Empire of Dust (11 page)

There is stark silence as he turns and leaves the courtyard. He has to remind himself to walk slowly, both to appear self-assured and to hide his limp. In actuality, he just wants to run.

* * *

The next day, thunder rumbles from the distant hills, and the clouds look like molten iron, heavy with rain. Birds, eager to be back in their nests before the storm breaks, flitter low and swift across the palace courtyard. Alex is glad the day is cooler than yesterday when the people saw him sweat. Even more spectators, if possible, have crowded into the courtyard today. He studies the three men standing before him in chains.

Theopompus's usually pristine teal robes are now filthy from the dungeon, and his carefully coiffed hair has lost its dazzling sheen of gold dust. White streaks run through it, along with dirt and cobwebs. Gordias's white robes are caked with dirt. His long snowy beard is matted. He is bowed, but only with age. His dark eyes burn bright and hard with anger. But Kadmus looks as if he's just returned from a pleasure hunt or military training, a bit sweaty and rumpled, but perfectly relaxed.

Once again, Sarina proffers the
hydria
and Alex dips his hand into its belly, fingering the three
ostraca
left.

Not Kadmus.

Hiding a swell of relief, Alex says, “Theopompus, son of Nicander, step forward.” The golden-haired minister musters his considerable dignity and does so. “When my guards searched your quarters, they found countless jewels and foreign gold.”

“Gifts, my lord,” Theopompus says, looking Alex straight in the eye. “For many years I have served Macedon as ambassador. Foreign governments give me gifts, just as Macedon gives gifts to visiting dignitaries. It is no secret.”

“Your lifestyle goes above and beyond gifts. Does treachery fund your lavish estates?” Alex asks. “In your country houses we found entire harems of slaves for your bed, the most expensive paramours money can buy. A collection of rare gems. Chests of gold. A statue by Praxiteles.”

“I have my own businesses, my lord,” Theopompus says, lifting his chin. “Profitable and legal.”

Alex steps so close to Theopompus that they are almost nose to nose. He stares into eyes of the most exquisite pale blue-green color and does the same thing he did yesterday. First he relaxes, making a silent vow to never use this power except for good. Then he empties his mind for a long moment before thinking—no,
feeling
—one of the happiest times of his life. This time he relives the moment when the Aesarian Lords blew the horn for retreat at the battle of Pellan Fields, when it seemed that the sweet nectar of victory pulsed through his veins instead of blood.

He finds himself disembodied, whipping through the tunnel of light. He emerges in a large, richly furnished parlor, one he's visited before with his father; it is in Theopompus's hillside estate right outside Pella. An Athenian, by the cut of his cloak, snaps his fingers and slaves wheel in a magnificent larger-than-life-sized statue of a nude Aphrodite with blond hair tumbling down her shoulders. Her wide blue eyes seem surprised that someone has come upon her bathing, and her lips are parted as if she is about to speak. Alex is most amazed at how the fingers of her left hand push into the flesh of her thigh in a way that is incredibly lifelike.

Yes, this is the statue by Praxiteles, the most famous sculptor of all time, now retired in Athens, his hands stiff with age, his chisel passed to other, lesser artists.

“The Athenian gave you the Praxiteles in return for...what?” he asks. Theopompus's eyes widen.

“I am the traitor,” Gordias says suddenly, stepping forward with clanking manacles and standing between Theopompus and Alex. “I am your spy.”

“You?” Alex says incredulously. Theopompus, too, stares at Gordias, his mouth open in shock.

“We searched your rooms,” Alex says. “There was nothing. Not even much furniture, no comforts at all.”

“Perhaps I've hidden my ill-gotten wealth too well for your men to find,” Gordias says, his reedy old voice quavering with anger. “Perhaps I've given Macedonian secrets to our enemies for free out of the loathing I feel for the injustices of unwise rulers.”

Alex steps closer and sees raw hostility in those dark and ancient eyes. The granddaughter Philip raped and Olympias may have murdered—that must be it. It has been there all along, concealed by the theatrics of a clever spy. Gordias never fell asleep at all those council meetings. He just pretended so everyone would think him a harmless old fool. Alex steps closer to travel into those contemptuous eyes but Gordias turns his face away.

“Enough of your tricks,” the old man whispers.

Alex wonders for a moment if Gordias has guessed that he possesses this power. He must, for no other person has refused to meet Alex's gaze. Evidently Gordias doesn't want Alex to look too closely into his past.

