The Pillars of Hercules (7 page)

“I realize that,” said Hephaestion.

“Then why didn’t you say something to Alexander?”

“Why didn’t
you
?”

“I think we both know you have a little more influence.”

“Zeus, man. No one
influences
him. He follows one voice, and that’s his own. Both strength and Achilles’ heel, no? Who else would think to cut the Gordian knot? Who else would be so bold as to strike at Egypt without warning?”

“His father may have something to say about that if he ever gets the chance.”

Hephaestion laughed harshly. “I think Alexander thinks his real father’s somewhere out ahead of us.”

“Or above us,” said Eumenes, pointing straight up. Through the ceiling of sand overhead, fragments of blue sky were starting to appear. The storm was slackening, dropping as suddenly as it had come on that morning. Eumenes looked around, saw that the desert landscape around them was slowly becoming visible.

“Thank the gods,” said Hephaestion.

“That may be premature,” said Eumenes.

Hephaestion nodded. Both men looked around as the curtain of sand gradually fell back into the desert all about them. The sun began to beat back down upon them with relentless heat. Its light revealed that there were scarcely a score left of what had once been a hundred-man expedition. Hephaestion and Eumenes spurred their spent horses forward to where the lead figure was riding. He didn’t turn around as they came up alongside him.

“Alexander,” said Hephaestion.

Alexander didn’t answer.

“My prince,” said Eumenes.

Still he said nothing. Didn’t look at them either. Hephaestion looked alarmed—reached out to take his shoulder.

“The crows,” said Alexander suddenly. Hephaestion’s hand dropped back to his side. He looked around, confused.

“I don’t follow—”

“The crows,”
hissed Alexander. Eumenes looked at Alexander’s sand-covered face—looked out along his field of vision, looked all the way toward sand-smeared horizon. He blinked. Alexander’s eyes were better than his.

And then he saw it.

“Birds,” he muttered.

“They’re crows,” said Alexander.

“Crows,” said Hephaestion. “Of course.”

“The oasis,” said Eumenes. “Thanks be to Zeus.”

“Now at last I’ll hear what He has to say,” said Alexander.

He led them in toward Siwah.

“So this is the hub around which it all turns, eh?”

Matthias pulled himself up onto the deck to join Lugorix and Barsine. She shot him an annoyed look, pushed past him, and began climbing back down the ladder. Matthias looked at Lugorix, shrugged.

“What’s bugging her?” he asked.

“You,” replied Lugorix. “I think she wanted to enjoy the view in peace.”

Against the setting sun, it was quite a spectacle. They were still a good half mile off the shoreline itself, beyond which stretched the first layer of Athenian skyline—a sprawl of towers and monuments that put those which had stood at Alcibiadia to shame. Lugorix had never imagined a city could be so large. Each one of the buildings looked like it would dwarf his entire village.

“And that’s only the Piraeus,” said Matthias.

“Pir-a-what?”

“The harbor-city.”

The
Xerxes
was maneuvering among the smaller boats of the harbor now: an armada of fishing skiffs, pleasure yachts and transports. Off in the deeper harbor were vast grain freighters—one of them attended by a huge contraption that reared from the water like some mechanical beast. Crewmembers turned winches to send a long clanking arm swinging out over the docks, then lowered its far end onto the deck of the ship where other workers began to manhandle the containers positioned atop it.

“What the hell is
that?”
said Lugorix.

“They call it a crane,” replied Matthias. “It’s loading that freighter.”

“Why do they need such a device?”

“I guess they don’t. But it helps save time.”

“But how much time did they spend building that thing?” asked Lugorix. He sensed he was missing the point, but now they were rounding a promontory that blocked the strange machine from sight. Torches hung from many of the ships around them, for it was getting increasingly hard to see amidst the looming dusk. The wind blowing from the shore carried the smell of cooking fires. Lugorix suspected that Barsine had timed their arrival precisely. Had they reached Athens during the daytime, everyone would have been able to see them. Had they shown up in the dead of the night, they might have triggered a false alarm on the part of the Athenian defenses. As it was, they were probably being witnessed by only a few of the ships at anchor, but they’d still been recognized by those who manned the sea-gate. Lugorix had the sense that it wasn’t even one of the main entrances—he could see great glowing arches of lights off to the east that perhaps served that function. Those arches grew ever fainter as the boat headed into the far recesses of the harbor.

