The Pillars of Hercules (48 page)

“Burn them,” he said.

A hatch popped open on the front of the ironclad. Gears turned levers that compressed a gigantic pair of bellows; fuel ignited and suddenly a huge plume of Greek fire jetted onto the bridge, engulfing the creatures. Their howls filled the air, as did the stench of their burning flesh. Above him he could see the bat-like creatures swooping down, attracted by the flaring light. But they found slim pickings: the ironclad’s hatch had already shut, and all the bats had to pick at were the insectoid creatures sizzling and writhing in their death agonies.

And something else… suddenly four figures raced onto the bridge and leapt from it, one of them landing just in front of Eumenes’ view-slit. He didn’t hesitate—waved an archer forward, who drew back his bow and—

“Eumenes,” yelled a familiar voice.

“You are shitting me,” muttered Eumenes.

He wasn’t. It was Ptolemy. Alexander would have had the archer fire away and good riddance. But Eumenes wasn’t Alexander. He and Ptolemy had been friends since they were children—and down in Hades, Macedonian factions scarcely seemed to matter. Besides, Eumenes was the one with the twenty commandos. All this flashed through Eumenes’ head in an instant, but he was already ordering his men to unbolt the hatch and stand ready. Ptolemy staggered inside.

Along with three other men.

“Who the hell are these?” asked Eumenes as the sailors threw the door shut and let the bats smack against the metal.

“This is Hanno,” said Ptolemy. “The commander of Carthage’s expedition to the ends of the earth. You know, the one you helped to wipe out?” Presumably the Carthaginian didn’t speak Greek: he bowed, though he still hadn’t put away his spear. “And these are his personal slingers,” added Ptolemy.

“Great,” said Eumenes. “But I don’t speak Phoenician.”

“I do,” said Ptolemy.

“So do I,” said Kalyana.

“You can do the translating,” said Eumenes. And then, to Ptolemy: “Why did you join up with them anyway?”

Ptolemy pointed through the forward slit… his finger extending a line toward that edifice in the distance toward which this river led—the center of this world beneath the world. Now they were past the bridge, they could see that tower clearly. It reached at least a quarter of the distance to the ceiling of the cavern, those weird lights flickering atop it.

“Because we’re going to need every sword,” said Ptolemy.

“And even that won’t be enough,” said Xanthippus.

Diocles wasn’t about to disagree. The Macedonian army covered the plains around Syracuse. And it wasn’t just the Macedonians either. Men of every nation seemed to be out there: Persians, Italians, Thessalians, barbarians of all stripes. Diocles couldn’t see the infamous metal men that were reputed to be animated by Alexander’s sorcery, but he had no doubt they were in the mix somewhere. Behind the army were all manner of tents, some of them quite large, many of them presumably the workshops in which the siege-engines that would storm Syracuse were being readied.

“You never know,” said Agathocles. “No such thing as a foregone conclusion in war.” Diocles noticed that he was accompanied by a man who carried so many spears he looked like a porcupine. Xanthippus narrowed his eyes.

“Think you’ve got enough spears there, buddy?”

“They’re
my
spears,” said Agathocles. “And no, I don’t.”

The men were standing atop a tower on the fortress known as the Circle, midway along the wall that dominated the Epipolae plateau. To the east were the buildings of some of Syracuse’s richest districts; to the west, the plateau sloped sharply down toward the plain on which the Macedonian army was gathered. If they were going to take Syracuse, they were going to have to capture the plateau—once they’d done that, they’d have the high ground.

Which was precisely what the Circle was intended to prevent. Per its name, it was a massive circular bulwark anchoring the Syracusan line, towering over the walls on either side by a good twenty yards. While most walls just had arrow-slits, the Circle had artillery-slits: portal after portal behind each of which a ballista was just waiting to go to work. It was easily the most strategic position in the entire Syracusan defenses.

Precisely why Diocles didn’t want to be there. It was obviously going to be the number one target for the Macedonians when the shit got underway. Which was exactly why he
was
there, of course: Agathocles’ audience with Leosthenes had gone well, but the viceroy had covered his bases with all the guile of an experienced politician. He’d accepted Agathocles’ offer of help in return for shared power once Macedonia was repulsed. Part of that meant that Agathocles’ resistance network emerged from hiding and took up arms along the walls. But that wasn’t all. Agathocles knew he’d need some kind of safeguard against Athenian treachery once the battle had been won, and the solution for that was as obvious to Agathocles as its was distasteful to Leosthenes: arm the populace.

