by Tom Holt
‘Why not?’
‘I get caught with twelve jars of poisoned honey and they ask me what I want it for, I’m going to have a job explaining,’ he replied, reasonably enough. ‘So I stashed it in with the rest of the stores, at the back where it won’t hurt.
Then, if anybody asks, it’s nothing to do with me.’
I frowned. ‘Small point here,’ I said. ‘How the hell are we going to know which jars are the poison? Dip a finger in and suck?’
He looked annoyed. ‘You think I’m stupid,’ he said. ‘I marked the jars so we’d know them again. Scratched a big P on the necks.’
‘P,’ I said. ‘For Poison, right?’
‘They’ve all got batch numbers on,’ he replied. ‘I checked. The last batch in was Small 0, and the batch they’re drawing now is G, so there’s no danger they’ll draw the poison stuff by mistake. You see,’ he went on, ‘if you do things carefully and methodically, you don’t make mistakes.’
So we went to the supply tent. It was late, dark as a foot up a bag, so there was nobody about. I’d brought an oil lamp with a little stubby wick.
‘I’d have thought you’d have known about the batch numbers,’ Peitho was saying.
‘It’s your bloody clerks who do the drawing.’
I shook my head. ‘I just let ‘em get on with it,’ I said. ‘No good ever came of telling a clerk how to do his job.’
‘True,’ Peitho said. ‘Right, here’s where I left them, behind the corn bins, under some old sacks.’
I lifted the lamp. ‘No you didn’t,’ I said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Old sacks, yes. No jars.’
He scowled. ‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘Someone’s moved them.’
‘Some bastard of a clerk,’ I said. ‘They’re always tidying stuff, it’s a miracle anything ever gets found.’
He nodded, and lit another lamp from mine. ‘Just as well I had the good sense to mark the necks, isn’t it? Otherwise, gods only know what might have happened.’
‘Very true,’ I said. ‘All right, you look on that side and I’ll check these ones here. I still say you shouldn’t have put them in here in the first place.’
‘Relax,’ he called back out of the darkness. ‘This is the army. A place for everything, and everything in its — Right, here we are.’
I breathed out; I’d been more worried than I’d realised. Silly, really; after all, we were only planning to poison the entire general staff. ‘Make sure you count them,’ I said. ‘Just in case.’
‘Of course I’m going to—’ He stopped, didn’t finish the sentence.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked; though of course I knew.
He didn’t say anything for a minute or so. ‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘I can find ten.’
‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘What about the other two?’
‘They’re here somewhere,’ he replied, a little shakily. ‘It’s just some bugger’s put them in the wrong — Make that eleven,’ he said. ‘Are you looking your side?’
‘Yes,’ I told him. ‘I’ve got A to M here.’ ‘Check them all,’ he snapped.
‘I am doing,’ I replied irritably. ‘And they’re all A to M, like I told you.’
I watched the pale glow of his lamp coming towards me. ‘There’s a jar missing,’
he said. He looked awful.
I took a deep breath. ‘The main thing,’ I said, ‘is not to panic. Right, what’s the drill? Who checks them out? If I know clerks, there’ll be a register, stock-book, something like that. You can’t draw a breath in this man’s army without sealing for it.
‘Stock-book,’ he repeated. ‘You’re right, there’s got to be a stock-book. Where do you think it’ll be?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Where do the clerks sit?’
He pointed towards the door. ‘Over there,’ he said, ‘on those barrels.’
I nodded. ‘Then I’ll bet you that’s where you’ll find the stock-book. Logic, you see.’
Sure enough, next to the barrels the clerks sat on we found a stack of wax tablets. They were covered in little rows and columns of tallies, crossed through and double-crossed, each line and row marked with one or more letters.
Meaningless, of course, unless you’re an army clerk.
‘I can’t read this,’ I said.
Peitho shook his head. ‘We need a clerk to explain it,’ he said.
