The Pillars of Hercules (57 page)

Because… he was the only one who could unite us. Because he alone recognized my abilities. Because I thought a man could resist the ultimate temptation and still remain a man. Because
…. “Why do you?” was all he said.

“Because
I’m
the one with the bloodline and I was willing to negotiate,” said Ptolemy, cutting in. “Unlike Alexander—”

“Because he thinks you’ll be easier to control then me,”
said Eumenes. He looked at Kalyana. “True? You need the bloodline to fly this damn ship and this is how you get it.”

“Actually,” said Kalyana, “all I need is blood.”

His blade flashed so quickly Ptolemy barely had time to scream.

“You guys have
met?”
asked Agathocles.

“Once,” said Perdiccas. His face had a weatherbeaten quality to it. He looked like the consummate senior soldier. Even Diocles had heard of him—he was supposed to have survived an impossible march through the African desert and then somehow tricked the untrickable Phoenicians and taken their fleet from under their noses, subsequent to which he’d been promoted to be one of Alexander’s two chief marshals, second only to the king’s own consort, Hephaestion himself. Now he stood on a platform in the midst of chugging machinery, looking down at them, archers beside him, a wry smile on his face. The situation was all the more surreal for the crew of the braking room ignoring the conversation taking place around them.

“We were introduced during one of those sham negotiations between Macedonia and Athens,” said Leosthenes. “Before the Macks launched their legions at Persia. That’s what I think it must have been about, really—talks for the benefit of Persian spies so they would think Macedonia’s main focus at the time was Athens. Philip was offering us—oh, I don’t know—something involving trade routes through the Hellespont. Greater access to the Black Sea granaries. Some bullshit like that.”

“You’re being unkind,” said Perdiccas, but his smile didn’t waver.

“I’m being accurate,” said Leosthenes. “It wasn’t a serious offer.”

“But the one I made to you more recently was.”

Leosthenes shrugged. “I need more out of life then gold.”

“You mean you already
have
gold.”

“Probably not anymore.”

“No,” said Perdiccas, “and now it’s too late. Same for you Agathocles. That
is
you, isn’t it? I’m sure you wouldn’t have sent a proxy with your city about to perish. We offered you the lordship of all Syracuse—”

“Under your dominion,” spat Agathocles.

“But you’ve got to serve someone,” said Perdiccas. “There’s no getting around that. Even Alexander is in thrall to visions and voices. Both of you were offered the sky by Macedonia, and now you’re going to get just enough earth to bury you in. It didn’t have to be money either. Didn’t have to be power. Where’s your imagination?”

“I got your imagination right here,” said Agathocles.

There was a deafening explosion.

The Moon filled Lugorix’s vision now, the most barren terrain he had ever seen: a maze of mountains and canyons and sheets of rock, and he could only wonder as to the desolation of the real thing. It was hard to tell the size of what was down there—he kept thinking he was right above it, but it kept on getting closer. He held on as hard as he could to the shard to which he was clinging, hoping that Barsine would somehow be able to engineer a soft landing. They were heading in toward one valley in particular. There seemed to be something moving within its depths.

“I take no pleasure in causing such pain,” said Kalyana.

He was certainly inflicting enough of it, though. Most of Ptolemy’s skin was gone, and the outer layers of his flesh were quickly following—a strand of narrow meat that Kalyana had fed directly into the ship’s gears, which were whirling ever faster, almost as though they were an animal that gained energy with the meat they were consuming. The hell of it was that Ptolemy was still alive, restraints binding him to the chair while he kept on screaming in agony, though very soon he would lack a mouth to do so.

“The bloodlines weren’t intended to make those who possessed them masters,” said Kalyana as he ministered to the writhing Ptolemy. “Quite the contrary, really. Those of the
genetikos
are tools. And need to be treated as such.”

“So what does that make you?” demanded Eumenes from his position on the floor. He’d thought getting his spine slashed was as bad as it could get, but now he was almost happy to have lost half his nerve-endings. And his hands were still capable of motion. Perhaps even still capable of reaching the dagger at his belt….

