into peasants,” Aella said, almost hissing. “They think I am the same as that two-footed animal.”

  The word she used was one of several that the ship people translated into slave, and Thessalonike felt herself in agreement with Aella’s outrage and, at the same time, with the ship people’s imagined judgment of Aella. But none of that showed on her face as she nodded in sympathy with the older woman. That, after all, was the essence of politics. “That is why we must defeat Eumenes. Having him, Alexander’s half-blooded son, or the idiot Philip on the throne would be bad enough. But following behind Eumenes comes the ship people, their constitution, and letting the mob dictate laws to the nobility of Macedonia.”

  “What is the military situation?”

  “Eumenes is held up in Abdera, but our spies tell us he is buying ships, bringing them to Abdera, and having their sails refitted and rerigged. He is creating a massive flotilla and he has the walls of Abdera positively festooned with the ship people weapons. The ones they call cannons.”

  Abdera, Eumenes’ headquarters

  May 12, 319 BCE

  The walls were not festooned with cannon. As Eumenes looked out, he could see only six real cannons. There were a dozen more that looked like cannons but were made of wood. They, like the six real ones, had come off the Reliance, along with the gun powder, the new cloth, and plate armor, the canned fruits, and the beans. Abdera was well supplied for now and it was likely to remain so. Eumenes controlled the Bosphorus and he had effective control of the Sea of Marmara. No one controlled the Aegean Sea, but it would be exceedingly difficult for Cassander to move an army across it to hit Lydia.

  Morale was surprisingly good, in spite of the lack of action. Eumenes looked over to the parade ground where Eurydice and Philip were inspecting the troops. Increasingly, Philip was out and about where the army could see him. He still didn’t look at people, but he examined a soldier’s appearance out of the corner of his eye and missed very little. From frayed cloak to worn sandals, he noticed. Then he would murmur to Eurydice, and Eurydice would see to getting the problem fixed. It showed the troops that Eurydice and Philip cared. There was a knock, and as Eumenes turned to look, a guard brought in Tacaran.

  “Yes?”

  Tacaran didn’t bow. The two ship people—and, increasingly, their local aides—didn’t bow. One local assistant had assumed that if he didn’t have to bow to people of higher rank, commoners had to bow to him. He no longer worked for the ship people, and the lesson hadn’t been lost on their other local assistants. It hadn’t been lost on Eumenes or Eurydice either, because Philip had pointed out its implications with pedantic insistence. Eumenes felt his lips twitch in an almost smile at that memory.

  “Strategos, I got an email from a friend of mine on Malcolm Tanada’s staff,” Tacaran said, without waiting to be asked. “Seems he’s friendly with a slave in Thessalonike’s quarters. And…” Tacaran looked at the guard, then sent Eumenes a questioning look.

  “Saburo is,” Eumenes paused, then said in Ship People, “okay.”

  Tacaran shrugged and continued. “Anyway, Rico Gica is a friend from before The Event and one of those guys who couldn’t get laid without endowing a whorehouse. But the change in our circumstances has produced at least a limited change in his attractiveness. One of Thessalonike’s slaves made a pretty big play for him and he went for it.”

  Eumenes gestured for Tacaran to get on with it.

  “It matters, Strategos. At least I think it may matter. We all figured that she had been ordered to seduce him, and Rico thought we were probably right, but didn’t care. He talked to his girl all the time, learning Greek in the process and teaching her English and…Never mind. The thing is, Thessalonike got a letter from Cleopatra—”

  “Cleopatra is Thessalonike’s half sister.”

  “I know, and she gets letters from Cleopatra every week or so. Mostly instructions on how to do ship people stuff. The thing is, she keeps those messages, all of them, in a special chest. This message she read and burned immediately.

  “Rico’s girlfriend saw her do it.”

  Eumenes had been standing by the window while Tacaran spoke. Now he walked over to his desk. It was a new desk, built right here in Abdera to ship people designs. It had drawers and cabinets and a chair on little wooden wheels. Eumenes sat in the chair and waved Tacaran to another. “What do you think it means?”

  “It could mean that Rico’s slave girl is switching to his side, but I think it means that Thessalonike wanted you to know about the message and the fact that she burned it.”

  “Either way, it means the message is important,” Eumenes said. “Thank you, Tacaran. I will send a message to Cleopatra and find out what I can.”

  “I’d consider it a personal favor if you tried to keep Rico and his girlfriend out of it. He’s not actually a bad guy. Just sort of clumsy in the way he deals with women.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  After Tacaran had left, Eumenes sent Cleopatra a carefully worded message and we
nt back to work. The latest reports from Babylon were in his inbox and he started to read.

