The Pillars of Hercules (8 page)

“All because he wanted to sacrifice at that accursed temple,” said a voice.

Eumenes turned to see Harpalus stepping from the shadow of a ruined tower. The treasurer looked exhausted, his beard unkempt, dark circles under his eyes. Small wonder, as his work had doubled since the sack of Egypt. And Eumenes knew just how hard Harpalus had already been laboring under the weight of sifting through the Persian finances. When the Macedonian expeditionary force had first crossed into Asia, Harpalus’ job was reasonably simple: ensure what little money Philip had alloted his son went as far as possible. But once Alexander had defeated the Great King’s army and stormed into the Persian heartland, Harpalus’ task became order-of-magnitude more complex. Now he oversaw a vast mobile bureaucracy dedicated to processing the revenue of the richest Athenian province and virtually all the Persian satrapies—not to mention moving the Persian gold reserves out of Babylonia and back to… wherever Philip and Alexander decided. They were arguing about it. They were arguing about everything. Which was why Alexander had been recalled to Pella, the Macedonian capital—summoned to attend upon his father with all the speed he could muster. In response, Alexander had divided his army, leaving part of it in Egypt under Craterus, while the rest of it returned to Macedonia.

Though it would take some weeks to get there. Alexander and his entourage were well out in front of it now—they’d made camp at Tyre last night and were due to move out this morning. To the dismay of some of his advisers, Alexander was following his father’s instructions to the letter—he was making utmost speed, and if that meant letting the army play catch up, so be it.

“It’s a mistake,” said Eumenes.

“Of course,” replied Harpalus. “Tyre would have paid tribute without him needing to storm it. When I think of all the men we lost—”

“I’m not talking about Tyre,” said Eumenes. “I’m talking about Alexander’s…
compulsion
to go and face his father directly. Without the army.”

Harpalus nodded. “My sources back in Macedonia tell me that Philip wasn’t expecting that. That he was worried he’d be facing civil war. I’m almost surprised he’s not getting one. His son’s forces outnumber his by almost two to one.”

Eumenes shrugged. “Philip controls the crossing to Europe.”

“You think that would stop Alexander?” asked Harpalus.

“No. If he had to, he’d just march around the entire Black Sea. But the only winners from a civil war right now would be the Athenians, and Alexander knows it.”

“So he’s putting his head straight into the lion’s den.”

“And taking quite a risk.” Eumenes’ tone was somber. “Can you imagine how angry Philip must be by this point? His son strikes Egypt without sanction—”

“—and succeeds—”

“—and no matter what the sycophants around Alexander say, that’ll have made the old man even angrier. Philip’s an invalid, trapped in his palace back at Pella, dreaming of his past glory. He was the one who started the war with Persia—and now he’s had to watch his son conquer the entire empire—”

“Which no one ever expected—”

“No one except him! Zeus almighty, it’s
crazy
to look back on it all. You remember; everyone figured a best case scenario was liberating the Greek towns of Asia Minor, maybe even set up a defensive line in Anatolia. And then next thing, we’re sacking Babylon! We’ve reached Afghanistan! And Alexander’s still not satisfied! He wants to continue! Whereupon his father says come back, we need to have a little chat! So he turns around, but does he return? No, he hits Egypt instead and ignites a war with the queen of the seas. And so…”

“Here we are,” said Harpalus.

“Here we are,” repeated Eumenes, his agitation draining as quickly as it had filled him. He looked out across the battlements at the tide lapping against the beach. Now that dawn was starting to light the ocean, he could see the tops of masts and siege-engines protruding above the water’s surface—victims of the withering fire that had poured down from the city’s walls during the final assault. Eumenes looked back at Harpalus. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“You know what.”

“If Alexander found us meeting like this, he’d say it was a conspiracy.”

“He thinks everything is these days. He’s convinced that there’s a spy among his inner council.”

Harpalus’ eyes widened. “A spy for Athens?”

“A spy for
Philip
.”

“Zeus. Who knows of those suspicions?”

“Besides me—Hephaestion, certainly. Craterus, probably. Beyond that, I’ve no idea.”