“I’m the one who does what’s necessary,” said Kalyana. “Alexander’s advance guard penetrated to the very threshold of India. His outriders crossed the Indus. I labor under no illusions as to what will happen to my land when the king returns East with fresh troops and fertile magicks. And if Alexander possesses this chariot, his subjugation of the world will be speedy indeed.” Kalyana’s
urumi
flashed again, and at last Ptolemy’s screams stopped. Eumenes felt the floor shudder beneath his feet as the craft began to roll across the floor of the cave. Kalyana shoved Ptolemy’s limp body aside, sat down at the controls.

“And what about me?” asked Eumenes. “Why am I still alive?”

“You had the king’s ear. You have the king’s secrets.”

“I’ll be damned if I’ll give them to you.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said Kalyana evenly. “You have seen Alexander’s true nature. You have seen what he hopes to become. I am thinking you are a man who is just waking up.” He pulled more levers; the rumbling of the engines grew to a roar and the ship began to pick up speed, heading toward the cave mouth. Eumenes’ hands tightened around the hilt of his dagger. He wondered if he should hurl it now. But he knew he’d only get one chance. And Kalyana was almost entirely protected by the back of the chair. So for now Eumenes did the thing he’d always been so good at.

Play for time.

“How is it you were the one charged with championing your people?” he asked. “The Vedic nations. Of all the warriors, scholars, princes—”

“There are no princes left,” said Kalyana. “No true ones anyway.” He nodded at Ptolemy as the volume of the craft reached fever-pitch. “Perhaps that is for the best. If you want to master the universe, then first you must master yourself. So I walked the paths of my mind for years until at last I came to the end of all roads. And then your king came East seeking answers and I stepped forward to provide them.”

“You’ve done all this
on your own initiative?”
Eumenes couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “No one gave you orders?”

Kalyana shrugged. “Who would dare it?” One of his hands shoved the largest of the levers forward; the other grasped something that looked half a wheel and pulled back on it. Suddenly the floor beneath Eumenes was tilting and the valley was dropping past the windows as they roared out of the moon-that-was-no-moon and off into the aether.

Only to see something falling straight in toward them.

The hand-sized canister which Agathocles had hurled was divided into three sections. One contained quicklime, another sulphur, the third water—and when the fragile seals partitioning them shattered as the bomb hit one of the counterweights a few stories down, the resultant explosion sent sheets of fire tearing back up the chamber. A deadly chain-reaction ensued. Huge weights fell past, their ropes trailing into abyss. Leosthenes leapt onto the pulleys and platforms, moving in toward Perdicccas, whose archers were already firing. But Agathocles began hurling spears in rapid succession—impaling two of the archers, while the others ran for cover.

There was plenty of that to be had. Smoke was everywhere and severed counterweights were crashing down into the shaft below. Those of the crew who hadn’t been instantly crushed were doing their best to get out of there. One came running right at Diocles; he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do so he just let the man keep going. Indeed, he was running himself now—following Xanthippus as he raced along a catwalk, closing in on Perdiccas from the opposite direction as Leosthenes. The Macedonian general saw them coming, drew his sword with a snarl sharper than most blades. All the while they were all doing their best to hang on as the Helepolis swayed back and forth, the view of Syracuse shifting in the windows. Then came a snapping noise that sounded like the Gordian knot itself fragmenting: Agathocles lost his footing, tumbled away into space, the Helepolis picking up speed as it trundled down the Epipolae plateau, rocking ever more precariously from side to side.

“Who’s driving now, bitch?” said Leosthenes as he reached Perdiccas.

Their blades clashed with a clang that sounded above all the bedlam.

At first Lugorix thought the thing rising toward them was some piece of the Moon with a volition all its own. It even looked like the Moon did when it was waxing—just the sliver of some great disc, curving back on both sides. But it was there that the resemblance ended: fire poured from its rear as it gained speed, heading straight at them. It was the gods’ own chariot. It could be nothing else. Lugorix had the briefest glimpse of what might have been a hatch still open in its belly, a ramp retracting into that opening, the hatch sliding shut.

But just before it did so, Barsine accelerated toward it, plunged inside it.

