The Pillars of Hercules (51 page)

There were no objections.

As long as you were the one on the walls, there was something to be said for siege warfare. Particularly atop the Epipolae, where the Macedonians’ siege-engines couldn’t reach. The defenders had been destroying the Macks all morning—or rather, they’d been destroying the Mack allies. Xanthippus said the same thing had happened outside the walls of Athens: that the Macks had been exceedingly reluctant to commit their own forces, but quite generous in committing everybody else’s. Bodies were strewn all around the walls of Syracuse. The steep slopes of the Epipolae plateau had been a particularly effective slaughterhouse. The ballistae and catapults had done most of the work, but they’d been joined by some innovations that supposedly came straight from the drawing board of Aristotle himself. Pride of place was given to something called a steam-gun, which hissed and clanked and shot metal bolts further than any ballista. There were two of them atop one of the towers of the Circle and Diocles could feel the heat on his face every time one of them fired.

But even that wasn’t quite as impressive as the aptly-named crusher, which dumped rounded boulders from the walls along the Epipolae, letting them bounce down from the plateau, leaving gore in their wake as they smashed everything in their path. Throughout the first morning of the siege, the men on the walls barely had recourse to their own weapons. The archers had fun picking off the attackers who got closest, and Agathocles even nailed a couple with some well-chucked spears. But mostly it was just Xanthippus making wisecracks as bodies piled up around the walls. As midday approached, there was a brief respite as the attack of the Macedonian allies ceased and everyone still alive took time for lunch. Diocles asked his lover how he could be so jocular about the whole thing. Xanthippus wiped the sweat from his brow; reached out and touched the young man’s cheek.

“Because this won’t last,” he said.

He was right, of course. Shortly after noon, there was an almighty hammering from the Macedonian camp—the noise of a colossal steam engine, one that put to shame those that powered the guns near Diocles. Then it was joined by a second almost next to it; the men on the walls watched as two parallel plumes of steam rose into the air, soaring upward until they were lost in the grey overhead. Moments later, a sound that might have been the blasting of Vulcan’s own forge filled the air.

“Uh-oh,” said Agathocles.

“What is it?” asked Diocles.

Xanthippus said nothing, but Diocles noticed that his face had gone pale. Everyone was staring out at the Macedonian camp—at the forest of tents and makeshift buildings that stretched off as far as the eye could see. Something was rising from that camp, something that had been built from the felled forests of Italy, that had been transported in great pieces across the bridge to Sicily where it had been assembled, hidden amidst the tents and banners until it was time to use the largest engines Alexander had to haul its top into the air while its base was held steady on blocks and the summit of the edifice was raised toward the heavens like some malignant relative of the colossus that was said to have been erected at Babel: a fifty-story high siege tower whose name the watching men of Syracuse didn’t know but it was the
Helepolis,
the City Taker, and take Syracuse it would before the day was out, for so the king had commanded. There was the noise of scores more engines cranking up—and then those motors joined with hundreds of mules and horses inside the Helepolis and the entire structure began clanking forward toward the Epipolae plateau.

“Fuck
me,
” said Agathocles.

Leosthenes was on the battlements of the Ortgyia when Memnon found him. The old man was out of breath from having run up too many flights of stairs.

“You would not believe what’s crawling up the Epipolae,” he said.

Leosthenes looked out over the city. He couldn’t see the far side of the plateau, though plumes of smoke were rising from beyond it. He’d figured that’s where the main assault would come, and that when it did, the best place for him would be at the Circle, commanding the main defenses from there. The danger was that there’d be a sneak assault on the Ortygia while that was going on. But that was a chance he’d have to take. He’d purged the fortress of men he didn’t trust, had installed his handpicked officers in charge of the defenses. That was all he could do. It was time to ride like hell for the Epipolae, and take every last one of the reserve troops with him. He turned, met Memnon’s eyes.

“Tell me as we go,” he said.