‘Oh, fine. We go round and wake one up. Excuse me, we say, we seem to have mislaid a jar of lethally poisonous honey, would you mind checking your records so we can see who we’ve murdered? That’d really finish us off, that would.’
He glared at me. ‘So what do you suggest?’ he said.
‘Walk away,’ I replied.
He looked shocked. ‘You can’t be serious.
‘Watch me. It’s just like the bloody camel,’ I went on. ‘Nothing to do with us.’
‘Eudaemon, hundreds of people could die—’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I know. And it’s very sad. But life is like that, particularly in war. Hundreds of thousands of people die in wars and nobody seems too fussed about it most of the—’
‘Eudaemon,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to do something.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Walk away, that’s what we’ve got to do. After all,’ I went on, ‘it’s not like we actually put the poison in the honey ourselves. It’s naturally poisonous. Really, it’s just a tragic accident, this tainted stuff getting in with the good stuff. It’s like when the Thracian cavalry got the shipment of tainted wheat. There was no way anybody could know just by looking at it.’
He grabbed my arm. ‘We know,’ he said.
‘Nobody can prove that,’ I pointed out.
He stared at me. ‘We know,’ he repeated.
I looked into his eyes until I had to look away. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Look, this can’t be the only register, it’s just a stock list, tells ‘em how much of everything they’ve got at any one time. There’s got to be another one somewhere that says who’s been issued with what. You know, the one we have to seal when we draw stuff.’
Peitho thought for a moment. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t seem to be here, though. Well, of course,’ he went on, ‘they wouldn’t keep it here, would they?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Think about it. All that sort of thing’s got to go through to the Quartermaster’s office. I’ll bet you what happens is that each set of stores hands in their returns to the QM’s clerks every night, so they can keep the tally up to date. That’s where those tablets’ll be,’ he went on, ‘in the Quartermaster’s office.’
I sat down on a barrel. ‘Fantastic,’ I said. ‘That’s that, then.’
He sat down beside me. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘We’re looking at this the wrong way, you know.’
I looked up. ‘We are?’
‘Sure,’ he said, with a decisive nod. ‘We’re looking at it from the point of view of two evil bastards who’ve managed to lose a jar of poison they were planning to kill people with. That’s not how it is at all.’
‘Explain.’
‘How it is really,’ he said, ‘is, we — or rather you, you’re the one who knows all about fucking bees - you have reason to suspect, because of something you’ve heard just now, you have reason to suspect that the latest batch of honey might be tainted. Maybe even dangerous, so, being a responsible and conscientious officer, you’re going to dump the whole consignment, just to be on the safe side.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Well, it’s what anybody would do.’
‘All right, then. Imagine your dismay when you find that one of these jars has somehow already been issued—’
‘Issued out of turn,’ I pointed out. ‘Against regulations.’
‘Quite. Some clerk’s going to get his arse kicked for that, if there’s any justice.’
‘Heads will roll,’ I agreed. ‘A mistake like that could have cost hundred of lives.’
>
Peitho looked up. ‘Still might,’ he said. ‘Come on, you’d better get yourself over to the Quartermaster’s, quick as you can.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Why me?’ I added. ‘You’re coming too.’
He shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with me,’ he replied. ‘You’re the fucking bee supremo. How would I have got involved?’
I sighed. He had a point there. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll meet you back at your tent when I’m done.’
‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Just in case. I mean to say,’ he explained, ‘if something has gone wrong and half the camp’s dead already, I think I’d rather not be associated with you just now. You do see, don’t you?’
‘Perfectly,’ I said.
‘Logic,’ he replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
And that, dear brother, is how I came to be a hero of the war, a man who saved the lives of hundreds of his comrades. As someone pointed out to me, on a strictly arithmetical basis, number of lives saved, I was among the top five great and glorious heroes of the war, because most of the jokers who got awarded the laurel crown and the desirable giftware for saving lives only saved one or two, or at the most five or six, in some battle or other. True, they risked their lives, got themselves carved up, whatever; but if you go by end result rather than circumstances surrounding the act of heroism in question, they were nowhere compared with me.