Eventually, the two of them had hashed out an agreement. And so a city militia had been hastily formed, one that contained enough thieves, sailors, club bouncers, mob enforcers and other ne’er-do-wells to make it a force to be reckoned with. Especially since they’d be fighting from behind fixed defenses. As far as Agathocles was concerned, matters would never be the same again: Syracuse would have attained at least a quasi-independence once the Macedonians had been repulsed.

Not that anyone really expected that to happen. The very fact that such extreme measures were being taken was clue enough that the city was about to get steamrollered. To be sure, there were plenty of other clues. The pall of ash drifting over the city from smoldering Mount Etna was one. As were the storms raging less than a mile off the coast, preventing any naval reinforcement from getting through. It made it feel like the gods had taken leave of Athens.

Diocles certainly felt like they’d taken leave of
him
. It had been just his and Xanthippus’ luck to show up at Syracuse with the man who was public enemy number one. At that point, nothing they could say made any impression on Leosthenes, who had clearly decided that they couldn’t be trusted. Even as he thanked them for their service with honeyed words, he was giving orders for them all to be transferred to the Circle, separated from the rest of Agathocles’ men, surrounded by loyal Athenian soldiers, and ready to deal with whatever the Macedonians might throw their way. Agathocles seemed to take those measures in stride. Perhaps he figured that it was a worthwhile concession to make for being able to arm his people. Perhaps he just figured they were all doomed anyway, and they may as well die with their boots on.

Or perhaps he had a scheme to somehow escape from this mess. Diocles certainly hoped so—and that he’d be able to persuade Xanthippus to get out when the time came.

Otherwise they would all perish in fire and shit.

“They’re going to parley,” said Agathocles suddenly.

Xanthippus looked round. “What?” But Agathocles was already pointing out over the plain, to where the white flag of truce had gone up in the middle of the Macedonian formation. A few more minutes, and then a trumpet sounded from one of the gates of Syracuse. A squadron of horsemen emerged from the city, bearing their own white banner as well as—

“That’s Leosthenes’ own standard,” said Xanthippus. More horsemen broke from the Macedonian line, heading toward the approaching Athenians. Agathocles’ eyes narrowed.

“And that’s Alexander’s,” he said.

“This really isn’t a good idea,” said Memnon.

Leosthenes said nothing. Memnon was almost certainly right, but not for the reasons he probably had in mind. Leosthenes wasn’t really worried about backstabbing. Historically, Alexander didn’t
do
treachery. The man lived by the strictest of codes; to him honor (or at least what he perceived it to be) was everything. All his life he’d sooner have hacked off his own limbs then violate a flag of truce. And yet there had been disquieting rumors that Alexander was no longer himself. Spies in Italy had sent back reports that the king had been acting strangely—drinking for days at a time, disappearing for nights on end.

But that was precisely why Leosthenes wanted to meet Alexander. He needed to take the measure of his opponent—this man who had never been beaten in battle. The
real
danger in such a meeting was that battle wasn’t the only field on which contenders wrestled. Within hours of the parley, every man in Syracuse would know what had been said. If Leosthenes lost the war of words, then that would inevitably be regarded as an omen in the coming fight. Leosthenes reined in his horse as the two entourages approached one another. He and Memnon cantered forward. Two of the Macedonians did likewise, coming straight toward them.

“Here we go,” muttered Memnon.

Not for the first time in his life, Leosthenes wished Memnon would shut up. He took a deep breath, forced his heart to be calm as the four men faced each other mere yards in front of their respective entourages. Alexander wore his customary ram’s-head helmet; his eyes were curiously multi-hued, and as he met their gaze, Leosthenes experienced the faint shock of recognition. This really was Alexander right in front of him, the most famous warrior of his age and perhaps all ages, the one the vanquished Romans were already calling
Magnus
. As for his companion: judging from his height and red hair, he was the king’s consort Hephaestion. Leosthenes had never heard of a man taking another man as consort, but if anyone had earned the right to make his own rules, then that was Alexander. The king raised one hand in greeting; Leosthenes did the same. As he did so, he studied Alexander’s expression; the man seemed calm and regal, every inch a king. If there was anything amiss with his mind, it wasn’t written on his face.