Perdiccas felt like a god. He stood on the roof of the largest siege-engine ever built, climbing steadily toward the walls of the last Western fortress to hold out against Alexander. The standard procedure for this kind of thing would be to build a gigantic ramp but the engineers of the Helepolis had gone one better: they’d constructed the floor of the machine so that its base was divided into sixty-four separate hydraulic lifts. The base remained entirely flat until the Helepolis reached the plateau’s foothills; at that point it began to shift through a myriad permutations as the siege-machine slowly hauled itself toward the summit of the plateau. Halfway up there was a reverberating groan of metal, followed by a fearsome crack: one of the lifts had broken. As Alexander and the entire Macedonian army watched, the structure tilted about five degrees—then steadied itself as back-up lifts deployed.

Perdiccas never even broke a sweat. As far as he was concerned, this was a damn sight better than crawling through endless desert or getting tossed like a bloody cork on the sea. And now Alexander had seen fit to reward his loyalty with the ultimate honor, promoting him to marshal and entrusting him with spearheading the destruction of Syracuse’s defenses. Archers, javelineers and artillery crammed the rooftop, along with each of the ten levels below the roof; all the levels below that were filled with battle-hardened soldiers and revved-up golems ready to charge onto the battlements of Syracuse. As Perdiccas rose past the rim of the plateau, the walls of Syracuse slowly came into view. It took the Helepolis the better part of an hour to crank itself up onto the plateau’s summit, but once it had done so, it was finally back on level ground. Ahead were the city’s walls; in their center was the Circle fortress. Perdiccas picked up one end of the speaking tube that slotted through the roof and went all the way down to the level of the engineers, right above the base.

“Sir,” said a voice.

Perdiccas lowered his helmet’s faceplate. “Flatten them.”

Chapter Twenty-One

T
he stairway ended in a larger corridor with still more carvings. Most of them seemed to involve the hydra. Endlessly intertwined necks stretched down the corridor, endless number of achingly beautiful heads. Eurydice mentioned more details about the myth of Hercules’s fight with Geryon, who was supposed to have had three heads, one of a man, one of a monster, the other of a maiden. Lugorix wondered if that meant the creature downstairs had other types of heads. He fervently hoped that wasn’t the case.

“This place is designed for a predator,” said Barsine. She was leaning against the wall whenever Lugorix wasn’t supporting her; there was clearly something wrong with her. “There may be doors here and there, but I’m sure that thing’s necks can get anywhere they like—”

“Quiet,” said Lugorix. He could hear something up ahead. “Sounds like water,” he said.

“More like a waterfall,” said Eurydice.

She was right. The corridor widened still further; the roof above them grew still higher. Spray drifted against their faces; Lugorix had heard enough of the river Lethe for that to make him anxious, but there didn’t seem to any adverse effects. And there wasn’t much they could do about it in any case. The walls kept widening and the ceiling kept getting higher until finally it was no longer visible. All they could see above them was some kind of mist, dimly reflecting the blue glow from Barsine’s amulet.

A few hundred meters more, and one of the walls ended.

They were in an enormous chamber, though apparently still within the tower. A huge waterfall tumbled from the mist above, plunged into the cavern below. The place was dimly lit by light from some indeterminate source. Stone bridges spanned that cavern at several levels—Lugorix could see at least three bridges a few levels down, and two further up. The corridor they’d been following—now more of a cliff’s ledge—ended in just such a bridge; the other end of that bridge was next to the waterfall.

“That must be what’s powering the rivers,” said Matthias.

“Sure,” said Eurydice, “but what’s powering
it?”

There was only one way to find out. They started out across the bridge—Barsine grew dizzy again halfway over, and Lugorix had to help her keep her balance. The stones were slippery, and all of a sudden she lost her footing. He went to one knee to keep her upright.

But that was what saved his life.

The rock which flew straight past the place where his head had just been was quickly followed by another, but by now they were all ducking. Sure enough, three bridges below them were the Macedonians. There were at least ten of them, but the real problem was the slingers. Matthias drew his bow and fired an arrow, but it bounced off a soldier’s shield. That was when one of the Macedonians caught sight of Barsine.