The reason why I was such a great and glorious hero was that if I hadn’t raised the alarm, that jar of deadly poison would have gone in the wine for drinking the Queen Mother’s health on her birthday, and the consequences of that would’ve been drastic, to say the least. Hundreds, in fact, is quite definitely an understatement. Make that thousands.
So great and glorious a hero was i, in fact, that it wasn’t enough for me just to get my laurel crown and desirable giftware from my superior officer (a man by the name of Diades, Chief Engineer; nice enough man in his way); no, I was to receive my rewards and honours from the hand of Alexander himself— ‘Perfect,’
Peitho said, when I told him.
I frowned. ‘Actually,’ I replied. ‘I’d rather there wasn’t any fuss at all. In fact, the sooner the whole thing’s forgotten about—’
‘I’m not talking about your stupid fucking laurel crown,’ Peitho said testily.
‘I’m talking about killing Alexander. You do remember, don’t you? Our plot to assassinate the King of Macedon?’
‘What are you talking about?’ I said.
‘Gods, are you dumb or what? Here’s a golden opportunity, handed to us on a plate by some god who loves us— I was shocked. ‘You’re not suggesting I kill him while he’s giving me my award?’ I said.
He looked puzzled. ‘Why the hell not?’ he said.
‘Well...’ Unusually for me, I found I had trouble putting my thoughts into words. ‘It wouldn’t be right,’ I said. ‘Not when he’s being so—’
‘Nice?’
‘Well, for want of a better word, yes.’
Peitho stared at me as if I’d just sprouted wings out of my ears. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘A bunch of dried leaves and a three-obol tripod, and you go from being the man who was prepared to wipe out a whole generation of Macedonian aristocracy in one hit to some sort of Ideal Soldier. Dear gods, Eudaemon, if this wasn’t so bloody serious I’d wet myself laughing.’
He was starting to annoy me. ‘It’s nothing to do with the damned crown,’ I said.
‘And yes, I still believe Alexander’s got to go. I’m really behind that, every step of the way. I just can’t see how I’m going to murder him face to face like that.’
‘Why not? Afraid of hurting his feelings?’
I kicked over a stool. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘you tell me. There I am in his tent. When do I stick him with the knife? Before he hands me the laurel crown or after? I know; it’s his mother’s birthday, he might offer me a drink to toast her health. I could slash his throat out while he’s pouring me a cup of wine with his own hands. Or should I wait till he’s turned his back to pick up the tripod he’s going to give me?’
Peitho shook his head. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘it’s a bit cold-blooded. That’s how it goes. I’m afraid there just isn’t a polite way to murder someone.’
I folded my arms and looked away. ‘Besides,’ I said, ‘if I killed him there and then, I’d never get out of there alive. What makes you think we’ll be alone in the tent, for one thing? He’s never alone. These days, when he goes for a crap behind the mess tent, there’s half a dozen ambassadors with him, not to mention the duty philosopher.’
‘All right,’ Peitho said, ‘you may have to take out a bystander. Big deal.
You’re a soldier, that’s what soldiers do. They kill people.’
I shook my head. ‘This is getting worse and worse,’ I said. ‘And even if I do succeed in killing Alexander, and six assorted staff officers, what then?
Standing over the bodies with a dirty great knife in my hand, it’s not the sort of thing you can bluff your way out of.’
Peitho thought for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’re in there, getting your award for being a great hero. While you’re there, some clerk or adjutant goes berserk and kills the King. You’re too late to stop him, but at least you manage to wrestle the knife out of his hand and cut him down before he manages to escape. Who knows?’ Peitho added sourly, ‘Maybe they’ll give you another laurel crown for that.’
‘Nobody’s going to believe it,’ I said. ‘I’d be committing suicide, and you know it.’
He glowered at me. ‘You’re the one who’s so desperate to be a hero,’ he said.
‘Why not be a real one instead of a bloody fraud?’