“Up ahead,” said Matthias, pointing.

Lugorix followed the direction of his arm. They were coming in toward one of the docks. It was somewhat ramshackle—it almost looked abandoned, but there were figures standing on it, holding lanterns. Damitra—or maybe it was Barsine—maneuvered the boat alongside, and the men on the dock threw down ropes. Lugorix and Matthias got busy securing them when another man leapt down onto the boat.

“Who’s the captain here?” he asked in a nasally voice. His hair was carefully coiffed, his robes were of the finest silk and he was drenched in perfume. The dolphin medallion of an Athenian harbor-master hung about his neck, and he looked at Lugorix and Matthias as though they were the scum of the earth.

“The captain’s me,” said Barsine as she climbed up onto the deck. “Who are you?”

The man was obviously taken aback. Greeks weren’t like Gauls, Lugorix realized. They didn’t permit their women much power outside of the house. So to have a mere teenager commanding a boat that could rival the most advanced prototypes the Athenian navy could field—no wonder the man was looking like the whole thing was some kind of strange joke.

“I’m Callias,” he said. “Harbor-master for this section of the docks. Your papers, please.”

“Papers?”

“Yes, papers. To secure a berth in Athens. You
do
have them, don’t you?”

“There must be some misunderstanding,” said Barsine. “We were told that we didn’t need them.” As she said this, a couple more of the men on the dock stepped down onto the boat. Lugorix belatedly realized that they were armed, with swords under their cloaks. They flanked Callias, who stood there with a puzzled-verging-on-annoyed expression on his face.

“If you lack papers, then you lack authorization to be in this harbor.”

“And yet here we are,” said Barsine. “How do you think we did that?”

“Clearly you’ve infiltrated our defenses,” replied Callias.

“Clearly you’re a fool,” said Barsine. “No one gets into this city without being permitted. The postern gate let us through because they were expecting us. How is it that you’re not?” Lugorix was starting to realize she had a limited sense of tact—one more trait that seemed to be endemic to nobility. Callias’ face darkened and a vein on his forehead began to pulse.

“Have it your way,” he said. “I’m impounding your vessel. Seize them.” One of his guards started forward but—

“Touch her and you’ll lose that hand,” said Matthias, drawing his
xiphos
.

“Touch me and you’ll lose your head,” said the guard as he drew his own sword—only to recoil as Lugorix hefted Skullseeker. The other guards eyed the axe nervously.

“Put your weapons away,” snapped Barsine. “Why are men always so eager to fight?”

Matthias reluctantly sheathed his
xiphos
—and Lugorix lowered his axe, albeit without any of his friend’s reluctance. He knew that if it came to combat, they could slaughter these guards—but once the alarm had been sounded, they’d be meat. Callias looked at Barsine, his eyes narrowing. His guards had kept their weapons out.

“You’re Persian, aren’t you?” said Callias as though this explained everything.

“Yes,” she replied.

“I’d have thought Persian spies could think of better schemes to get themselves into the city.”

“I’m not a spy,” said Barsine calmly.

“Oh? Then what are you?”

“She’s with me,” said a voice.

Everybody whirled to see a heavyset man standing on the dock, dressed in the garb of an Athenian sailor. The guards in front of him whipped out their swords and pointed them at his throat, but he didn’t seem worried. He just looked down at Callias.

“Harbormaster,” he said. “I’ve orders to take this ship into custody and waive all harbor-fees and duties.”

Callias’ face was a study in incredulity. “Who the hell are you?”

“Here are the orders.”

He handed a scroll down to Callias, who unfurled it and began to read. He’d only got a few lines in before his eyes widened. When he looked up, his expression was contrition mingled with what Lugorix could have sworn was fear.

“Of course,” he said. “Of course. She’s all yours.” He climbed back onto the dock, and his guards went with him. As he passed the newcomer, a thought seemed to occur to him.

“Where do you plan to keep this boat?”

“That’s of no concern to you.”

