The Pillars of Hercules (25 page)

“Riiiight,” said Matthias, sounding a tad offended.

Mardonius seemed genuinely puzzled. “Are your services not those of the sword? Are you not getting paid for them?”

“We are,” said Lugorix.

“So then you’re mercenaries.”

“And
you’re
the one with information about Aristotle,” said Lugorix.

Mardonius glanced at Barsine. “Direct,” he said. “I like it.”

“I don’t,” snapped Barsine. “We should have this conversation in—”

“—Persian?” asked Matthias. “I don’t think so.”

Damitra climbed onto the deck. “Are the men making trouble?” she asked.

“No more than usual,” said Barsine. Turning back to Mardonius. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” said Mardonius. And then, as her face darkened: “But I know who does.”

Syracuse was a blaze of color and smells and noise, the sprawling rock of the Epipolae plateau towering along its western side. Skirting along the very summit of those heights were the main defensive walls and the houses of some of the wealthiest men in the city—but fortunately the rendezvous with the man who knew the whereabouts of the man in question didn’t require venturing up onto over-policed high ground. Instead they rode among the throngs in the packed eastern district of Tyche, Barsine wearing a loose hooded cloak that concealed everything about her, including her gender. There were a lot of Athenian soldiers in the crowd. And the harbor was packed with Athenian ships, far more than when Lugorix was here last. It was a full-scale armada—hundreds upon hundreds of ships riding at anchor in front of the Ortygia: the vast citadel Athens had built on the promontory that stretched across the harbor.

“Why is it called the Ortygia?” asked Lugorix.

“How bad
is
your Greek?” Mathias scoffed. “Ortygia means ‘little island’.”

“But it’s a promontory.”

“There’s a channel dug through the far side of that strip of land, with some fortified bridges across it. So actually it
is
an island, jackass.”

“It’s also the key to Syracuse,” said Barsine. “Nothing gets in or out of that harbor without the blessing of those who command in the Ortygia. Which is why it’s full of Athenians.”

“So is this whole city,” muttered Matthias.

“They seem to have sent a good chunk of their fleet here. Trying to keep pace with Alexander’s move westward, no doubt.” Then, spotting the place she’d been looking for: “There it is.”

The Gorgon’s Locks
was one of many dockside bars. A stylized picture of Medusa and her snakes hung over the door. Lugorix shoved on through and into a crowded drinking hole filled with sailors and whores. He made his way to a corner table while Matthias ordered three cups of wine. That done, they sat down to wait.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” said Lugorix.

“This is where Mardonius said to go,” said Barsine, sipping her wine.

From the look on Matthias’ face, that fact didn’t fill him with confidence. Nor did the fact that five minutes after they’d arrived, the door opened and a squad of Athenian marines entered the room. They ignored the dirty looks from the locals, and settled down to drinking. Before long they were in the midst of an uproarious party, cavorting with the bar’s women and calling for more rounds. Lugorix eyed those girls, wishing he could get involved. There was one with red hair and a freckled nose who reminded him of a beauty whose favors he’d enjoyed in Alcibidia. She was almost certainly dead now. As was that city: he’d heard that the fraction of it that hadn’t been destroyed had been renamed
Alexandria
.

“May I join you?” said a voice.

Lugorix looked up to see a young man standing over the table. His blond hair bordered on the golden, and was done up in a ponytail that mirrored his longish nose. The overall effect was unflattering, yet somehow magnetic, almost in the manner of a court jester. Or a trickster… he sat down next to them—looked straight at Barsine.

“My lady,” he said.

“Is it that obvious?”

“To me, deceptions usually are.”

“Who are you, friend?” asked Lugorix—with maybe a little bit too much emphasis on the latter word. The man smiled.

“Fortunately for you, I am. Mardonius and I have done much business with each other. Always through intermediaries, of course. I doubt he even knows who he’s been dealing with.”

“Neither do we,” said Matthias dryly.

“Easily remedied,” said the man. “My name’s Agathocles.”

Barsine’ eyes widened in recognition. “The outlaw,” she said.

“I prefer to think of myself as a patriot.”

“Would someone care to fill me in,” said Matthias.

“This man’s a key figure in the resistance against Athens,” said Barsine. She glanced at the Athenian soldiers yukking it up nearby, leaned forward. “Aren’t you taking a risk in meeting us out in the open?”

