The Pillars of Hercules (24 page)

“You
should
worry about taking the city. It’s almost as bad as Athens. Three massive walls, each one higher than the previous one so the defenders can rain shit down on whoever’s managed to storm the wall beneath them. And the harbor isn’t even on the sea.”

Perdiccas threw back some more wine, tried to clear his head. “What do you mean, the harbor isn’t—how can a harbor not be on the sea? How else could it be a harbor?”

“Because it’s a
lake
. They dug a channel through the city and walled it off and dug a huge basin and put the harbor there.”

“So their navy is utterly secure.”

“It is.”

“Alright, genius. So how
do
we take Carthage?”

Craterus laughed another of those booming laughs. “You see? Suddenly you believe it too—we’ll make it there after all. You’re such a born pessimist that you can’t believe we won’t live to face the most unsolvable problem of them all.”

“Cut the shit. How do we solve it?”

Craterus drained his goblet with a flourish. “There’s no fortress strong enough to defend against the enemy within,” he said.

“That didn’t exactly work at Athens, did it?”

Craterus shrugged. “Carthage is on the the western edge of Athens’ empire. Which was always a ramshackle structure to begin with, and is now falling apart. The latest messenger brought reports that Syracuse is on the brink of revolution.”

Perdiccas looked skeptical. “That could mean a lot of things.”

“Of course it could. But if Syracuse is precarious, Carthage is even more so. The Phoenicians have no love for Athens.”

“And even less for Alexander. After what he did to Tyre—”

“It’s not like the Phoenicians are a united front. Carthage is the daughter city. So sure, she mourns the destruction of her founding city. But now she’s pre-eminent among the Phoenician cities, and you’d better believe there’s more than a few Carthaginian merchants who are grateful for that fact. And there’s even more of them who are chafing for liberation from Athenian rule. They know full well they should be the dominant power in the western Mediterranean, not Athens.”

“Nor us?”

“No need to disabuse them of their dreams so quickly. Liberation before conquest. Romance before rape. You know how it goes.”

Perdiccas nodded. He was used to Craterus’ crude analogies. “And Alexander? You said you’d had word from him?”

“Indeed. He went up the Danube. Just like he said he would.”

“I didn’t think he really was crazy enough to do that.”

“Said the man who’s three weeks into Libya.”

“Very funny.”

“So halfway up the river, the Scythians sprung an ambush.”

“And?”

“Oh, he won of course. Annihilated them. Our garrisons along the lower Danube reported thousands upon thousands of barbarian bodies drifting down the river. Soldiers went
thirsty
waiting for the river to clear. Those primitives won’t fuck with him now. After that he took the title of king—”

“King of the barbarians?”

“King of Macedonia.”

“What?”

“Well, co-king, anyway.”

“What did Philip do?”

“What could he do? I gather Alexander already tried to kill him, and it failed.”

Perdiccas looked incredulous. “This was all in the latest message?”

“No, that bit was scrawled in code in the margin.”

“By who?”

“Who else could make an unofficial annotation to an official record?”

“You don’t mean—Eumenes?”

Craterus nodded. Grinned. Poured more wine.

Perdiccas shook his head. “Why should that Greek impart such information to you? It could be his hide—”

“Let’s just say I’ve done him one or two favors. And vice versa. Just because we despise each other doesn’t mean we can’t cooperate.”

Perdiccas looked thoughtful. “Do you think he’s mad?”

“Eumenes? He’s the sanest man I’ve ever—”

“I’m talking about Alexander.”

Craterus gave him a long stare. “Now
that
is a dangerous question.”

“The answer might be even more so.”

“How much wine have we had?” Craterus peered blearily at the flagon. “We’ll feel this in the morning.”

“I
will.” Perdiccas eyed Craterus’ bulk. “You’ll be just fine.”

“Save for saying what was on my mind. Look, the man thinks he’s a god.”

“Precisely why I’m asking.”

“Well—maybe he’s right.”

“You really think so?”

“Not being a god myself, I can’t say for sure.”

Perdiccas rolled his eyes. “If the priests at Siwah hadn’t told him what he wanted to hear, he’d probably have torched the whole place.”