  Sixty miles north of Babylon

  May 12, 319 BCE

  Pharnabazus drank from the plastic cup. It was a gift from Eumenes and Eurydice. Then he looked at it. It had small animals drawn on it in bright colors and an unrealistic style, and it had a lid that you could take off to clean it, but you could drink through. It was, according to Eurydice, a sippy cup, because you sipped from the little hole on one end of the top. In Pharnabazus’ opinion, it was the perfect thing for drinking beer while on horseback. Having had his drink, he tucked his sippy cup back in his saddlebag and rode on. They were two miles from the Euphrates and his scouts had just spotted the dust raised by a cavalry troop.

  They rode on, and five minutes later he could see the dust, just as he was sure the other cavalry contingent could see his. A scout rode up. “They are Antigonus’ men, General. Two companies, from what I saw. Perhaps a hundred sixty riders. No camp followers and no infantry.”

  “In other words, another scouting party just like ours,” Pharnabazus said. Then he considered. He only had about a hundred men, and not-quite-two-to-one odds weren’t good odds. Half his men were lancers with the new saddles and heavier lances held under one arm. The other half were bowmen who would fight from the chariots by pulling up their horse, then firing from the chariots. On the other hand, the new solid-treed saddles, and the heavier lances that they made possible, should mean that his charge would be more effective. His bowmen would be firing from the light chariots, so had longer bows. Which, again, should make them more effective. “How were the enemy equipped?”

  “I wasn’t close enough to tell, but they didn’t have the long lances. And I didn’t see any chariots.”

  That was something then. Pharnabazus looked back at the two-wheeled carts that most of his horsemen pulled behind their mounts. “How far?”

  “Two miles, General.”

  Pharnabazus raised a hand and turned to the column. “Lancers, mount up. Get out of those chariots, you lazy bastards! You’re cavalry again. And armor the horses.”

  The men got out of the chariots and moved forward to the horses, then removed the long reins that the chariots required and flung the hardened leather armor over their horses’ necks, tied it in place, and then mounted, using their stirrups, and helped each other with their lances. It took a few minutes, but if the horses complained about the extra weight on their backs, they were still basically fresh. Well fed and watered, and they hadn’t been carrying the grain, water, and armor for the morning’s ride.

  “Move out.” The column continued, still pulling the chariots.

  The chariots were a mix of ancient Egyptian and ship people devices. They used ship people knowledge to improve a chariot design that the Egyptians and Babylonians already had, and converted it to carry supplies rather than as a battle platform.

  They rode on toward the enemy. Five minutes later, topping a hill, Pharnabazus saw the enemy. The scout’s estimate was a little off. Pharnabazus didn’t think there were more than a hundred fifty fighting men in the enemy column. The difference was pack horses.

  Pharnabazus smiled. This was working out better than he’d expected. “Form lines!” he shouted.

  The riders fanned out in an orderly manner, as they had been trained to do. Less than a minute later, they were no longer a column of twos, fifty horses long. They were a double line, fifty horses wide, with the lancers in front and the bowmen behind, sitting on the crest of the hill.

  “Lancers, drop chariots.”

  Fifty men pulled the lanyards that held the chariots to the saddle rigs that the horses wore. The traces dropped to the ground as the pins holding them in place were removed and there was a general neighing and stamping of hooves. The horses knew the routine by now.

  “At the walk,” Pharnabazus shouted, and the lines started down the hill, the bowmen maneuvering their chariots around the dropped chariots of the lancers. Looking down the hill, Pharnabazus smiled.

  * * *

  Udom the Lucky, commander of one twenty-eight and the son of a prominent noble in Philip II’s court, watched the events on the top of the hill in consternation that had almost the flavor of panic. That was impossible. All those men, the next best thing to a merchant caravan, pulling their little carts along behind them.

  Then, in an instant, half the carts were left behind and the wagoneers became cavalry. An arrant thought jibbered in Udom’s mind. This had to be Eumenes, the carter’s son. Who else would think of turning carters into cavalry?

  He sat his horse, watching the carters riding down on his column with those long, heavy lances that Rafal told him about. He should have believed Rafal, and not called him a sniveling little coward.

  Vaguely, through the shock, he heard his sergeant shouting at him. “Sir, we need to form the men!”

  Suddenly the shock was gone, and Udom the Lucky started shouting orders. “Form ranks! Bowmen to the rear and prepare to fire!”