“Barsine,” he yelled.

“Eumenes,” she yelled back. “Still serving as your master’s errand-boy?”

“Alexander promises to spare you should you surrender. He has nothing but love for you—”

“He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me!” she yelled down at him. “All he cares about is his precious baby!”

“So you’re still with child?” Relief was palpable in his voice.

“We need to move,” said Eurydice, grasping Barsine’s hand. But she pulled away, leaned back out—

“Is that Ptolemy down there too?”

The Macedonian in question smiled. “An honor to see you, my princess,” he said sardonically.

“Who’s calling the shots?” yelled Barsine, and suddenly she swayed as though the exchange was physically draining her. “You or Eumenes?
Philip or Alexander?”

But there was no reply: because that was the moment when several of the hydra’s heads rose from the gloom below and suddenly the Macedonians were in the thick of combat, locking shields as they fought their way off the bridge. Lugorix figured that was a good time to get the hell out of there; Matthias and Eurydice led the way while he helped Barsine. By the time they reached the end of the bridge he was practically carrying her.

“Don’t know what’s… wrong with me,” she said.

“Relax,” he said, “it’s going to be all right.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Eurydice—she was gesturing at what hadn’t been visible until they got close to the waterfall: a ladder, disappearing into the mist and spray above them. Lugorix grasped its rungs and—

“No,” said Matthias, “you need to carry Barsine. I’ll go first.”

Lugorix nodded in acknowlegement. Matthias started climbing as Eurydice helped Barsine onto Lugorix’s back. She grasped her hands together around her neck, riding piggyback as he began to climb. Eurydice brought up the rear. They were all going as fast as they could—for all they knew, the Macedonians had already gotten onto this very ladder or were ascending another one nearby. They climbed into a darkening mist lit only by Barsine’s amulet. The noise of combat below subsided; all they could hear was the rush of the waterfall close at hand.

“You holding on okay?” Lugorix asked.

“Yes,” said Barsine. “But it hurts.”

“Where?”

“Belly.”

Lugorix figured that to be the worst news possible. Yet all he could tell her was to hold on. Strangely, it almost felt like she was getting lighter—was she dying? Was her soul taking flight from her body?

But then he realized that
he
was getting lighter too.

“Is it just me,” said Eurydice, “or is it—”

“It’s not just you,” said Matthias. Lugorix noticed the noise of the waterfall was subsiding as well. He wished he could see what was going on.

“Gravity,” said Eurydice.
“The gravity’s changing.”

Indeed it was. It was getting weaker and they were climbing faster—to the point where Lugorix felt like he was floating, as though Barsine might actually start to drift away. He kept on climbing, ready to grab her if that happened. But then suddenly the gravity was growing stronger again.

In the other direction.

“Okay,” said Matthias, “this is weird.”

“Just keep climbing,” said Eurydice.

“But we’re fucking upside down.”

Lugorix was already working on that. He grabbed onto Barsine with one hand while he reached the other hand past his feet and managed to turn himself around, holding onto Barsine while he did so. And then he kept on…
descending
was the best word for it, although it had been
up
a few moments ago. The reverse tug of gravity began to intensify and within a few more rungs it was back to normal proportions, only now entirely the other way. The mist was growing lighter too. But there were still no visual points of reference, no hint that the natural axis of absolutely everything had turned upside down in the space of only a few rungs.

“Um… any idea what’s going on here?” said Matthias. Lugorix could see that neither he nor Eurydice had flipped themselves around. They were both climbing, head downward—hardly convenient, but then nothing about this was.

“Gravity is each object seeking its natural balance,” said Eurydice. “That’s what my father said—”

“Screw your father,” said Matthias. “There’s nothing
natural
about this.”

Apparently Eurydice was far too freaked out to take umbrage. “There’s a platform down there,” she said.

She was right. The ladder descended to a long wooden platform. As they alighted on it, Eurydice’s eyes went wide: she had just seen Barsine’s ashen face.

“Are you
okay?”
she asked.

“What does it look like?” said Lugorix.