“Probably. But isn’t this conversation academic?”

“No more academic than him saying he’s now king. This stuff matters.”

“Not out here it doesn’t. We’re in the middle of the desert and we have to get through to the other side. After that we can worry about—”

“We’ll have to start slaughtering the camels soon,” said Perdiccas.

“Despite the diggers?”

“We’ve only got three left.”

Craterus nodded. The expedition had been outfitted with machinery sent down from Pella and supposedly developed by Aristotle himself: contraptions that belched smoke and dug through sand, boring shafts through the desert, down to where the water was. Such equipment was part of the edge that Alexander believed would carry the expedition through to victory. But either Aristotle’s conception had been faulty, or the engineers had botched it, because they weren’t very reliable. The army had started with twenty of them, and the ones that remained wouldn’t last much longer. Worst, they needed water to run, and were starting to use more than they were providing. Craterus gulped more wine down, belched.

“How many camels
do
we have?” he asked.

“Two thousand,” replied Perdiccas.

“Walking water tanks, glutted on the Nile. Just slice one open and drink and eat your fill.”

“I’m not going to be the one to make the first cut.”

“You won’t need to. Leave that to a common soldier.”

Perdiccas smiled ruefully. “A common
Macedonian
soldier.”

Craterus nodded. “Like I said, keeping our boys moving is the main goal. If they have to, they’ll drink the blood of everybody else to stay alive.”

“Speaking of blood, I heard a rumor.”

Craterus shook his head—he looked as bleary-eyed as Perdiccas felt. “I’m either too drunk to follow you or you’re too drunk to make any sense.”

“I mean I’ve heard there’s a bloodline at issue here.”

“Ah.” Craterus raised an eyebrow. “I’ve heard the same thing.”

“From Eumenes?”

“Or from your sources.”

“My
sources? What are you talking about?—back in Pella?”

“I know about your correspondence with Ptolemy, if that’s what you mean.”

Perdiccas tried to mask his surprise, but to no avail. He decided that there was no point in denial. “How in Hades’ name do you know about that?”

“Because I’ve
read
it. Because like I said earlier: you’re only second-in-command. I’m Alexander’s marshal, and this is my army. And I know everything that goes on here and don’t you forget it—”

“Fine,” said Perdiccas. “You’re the boss. Relax.”

But Craterus had drunk more than his fill—had crossed that point where alcohol stopped loosening tongues and started riding roughshod on them instead. “Relax? You’re telling
me
to relax? You bring up treasonous questions and then you raise the question of
bloodlines
—which is even worse than treason. It’s pure stupidity. It’s fucking madness.”

Perdiccas wasn’t backing down. He knew how to handle Craterus when he was in one of these moods. That’s why he’d been the man’s deputy for five years. They were friends and yet they weren’t. It was what being a member of Macedonian high command was all about. “Treason’s treason,” he said mildly. “Nothing’s worse than that. But nothing I’m saying is—”

“Zeus, what
are
you saying? Why don’t you just come out and say it? The last Persian princess is on the run, and Alexander has to find her because she’s a way bigger problem than she should be.”

“And he can thank himself for that.”

Craterus stared at him. “So you know all of it,” he muttered.

Perdiccas nodded slowly.

Chapter Eleven

T
hey reached Syracuse at night.

It wasn’t just a matter of minimizing the number of eyes that might be watching. It was also because they had no clue as to what was going on within the city. So they snuck past Syracuse after sundown—the lights of the town a distant glow on the horizon, framed by the mountains of Sicily set against the rising Moon. Besides Lugorix, none of them had ever been this far west. They were in terra incognita now, relying on the dark and their low profile on the waterline to keep them from being spotted, the lights of the Great Harbor fading as they made their way down the coast. The indirect approach didn’t surprise Lugorix. There were more discreet ways into the city that to just sail right in. Apparently Barsine had one in mind.