  He was supposed to have sixty-four bowmen and sixty-four lancers. In fact, he had fifty-three bowmen and sixty-two lancers. His men had the ship people–style stirrups and solid-treed saddles, but they still used the standard xyston, a long cavalry spear with a spear point on each end. Xyston were held in the middle and were not the heavy wooden poles, almost as long as a sarissa, he saw across the field. The enemy were riding down the hill and one of them rode a little ahead, riding back and forth, yelling at them to dress their ranks as though Udom and his men didn’t matter at all. Then Udom recognized him. “That’s Pharnabazus!” Udom shouted, pointing with his spear.

  * * *

  Pharnabazus glanced over when he heard his name. He looked across the field. It was perhaps a hundred yards. Then, caught by an impulse, he turned his mount and dipped his lance. “That’s right! I’m Pharnabazus!” He looked at the Greek officer in bronze breastplate embossed with nipples and abdominal muscles. He shouted, “Who are you? Your family will want to know how you died.”

  The overdressed Macedonian didn’t answer. Instead, he shouted for his archers to shoot.

  There was a flight of arrows. Not a rain of arrows. Barely a drizzle. Shields came up and were struck. The leather armor on the horses stopped, or at least slowed more, but a few got through to wound horse or man. Three hit Pharnabazus and one his horse, but they were all stopped by the armor and shield.

  Pharnabazus was faced with a dilemma. He really should get back with the troops. Being out here all by himself was an invitation to concentrated attack. A fact amply demonstrated by the fact that three arrows hit him and a half dozen more hit around him while he had more men than the enemy had bows. On the other side of the scale, it wouldn’t do his commander’s dignity any good at all to go scurrying back to his lines like a frightened doe.

  He compromised by turning and riding back in a sedate manner. The next flight of arrows proved that his decision wasn’t the best of all possible decisions. It seemed every bowman the enemy had was targeting him. Most of those arrows arrived where he’d been when they were launched, a few yards behind him. But one hit Thunderbolt, his horse, in the flank. It was a glancing blow, cutting down the side and leaving a gash, and Thunderbolt made his displeasure plain by rearing and trying to bolt. So much for his commander’s dignity. He did get the horse under control, but it meant he missed the final seconds of the charge and was clear of the melee.

  Pharnabazus had just gotten Thunderbolt back under control when his men hit the enemy’s front rank. In a way, the fact that so many of the arrows were aimed at him helped his men. Not a single one of his lancers fell to enemy arrows. They hit the enemy lancers in formation, lances extended, and for the most part ran right over them. Four of his men went down when their lances went wide and they were unable to avoid or shield from the enemy’s counterblow, but it had to be twenty of the enemy lancers who went down in that first charge. At least twenty, and that left the enemy drastically outnumbered in the melee.
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  It was then that Pharnabazus, observing from a little up the hill, saw the drawback to the heavy ship people–designed lances. They were great for the initial charge, then effectively useless. “Drop your lances, you morons!” Pharnabazus shouted. “Use sword and ax.”

  Some did and some didn’t. Some were already dropping their lances before Pharnabazus told them to. Some never had the chance. Then Pharnabazus saw the overdressed Macedonian again.

  Pharnabazus still had his lance, and room to use it. He charged.

  * * *

  Udom the Lucky wasn’t all that lucky. He almost never won at dice or cards. But he was experienced and was very good at keeping track of what was going on around him, even in battle. He heard the horse charging from an unexpected direction, and his brain picked out the sound through the sounds of melee all around him. He turned his head in time to see Pharnabazus charging down on him. He kicked his horse, who lunged forward, trying to get out of the path of that lance. The lance followed, and Udom twisted in his saddle in a desperate attempt to interpose his shield. By now he knew that his xyston was useless against that monster.

  He made it too. Got twisted around, got his shield up…and got knocked right off his horse anyway.

  Udom hit the ground hard about fifteen feet from where he had left the saddle of his horse, after bouncing off one of his men and almost knocking him over. He was not aware of any of it clearly. The world had become a blurry mass of confusion and pain. He shook his head and saw stars. But even through that, his awareness reached out to try and warn him. He heard the hooves hitting the ground, coming right for him. He managed to turn his head and saw the horse.

  But he couldn’t move. Not even when the big black horse with Pharnabazus on its back rode over him and crushed his expensive bronze breastplate into his chest, breaking his sternum and driving shards of rib into his heart and lungs. Then Udom was aware of nothing at all.