“You and I need to stick together,” said Harpalus.

“That’s why we’re having this conversation.”

“If Alexander’s getting this paranoid, the others will seek to take advantage of it.”

Eumenes nodded. “They already have. Meleager—”

“I heard. He’s been imprisoned.”

“You mean executed.”

Harpalus leaned against the battlements as though he’d been struck. “What? When?”

“Four nights ago. Back in Egypt.”

“Does Alexander even plan to announce it?”

“He’ll probably tell the army he died in a skirmish with Arab raiders or something—give him a grand funeral, lots of tears, a moving oration, all the usual trappings now he’s safely dead.”

“Safely?” Harpalus’ tone bordered on incredulity. “Meleager was the ultimate loyalist. He would never have—”

“I know. His downfall’s thanks to Craterus. Who saw his chance to rid himself of a rival, and used Alexander’s mindset to make it happen. So now he can put a more pliable man in command of the part of the phalanx that’s been left back in Egypt.”

Harpalus seemed to be struggling to absorb all of this. He gazed out at the ocean, slowly shaking his head. Eumenes almost felt sorry for him. Buried in his figures and charts, the treasurer had gradually lost touch with the intensifying pace of court-politics… had lost touch, too, with just how much the character of his boyhood friend Alexander had changed. Eumenes knew there was a time when Alexander and Harpalus had been inseparable. But the fantastic success visited on Macedonian arms had transformed everything. Harpalus looked back at Eumenes, his gaze hollow.

“So what happened out there?” he asked.

“We almost died,” said Eumenes.

“I mean, what happened when you reached the oasis.”

“The priests hailed him as Son of Zeus.”

Harpalus shook his head. “Zeus knows what he’d have done to them if they hadn’t.”

“And then he went inside the temple. By himself. No bodyguards, no nothing. No witnesses. We waited. And waited. To the point that we wondered whether the priests had been paid by the Athenians to kill him and ride hell for leather out the back door. And then, just as we were about to bust in ourselves, Alexander comes out looking like….” Eumenes trailed off, wondering how to phrase it.

“Like what?” asked Harpalus impatiently.

“Like a man who’s just been told his heart’s desire.” Eumenes thought it over. “But also… like a man who’s just had the surprise of his life.”

There was a long pause.

“And he was in there for the better part of an
hour,
” added Eumenes. “So if it
was
a revelation from Zeus-Ammon, it was rather a long one. Presumably fairly specific too.”

“Those damn priests. They could have said anything.”

“Assuming it
was
the priests.”

Harpalus mulled that one over. “But he didn’t tell you what the message was?”

“I’m not sure he’s even told Hephaestion. Whatever happened in there is between the prince and the gods. But he’s been acting stranger than ever in the weeks since. The paranoia, the moodiness, the drinking—”

“We might be able to piece some of it together,” said Harpalus.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Well. Doesn’t it strike you as funny that we’re here?”

“In Tyre?”

“Yes. In Tyre.”

Eumenes pondered this. Try as he might, he couldn’t see what Harpalus was driving at. “It’s a natural place to stop on the way back north. And Alexander was never a man to resist revisiting the scene of one of his greatest triumphs—”

“Right, but he captured this city so he could sacrifice at the temple of Melkart. That was the whole point, remember?”

There was no way Eumenes could forget. Melkart was the Phoenician incarnation of Hercules, who Alexander had idolized since boyhood. In the wake of Siwah, Eumenes had begun to suspect that identification might have become a literal one, though he hadn’t given it a tremendous amount of thought—largely because it seemed to be overshadowed by Alexander’s claim to be the son of the father of the universe. But now he found himself wondering if Harpalus knew something he didn’t. Still, it didn’t add up.

“Melkart was just an excuse,” he said. “You know that as well as I do. Tyre was the headquarters of the Persian navy, which Alexander needed to neutralize—”

“Athens had already done a good job with that,” said Harpalus. “Back when she took Egypt from Persia, thirty years back. Persia only had a few ships left—”

“Where are you going with this?” asked Eumenes.

“The ambassadors from Carthage,” said Harpalus.