‘I resent that,’ I said. ‘And you’re beginning to get on my nerves.’
‘So?’
I could see that things were getting out of hand. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘it isn’t helping matters us being at each other’s throats. At this rate we’ll end up killing each other before we so much as lay a finger on Alexander. Just accept it, I’m not going to kill him when I go to get my award.’
‘Fine. A wonderful opportunity wasted.’
‘Not necessarily,’ I said patiently. ‘What I can do while I’m talking to him is to try and set up a real opportunity. One that won’t get me killed.’
Peitho heaved a long sigh. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s hear it.’
‘Try this,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘While he’s giving me the crown I whisper to him that I’ve got to see him alone. Urgently.’
‘You going to give any explanation? Or just rely on your silver tongue?’
I marshalled my thoughts. ‘I’ll tell him I know all about a plot against his life,’ I said. ‘That’ll do the trick. He’s always ready to listen to stuff like that. Imagines plots and conspiracies everywhere, he does.
‘What, like ours, you mean?’
I ignored that. ‘Then,’ I said, ‘when we’ve got him on his own, with no guards or adjutants or hangers-on, no witnesses — That’s how you do these things, must be. Careful planning. Thinking about it first. Not like that crazy bastard who assassinated King Philip.’
Peitho didn’t say anything for a moment. ‘All right,’ he admitted, eventually.
‘I can see the logic. Well, I’ll leave you to it. Best of luck. You’ll need it.’
‘I’ve always hated it when people say that.’
I never could be doing with polishing armour; oil and sand and a little twist of rag, round and round till your wrists ache. It all seems so pointless, somehow;
the plain fact is, bronze isn’t meant to be all golden and shiny, its natural state is that sort of dull, rich brown, like oxtail soup. The patina is nature’s defence against verdigris and corrosion; scour it off and there’s nothing between the bare metal and the malice of nature.
Still, I polished up my armour, and the rest of my gear, till I looked like one of those rich-kid soldiers who have five slaves employ
ed full-time bulling kit.
Don’t know why; perhaps I thought that Alexander would be more likely to trust a well-turned-out soldier than a scruffy one, or maybe I just needed to keep myself busy while I waited for my interview.
Wasn’t the first time I’d been in The Presence, face to face —well, you know that, because I’ve told you. But I knew as soon as I put my head under the tent-flap that something was drastically different.
For one thing, the tent was next best thing to empty. I remembered thinking, the last time, how the great man’s quarters were only just on the tidy side of cluttered — everywhere you looked there were things, bits and pieces he’d acquired in the course of his great adventure — the Shield of Achilles he’d pinched from the priests at Troy, for example, the severed ends of the Gordian Knot, the swords of mighty Persian warriors he’d slain in hand-to-hand combat, gifts of rare and precious tableware from kings and governors, relics (he was a sucker for those; shinbones of giants, genuine dragons’ teeth in a little jar, Hercules’ toothpick, Perseus’ left sandal, Theseus’ toenail-clippings, you name it, some toerag had palmed it off on Alexander of Macedon). Now there was nothing but a bed, a big wooden box the size of a coffin, and a single service-issue folding stool.
And Himself, of course. He was sitting on the bed, staring blankly into space, his mouth slightly open. He stayed that way for about as much time as it’d take to count to forty.
‘Eudaemon,’ he said, eventually, without turning his head. ‘Euxenus’ brother.
Come in, sit down.’
You know that feeling you get when you know something’s badly wrong? I had that feeling. Hey, do you remember that old man who lived up near Acharnae, the one whose house we went to when we were lost up that way one time? Yes, of course you do; seemed quite normal, till he pulled out that trunk from under his bed and in it was his dead wife. I expect you remember how he insisted on introducing us, like she was still alive. Well, it was that kind of creepy, I-want-to-get-out-of-here-now feeling. Can’t say why I felt like that, exactly;
maybe it was just the sight of that big wooden box that brought back the old memory. Gods only know what he’d got in there. His clean clothes, probably.