“Anything in the harbor is.”

The man laughed scornfully. “And here you are talking like you’re chief harbormaster! Shall we go wake him up and see what he thinks of your insisting on inventorying this vessel?”

“I’m not insisting on anything. I just wish to know if you’re—”

“—planning on keeping her in the harbor? No. Now get lost.”

Like any good bureaucrat, Callias knew when he was beaten. He left with his guards, intent on preserving what was left of his dignity. The interloper watched him go, then hopped down onto the boat. Ignoring Matthias and Lugorix, he bowed to Barsine.

“I’m Theramenes,” he said. “At your service.”

“But you still haven’t answered the question,” said Barsine.

Theramenes raised one eyebrow. “My lady?”

“Where do we put the boat?”

“In the canals,” replied Theramenes.

It was like the sea was made of buildings—like the ship was sailing on roads. Except there was still water beneath them. Lugorix couldn’t stop staring at the lantern-bedecked windows passing mere meters from his face. He gazed at his reflection in the water, marveled at the occasional bridge that swept above them. He would have thought they would have been seen by everyone as they made their way through these canals, but they were in the industrial part of town. Most of the workers had gone home for the night. Those that did spot them assumed they were merely one more Athenian warship being towed through the canal, rising through lock after lock: strange segmented areas where doors were closed and pumps forced water up to a new level.

The mules didn’t seem to give a shit one way or the other. Theramenes was on the shore with their drivers, leading them as they threaded their way through the maze of freight-canals that led for miles inland, into the heart of central Athens. Matthias and Lugorix stood near Barsine, but she didn’t seem to want company right now. A fact that naturally made Matthias all the more importunate.

“So who is this guy?” he asked.

“Someone who’s going to help us,” replies Barsine.

“A friend?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think he’s going to help us?”

“He works for a friend. Now please, be quiet.”

“Of course. It’s just that—”

“What?”

“—you told us our job was to keep you safe.”

“So?”

“So I’m just trying to make sure we’re doing that.”

“You might want to think about ducking”—this as she did so herself.

“What?”—but Lugorix was already pushing Matthias down to make sure that the low roof that was sweeping in toward them didn’t brain his friend. Barsine looked at them like they were a pair of clowns—then climbed below deck, leaving Matthias more than a little nonplussed.

“That little minx—”

“Never mind that,” said Lugorix, “what the hell
is
this place?”

They were in a cavernous cellar, the roof sloping up to a vaulted ceiling. Wooden gates slid into place behind them. Torches slotted into grooves on the wall cast a flickering light on a stone jetty in one corner—and on the iron staircase that rose from it, into the room’s ceiling. The boat slowed, nudging up against the jetty. Theramenes unhitched the mules and climbed up onto the deck.

“So you’re the hired help,” he said.

“Sounds like you are too,” said Matthias.

But Theramenes just smiled. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”

“Where are we?”

“A private residence.”

“Not one of Athens’ fortresses?”

“Come with me,” said the man.

Chapter Four

W
earily, Eumenes climbed the stairs to the top of the battlements. It was just before morning, and the wind off the Mediterranean seemed to cut right through his cloak. Strange how chilly it could be along the coast, even in the midst of summer. Back on the trek to Siwah, Eumenes had thought he’d never mind being cold again. Now, standing on the battlements of Tyre once more, the wind tearing at him like a living thing, he could scarcely recollect the heat of the desert.

But he’d never forget that oasis.

He looked around. Battlements and towers stretched all around him, encasing acre upon acre of ruins and wrecked buildings. Tyre was a city-fortress that had stood on an island just off the coast of Syria. Though it wasn’t much of a city anymore. And now it wasn’t an island either. Before striking east into Persia, Alexander’s army had built an artificial promontory across the narrow channel that separated it from the mainland—had dumped tons upon tons of rocks and silt into that channel so as to drag their war-machines across and batter down the walls. It had been one of the most epic sieges ever—and the slaughter that followed had been even more thorough than that which had taken place at Alcibiadia. Eumenes remembered well the lines of wooden crosses stretching down the shoreline, a captured defender of Tyre nailed to each one, the stench and screams stretching off to the horizon…