“This is my city,” said Agathocles. “I move where I like, and I don’t always look like this. Besides, the Athenians have more to worry about right now then trying to round up the insurgents in Syracuse. That fleet out there isn’t here on my account, I can assure you.”

Barsine nodded. “What are Alexander’s latest whereabouts?”

“No one knows for sure.” And then, as Barsine frowned: “But word is that there was a great battle on the Danube, and his phalanxes and ships wreaked a bloody slaughter among the Scythians. And there’s a second Macedonian army as well, moving across Africa.”

“I hadn’t heard anything about that,” said Barsine.

“Well, you’re hearing it now. It’s not looking good for Athens. All the more so as there continue to be reports of division among the archons back at Athens.”

“You see this as the moment to throw off Athens’ yoke,” said Barsine.

“The Pax Athenica made my city’s people very prosperous—almost enough to make them forget about the glories that were Syracuse. But the war has reminded my countrymen of the perils of entrusting their destiny to that of another power. Our cause has been bolstered every day—all the more so now that the harbor is filling up with an Athenian fleet.”

“And where are those ships going?”

“Reinforcing Carthage? Bolstering Massilia? Landing troops behind the Macedonian lines of advance? Staying here and making my life miserable? I don’t know. Why don’t you ask the viceroy, Cleon? He’s up in the Orgytia citadel and I’m sure he’d be only too happy to discuss Athenian strategy with you.”

“Very funny,” said Lugorix.

“Well, you’re going there anyway, so why not?”

“Excuse me?” said Matthias.

“I said you’re going into the Ortygia. Though truth to tell, you should probably stay away from Cleon. He’s a bit of an asshole, from what I hear.”

From the look on Matthias’ face, that was precisely what he was starting to think of Agathocles. “And we’re going into the Ortygia because…?”

Barsine nodded her head, understanding. “Because that’s where Aristotle is.”

Agathocles nodded. “He reached Syracuse about a month ago—snuck into the city incognito—and hid out with some wealthy friends of his at one of the well-heeled villas up on the Epipolae. Nice neighborhood, you know the sort—the best private tutors for the kids and the latest sex-toys for the wives. But all of a sudden, Athenian marines swept in and busted everyone in the villa. Textbook special forces raid. They rounded up everyone in the place—there were at least a couple of families in there—and took them all into the Ortygia. Aristotle among them. He’s been locked up ever since.”

“Wonderful,” said Mathias.

Agathocles chuckled. “It
is
—from the Athenian perspective. They need him, but this way they don’t have to advertise their need to the mob back in Athens—don’t have to broadcast the fact that he’s assisting them against the Macedonians.”

“How do we know he’s assisting them?” asked Barsine.

“I doubt they’re giving him much of a choice. Besides, doesn’t he hate Alexander now?”

“Doesn’t mean he’s supporting Athens,” said Barsine. “He may just want Hades to take hindmost. Why else was he hiding out from everybody?”

Agathocles shook his head. “If he was hiding out from
everybody,
he would have left the Athenian domains altogether.”

“Maybe that was his next step.”

“Enough,” said Lugorix. Everyone looked at him. “All that matters at the moment is getting into the Ortygia.”

“Which is supposed to be impregnable,” said Matthias.

“Let those who dwell there think that,” grinned Agathocles. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Barsine. “That’s a map of the citadel,” he said. “Including the section where Aristotle is being held.” His voice veered into the sardonic. “All you need are two brave strong men to infiltrate the place tonight and get him.”

Matthias looked at Barsine. “I never agreed to raise my hand against Athenians.”

“Try living under their rule for decades,” said Agathocles.

“My people once did. It wasn’t that bad, actually. Don’t they allow you to have an Assembly?”

“This city’s Assembly’s a joke,” said Agathocles. “It’s not allowed to take any decisions worth the name.”

“Never mind the politics,” said Barsine. “Athens is divided against itself. They can’t be trusted to resist the Macedonian onslaught. Look at what happened in Egypt. For all we know this viceroy—Cleon—is in the pay of Macedonia.” She turned to Lugorix and Matthias. “This is the part where you earn your silver.”

“Fine,” said Lugorix.

Agathocles took a swig of his drink. “Good luck,” he said.

“Fuck you very much,” muttered Matthias.