It had been a long strange trip. They’d stuck to the coast, sailing around the southern portion of Greece—the Peloponnese, once the center of Spartan power—before crossing the Adriatic to Megale Hellas, the Athenian enclave that encompassed the Greek cities of southern of Italy. They’d made landfall on a forested coast adjacent to Tarentum, the foremost of those southern cities, on the heel of the Italian boot, where they’d filled the ship’s holds with the wood the engines burnt. Matthias had even shot some deer to supplement their endless diet of fish and beans. But they’d never entered Tarentum itself—it contained a considerable Athenian garrison, and Barsine was of the opinion that showing up in the harbor in a ship like the
Xerxes
was a great way to get the boat impounded and themselves arrested.

Presumably that meant she had no contacts in Tarentum. Maybe she didn’t have any in Syracuse either, because now the the lights of the city had disappeared entirely as they continued to move south. But staying too close to the shore was never without risk—Lugorix kept his eyes peeled while Matthias took depth soundings. It was a task made somewhat more difficult by the fact that he and Lugorix weren’t talking. They hadn’t been talking since the argument on the deck during the departure from Athens. Lugorix knew his friend was seething with jealousy that Barsine was fond of him… he’d tried to explain to Matthias that part of the reason for that fondness was that he had no aspirations to bed the Persian, but that just made Matthias all the madder.

Besides, Matthias knew damn well what Lugorix thought of his crush on Barsine—and he’d finally realized who Barsine reminded Lugorix of, knew the real reason Lugorix didn’t want Matthias anywhere near her. The situation was way too complicated. They were both captivated by Barsine for very different reasons. So now Matthias shoved past Lugorix, dropped a weighted rope into the water, called out readings down to Damitra and Barsine as they steered the ship along the coast, navigating past a series of peninsulas, and down a long stretch of rocky shore that gradually rose up into cliffs. Spray dashed itself against those cliffs.

But all at once the ship turned straight in toward them.

“What the hell?” said Lugorix. Matthias began yelling at the women below to turn aside.

But then he stopped as he saw what they were steering toward.

To say the cove was hidden would be a bit of an overstatement. But it was certainly tough to spot, a gap in the cliffs that you really had to be looking for to see. Nestled in that cove was a harbor all its own. Torchlight illuminated shacks; more lights gleamed in caves higher up those hills.

“We made it,” said Barsine as she climbed onto the deck.

“What is this place?” asked Matthias.

“Smugglers’ cove,” she said. “It’s filled with traders—”

“Criminals,” said Matthias.

“—men of commerce trying to avoid the Athenian tribute. Which, as you might have heard, is considerable. And which has to be paid by any ship entering an Athenian port.”

“But this looks like a more-or-less permanent settlement,” said Matthias.

“So?”

“So you’re telling me the authorities in Syracuse don’t know about it?”

“Of course they know about it,” said Barsine.

“And they’re bribed
not
to know about it,” called up Damitra.

“Oh,” said Matthias.

“Oh,”
mimicked Barsine. “Paying the bribes is often cheaper than paying the tribute. And for the officials doing the collecting, it’s often a damn sight more profitable. Every port in the Athenian Empire’s got at least a few of these places. And no one at any of these places breaks the code: no one asks any questions. That should give us at least a few days.”

“So who do we bribe?”

“We don’t,” said Barsine. “I left that to my friends.”

A roof slid over the ship as it pulled inside a watershed set alongside one of the docks. Men were in that shed working over a trireme. One of them looked—and turned, did a double take. He leapt from the trireme to the dockside, came over to the
Xerxes
. His skin was dark, his black beard was sharpened to a fine point, and though he wore the dirty tunic of a worker, he carried himself like a man wearing much finery. He addressed Barsine in Persian.

And then fell to his knees in front of her.

“Hey,” said Lugorix, “relax.”

But the man did not. He babbled on and on and it got a little embarrassing. Finally Barsine stepped forward, and raised the man to his feet before kissing him lightly on each cheek. He looked like he was going to die of happiness. Matthias looked like he was going to expire from rage.

“This is Mardonius,” said Barsine. “A Persian merchant.”

“It’s an honor,” said Mardonius in Greek that (Lugorix had to admit) was far better than his own.

“You’re not a merchant,” said Matthias. “You’re a spy.”

If Mardonius took umbrage, he didn’t show it. “I’m a businessman,” said Mardonius. “And you must be the mercenaries.”