And his words were direct enough.

“You cannot hope to win,” he said.

Leosthenes said nothing.

“You can’t,” repeated Alexander. “Your only hope was to stop me from crossing to this island. Now that opportunity has passed.”

“Did you call me out here to tell me that?” asked Leosthenes.

“I called you out here to tell you of Achilles,” said Alexander.

“What about him?” Leosthenes knew the hero of the
Iliad
was Alexander’s idol.

“After he killed Hector, he tied his body to the back of his chariot and dragged him three times around the walls of Troy. You have heard this, no?” Leosthenes nodded. “I did the same to your colleague at Gaza, outside Egypt—the Athenian commander. I believe his name was Heron. He defied me, and after I took Gaza, I tied him to the back of my chariot. But unlike Hector, he was still living. At least until some point during my second circuit of what was left of the city’s walls.”

“Are you trying to threaten me?” asked Leosthenes.

“Of course not,” said Alexander. He smiled. “Should you choose to fight, you will die in battle. I have no doubt of that. But if you were to surrender now, you would spare the people of Syracuse great suffering.”

Leosthenes nodded gravely. “So what are your terms?”

“Clemency for the people of Syracuse. Free passage for yourself and your men back to Athens.”

“For me to report to the people of Athens that I have lost them Syracuse: that would be its own death sentence.”

Alexander shrugged. “If you are a true commander, then you care only for your men. This is your one chance to spare them.”

“There is one other chance,” said Leosthenes. “That of battle.
That
is the chance I will take. Athens bows before no man.”

“But I am not a man,” said Alexander, and now the smile was something Leosthenes wanted to run from. “I am the Son of Zeus, the reborn Hercules. My Father spoke to me at Siwah, and gave me powers over the celestial sphere itself. Why else do you think your fleets have fallen prey to the lords of lighting? Why does the Earth belch brimstone and blot out your Sun? The end of your era is upon you.”

Leosthenes took a deep breath. “That of Athens?”

“That of man. The gods themselves are waking.”

“Well, that went well,” said Memnon.

Leosthenes had never been so happy to get back within the walls of a city. As he and his entourage rode back through the gate, it swung shut behind them, huge bolts sliding into place, followed by a second and third set of bronze doors slamming and locking.

“At least now we know he’s crazy,” said Leosthenes.

“You really needed to talk to him to figure that out?”

“I did, yes. Needed to look him in the eyes.”

“Never mind the eyes,” said Memnon. “I thought he was going to start frothing at the mouth.”

“Give him time,” muttered Leosthenes. He looked up toward the Epipolae plateau on his left, wondered if the main thrust would be there or whether that would just be a feint. He’d done everything he could to strengthen the Circle—would it be enough? The encounter had left him shaken. If Alexander was insane, so was all his army, for they were prepared to follow him as a god-king. And then there was the even more alarming question: say he
wasn’t
nuts? The Earth
was
belching fire. The storms
were
keeping the Athenian fleet at bay—assuming any of it was left. For all Leosthenes knew, Athens itself had been demolished in an earthquake or engulfed in gigantic waves. He had received no word from the capital in weeks.

Nor would he get any now. They were well and truly under siege. The noose was complete. And Leosthenes had made his choice. The city’s fate would depend on his ability to defend it. It occurred to him that perhaps that was unfair. Why should the people of Syracuse die because Athens wouldn’t surrender their city to Macedonia? Then again, it was the people of Syracuse who were now lining the walls to defend themselves. They weren’t like those of Egypt—they weren’t prepared to welcome Alexander as a liberator. Perhaps it was because they knew damn well that if he ever got into the city, they wouldn’t be able to get him out. Or perhaps it was all bullshit: when the full weight of the Macedonian attack got underway, they’d throw in the towel and throw the Athenians to the wolves and beg for mercy. Certainly Leosthenes knew he’d already given away the crown jewel in Athens’ empire. The people of Syracuse were armed; there was no going back on that now. If the Macedonians were to be repulsed, Syracusans would effectively control their own city.