Eumenes nodded. He’d personally handled
that
particular problem. The Carthaginian ambassadors had been at Tyre for ceremonies to Melkart when Alexander sacked the place. It had made for a tricky diplomatic situation, since Carthage had been a Phoenician colony—founded by Tyre itself centuries ago. But Carthage had long since passed out of Tyre’s political orbit and become a major power in her own right—until Athens had subjugated her and made the city the crown-jewel of her western empire. Eumenes had suspected at the time that Alexander would have killed the ambassadors out of hand had they not technically been under Athenian protection—it would have meant war with Athens before he’d even finished with Persia. So the ambassadors had been permitted to leave Tyre unscathed. But somehow they were still in the picture.

“What about them?” he asked.

“They’ve been in contact with Alexander,” said Harpalus.

That drew Eumenes up short.
“What?”

“Sending him gold. And African ivory. Which naturally went through the treasury—”

“Bribes?”

“Maybe. But they included correspondence. Which was sealed… but I have my ways.”

“Correspondence is supposed to go through my office,” said Eumenes, realizing even as he spoke the words just how petulant he was sounding.

“What can I say?” Harpalus spread his arms out. “Our prince likes to keep the left and right hands far apart.”

“But—what in Hades’ name did the correspondence say? What was the message?”

“They weren’t messages—they were
maps
.”

“Maps of
what?”

“The location and layout of other temples of Melkart-Hercules.”

“He’s got temples all over the place. I could name several right now.”

“I’m talking about the westernmost ones in existence.”

“Which are where?”

“At the Pillars of Hercules.”

There was a long pause. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were,” said Harpalus.

“The gateway to the outer ocean? Where Hercules is supposed to have bagged the sacred cattle?”

“Don’t be so cynical. From what I can make out, the place is real enough. There are two temples, facing each other across the straits. One’s called Gadus; the other, Lixus. And Zeus help us all if Alexander wants to worship at either of
them
.”

Eumenes’ mind was working on overtime. “Did you see any other correspondence from these ambassadors?”

“No.”

“I’ll bet there was some, though.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Harpalus.

“Zeus, there must have been. You just don’t send a bunch of ivory and maps without some kind of explanation or context.”

“Maybe they went through another channel. Or they were in code.”

“Or both. Remember all that talk about Carthage at the council meeting back in Egypt?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“I’d wager Alexander’s working with a fifth column there,” said Eumenes. “Trying to get them to rebel.”

Harpalus looked thoughtful. “Or they’re trying to get him to come liberate
them
”—but as he said this, a blast of trumpets shattered the morning calm. Both men whirled, looking out across the city and promontory, back to the camp. They could see mounted figures riding in — the morning patrols were returning. Soon Alexander would order the day’s ride to begin, for the continuation of the journey back toward Macedonia.

“We should leave,” said Eumenes, turning back to Harpalus.

But Harpalus was already heading down the stairway.

“I’m sick of this place,” muttered Matthias.

Lugorix nodded. He knew the feeling. They’d been cooped up for several days in what they’d quickly come to realize may have as well have been a prison. They’d been allowed to keep their weapons and equipment, but were for all intents and purposes confined to their rooms.
Under house arrest,
was the phrase that Matthias used for it—Lugorix had never heard the term before. In Gallic culture anyone who had a house was a rich man by definition, and anyone who was under arrest was quickly put on trial, either to be executed or released in short order. He’d asked Matthias whether they were here because they’d committed a crime—Matthias said that wasn’t the point, that they were in somebody else’s hands now, and would just have to wait to see what happened.

Lugorix wasn’t sure that was such a great idea. Though he had to admit, their quarters
were
comfortable. In fact, they were more luxurious than anything he’d ever seen. There were real
beds!
—complete with banners that were meant to be pulled over oneself while one slept. Matthias told him they were called
sheets
. Lugorix would have preferred a woman, but he found the sheets to be comfortable enough all the same. The walls were covered with paintings and the floors were bedecked with carpets. There was even something called a
toilet,
which was easily the most remarkable thing Lugorix had ever laid eyes on. One pissed and crapped through a hole and apparently someone at the bottom of that hole was responsible for cleaning the mess up.