If she expected everyone to follow her, she was disappointed—as soon as she vanished within, the craft banked sharply, leaving the three above tumbling in toward the Moon, gaining speed as they did so. Meaning they were officially screwed. Even if they survived the impact with the faux Moon, they’d be unable to get off it—left there to await the attention of all those terrible heads as they closed in from above. So Lugorix did the one thing he could do—the one thing he didn’t want to do.

Use Damitra’s amulet.

He had nothing else that even remotely resembled an ace in the hole. So now he held out the amulet with one hand while he clutched the shard of sunsphere in the other—instantly the amulet glowed its familiar blue and then began
pushing
him backward, propelling him onto the course of the still-swerving vehicle below him as he in turn pulled Eurydice and Matthias after him, all of them caught in the ambient undertow of the amulet. Then the chariot was filling his vision, coming straight at him. He got a quick glimpse of Eurydice and Matthias hitting the leftward side. But right ahead of him were the thing’s forward windows. He stuck out his boots, crashed on through.

The Helepolis was totally out of control. All the counterweights had crashed deeper into the structure or had fallen off altogether and from the way the behemoth was lurching it was a wonder that it hadn’t toppled over yet as it careened down the Epipolae’s slope, flattening everything in its path. Explosions sounded from deep within as the steam engines trying to hold the monster steady blew in rapid succession. Hundreds upon hundreds of men were trying to abandon the doomed vehicle—leaping from it regardless of the height lest they suffer certain death in what was guaranteed to be the mother of all wrecks. But for those still fighting inside the demolished brake-room, fleeing wasn’t an option. Diocles was only a few paces behind Xanthippus as he closed on Perdiccas, who realized that he’d only have a moment or two more to deal with Leosthenes before the newcomers reached him. The general feinted with his sword—and then in a single stroke pulled out the dart he’d concealed on his weapon’s hilt and hurled it into Leosthenes’ left eye. The viceroy didn’t even make a sound—just crumpled backward, the penetration of his brain killing him before he hit the floor. Even as he fell, Xanthippus was leaping to take his place—but Perdiccas anticipated the move to perfection, met him with the blade of his sword, a blow that partially hacked through Xanthippus’ armor and knocked him to the ground. Diocles suddenly found himself standing over his wounded lover, battling the Macedonian general. If he survived the next few blows, it was only because he didn’t even try to attack—just held his ground and parried the swipes of a man who’d seen more battles than a year had days, who’d fought at Alexander’s side, and who was now laughing at him as the Helepolis kept gaining speed.

“I’ve already won,” he said. “The phalanx is moving up behind us. Don’t you get it, boy? The defenses are in ruins.
My machine has done its job.”

The walls began ripping away around them.

Lugorix tumbled through into the chariot; crashed over a chair and hit the floor, losing his grip on the amulet. Something metallic flashed at his head—there was nowhere to duck; instinctually he held up the sunshard as a shield, which shattered as the weapon smacked into it and danced away. It was a bending blade that looked to be a cross between a sword and a whip, held by a much older man whose skin was as dark as his beard was white. Lugorix rolled along the floor, away from him—and then leaped to his feet and swung Skullseeker, parrying the next few blows from the sword-whip. As he did so, he saw three bodies huddled against the far wall. One might have been a man once. Another was a man he’d seen earlier: the Macedonian leader Eumenes.

The third was Barsine.

She was bleeding from the mouth and had slash wounds along her chest and legs. She was trying to talk, but wasn’t really accomplishing too much.

“You’ve killed her,” said Lugorix, swiping at the old man’s head, who ducked back with unnatural speed. Through the leftward window the Gaul could see that Eurydice and Matthias were still out there—still hanging on and unable to do much else as the chariot soared upward.

“She killed herself,” said the man. “When she was impregnated with the seed of Alexander”—and then without looking round, the man whipped the curved sword behind him, blocking a dagger that the prone Eumenes had suddenly hurled at him, sending that dagger ricocheting straight back into Eumene’s leg—who glanced down at it, a wry smile on his face.

“Damn you Kalyana,” he said.

“It seems we might not be continuing our conversation after all,” said the old man.