Unless one planned to turn invisible and sneak across one of the fortified bridges, the only way to get into the Ortygia was by water. And the only way to go by water that wasn’t total suicide was to approach via the seaward side. There was simply too much traffic in the harbor, too much of it clustered near the citadel itself. But out in the Mediterranean the waves were high and the currents were strong, and Lugorix could think of a million places he’d rather be—pretty much anywhere that didn’t involve paddling right next to Matthias in the middle of the night, holding onto what amounted to a piece of driftwood. But that was how they were staying afloat, and staying together, gradually closing in on the towering hulk of the Ortygia. Its walls came right down to the water itself. There was no beach, nowhere to land. But there were water-gates through which boats could enter. None of them were large. All of them were shut.

Except for the one that was underwater.

Agathocles had pointed it out on his map—Matthias had memorized the exact spot while Lugorix looked on, marvelling at the way in which civilized people used paper to communicate. The real question was where Agathocles had got the map, but the Syracusan demurred when asked, simply saying he had his sources. Those sources were obviously inside the Ortygia; not only did have the layout of this section of the wall, but they knew the position of the tides along it. This particular gate was visible during low tide and covered at the high.

That was why Matthias and Lugorix were now floating in toward it, their driftwood in danger of being crushed against the wall by the waves that slapped against it. The tension simmering between them had subsided as the promise of combat grew closer. Above all else, they were professionals, and capable of acting like a team even when they felt like nothing of the kind. Through the noise of those waves they could hear sentries talking on the lower sections of the battlement. But those sentries were looking for ships, not men harebrained enough to be swimming out in the Mediterranean. Only meters from the wall now, Matthias let go of the driftwood and dove, Lugorix following him through the inky blackness, his eyes stinging with the salt—but ahead of him he could see the shadowy form of Matthias, lit up now by torchlight filtering through the water. They had swum straight through the water-gate—and were now emerging, sputtering, into an interior harbor. A stone jetty loomed before them. An Athenian guard stood on the edge of that jetty, staring at them as though they were mermaids.

Then he drew his sword, and opened his mouth to scream the alarm.

He never gave it voice. Lugorix seized the legs of the guard and dragged him into the water. The guard tried to drive his sword at Lugorix, but the Gaul had already grabbed that sword-arm, twisted it sharply—the sword sunk into the water. The guard was sinking too, dragged down by the weight of his armor, trying to fend off Lugorix’s hands around his neck—but he was out of air. Lugorix grabbed his head and twisted. The guard hit the bottom and stayed there. Lugorix kicked off the stone floor, propelled himself back to the surface. Matthias was now standing on that jetty, looking down at him.

“Good work,” he said.

Lugorix said nothing, just pulled himself onto the jetty, breathing heavily while he caught his wind. He had his axe strapped onto his back but that was it: both he and Matthias were entirely bereft of clothes—the less encumbrance, the better for the swim. And it had been quite a swim: one of Mardonius’ men had taken them out in a fishing skiff, before depositing them about quarter of a mile off the Mediterranean-side of the Ortygia. Now they needed to find Aristotle.

But first they had to find something to wear. Or more precisely, guards’ uniforms that weren’t soaking wet. Meaning they had to find more guards. Again, Agathocles had shown them which direction to take. From the jetty, they went down stairs, walking through a series of torchlit tunnels. Some of those tunnels adjoined on storage chambers, but everything stored within was useless to the two intruders—just supplies to enable the fortress to withstand a long siege. That was when they heard voices coming from down the corridor—emanating from a lit room just ahead.

“Shit,” muttered Matthias.

“Let’s go a different way,” whispered Lugorix.

“We can’t. There’s a storehouse of armor and weaponry just beyond this room.”

“Then let’s go through ’em,” said Lugorix—and strode into the room.

The three Athenian soldiers throwing dice within looked up from the table around which they sat. The last thing they were expecting to see striding into the room was a naked Gaul carrying a huge axe—and then bringing that axe down on the first man’s head, splitting him almost in half. Matthias was already lunging forward, pulling that dead guard’s sword from its scabbard, kicking over the table as he did so, sending the other two guards sprawling—and then leaping at them, stabbing one repeatedly with his comrade’s sword. The third man turned to flee—but Matthias hurled the sword into his back. He fell onto the floor, badly wounded.