Gordias has confessed to treason in front of hundreds of people, and now Alex will have to execute him, the white-bearded grandfather beloved by Pellans for his intercession with the gods on their behalf. He glances back at Sarina, who is also gauging the mood of the crowd, her face tense. Kadmus's mouth is a hard, thin line, and Theopompus's large features look like a tragic theater mask.

Alex nods once, and a guard takes Gordias by the arm.

“A chief priest of the gods cannot be executed unless permission is granted by the oracle of Delphi,” Gordias says loudly, angrily shaking off the guards.

“It is true, my lord,” Sarina says hastily, stepping forward. “Gordias belongs to the gods, not to you, and only the gods can decide his fate.”

Relief rushes through Alex. It will no longer be his decision to execute Gordias, but the gods'. And if they decide he is guilty, Alex will hold a private execution so the people won't see the silver head go rolling off the withered shoulders.

“Agreed,” Alex says, relieved at something else, too. Kadmus isn't the spy. Kadmus can go free. “Kadmus and Theopompus, you are released. Gordias, you will stay in prison until we receive word from Delphi.”

Soldiers hustle Gordias off the scaffold, his shackles rattling. Theopompus, sweat trickling off his forehead, holds out his hands for his chains to be removed. Without looking at Alex, he climbs heavily down the steps and hurries off in the direction of the baths. Kadmus stands calmly while the guard removes his shackles. “May I return to the barracks?” he asks.

Alex nods. Then, holding his head high, he climbs down the scaffold and strides back to the palace, feeling as exhausted as if he had fought in an hours-long battle.

In fact, this
was
a battle. One in which he has lost men. And he has lost something else, too, some final shard of his boyhood, an inner peace he once knew and may never know again.

But for now, he has work to do. Of his father's council, two are dead and another in prison. This can mean only one thing: it's time for some replacements.

Chapter Ten

DARIUS, BOTH NEPHEW
and
grandson to the Great King Artaxerxes, watches patiently as the king stands up from the imperial table on the dais, a tall, slender figure, his enormous diadem making him seem even taller. All the guests in the throne room stand up from their tables with him. Darius notes with a silent sneer that some of them are drunk enough to knock over their stools, even though it is only midday.

The ceremonial hall of the Persepolis palace is crowded with members of the court, feasting at banquet tables placed between countless red columns ten times the height of a man. Smoke from incense burners rises all the way to the golden horns of two-headed bulls that sit atop each column. Bars of slanting light flooding in through high open windows reveal that everyone has worn their most colorful clothing to this meal to honor the Bactrian envoys—red and lapis blue, Tyrian purple and forest-green, spangled with gold and silver—except for Darius, who wears his customary black tunic and trousers of the finest Milesian wool, a single crow in a court of countless peacocks.

The Great King waves, a short, dismissive gesture, the signal for everyone to stay where they are. But Darius rises to join him, the world's most powerful king, ruler of all of the Satrapies of Persia from his envied capital in the center of his three-million-square-mile empire. With a spike of irritation, he notices that Artaxerxes's other favorite advisor, the eunuch general Bagoas, joins them. The womanish general, as he calls him to his friends, always pushes Artaxerxes to do exactly the opposite of what Darius advises.

“Perhaps, sire, we could speak in private,” Darius suggests, stroking his well-trimmed beard. When the king nods, Darius notes in satisfaction Bagoas's obvious disappointment and his awkwardness as he returns to the banquet table.

“Oburzus is training the young horses,” the old king says. “Let us speak there.”

Darius smiles broadly. “Yes, sire, let's!” But he groans inwardly. How could a man so intent on ruling the largest empire the world has ever seen enjoy watching horses gallop in circles?

With the king's guards stomping behind them, the two men walk through jewellike gardens with monkeys chattering in palm trees, past fountains splashing into blue rectangular pools, and across brightly painted courtyards. The king's sequined purple robes billow behind him as he strides forward, and Darius must hurry to follow the taller man, wondering yet again how an eighty-five-year-old can ride horses, race upstairs, and walk for hours on end. The king has none of the weaknesses of age and is never sick. Some members of the court whisper he is, in fact, immortal.

As soon as they enter the racetrack, Artaxerxes waves his hand, and all the spectators stand up and move to benches on the other side.

The king watches a stallion gallop toward them. “Some say it is harder for horses to qualify for my army than it is for men,” he says in a low voice, never taking his eyes off the animal. “And they are correct.”

Every angle in the king's sharp, bony face radiates amusement. “Horses are flight creatures, prey in the wild. Their inborn tendency to panic helps them survive. We must train them against their instincts. That is why one well-trained warhorse is worth twenty foot soldiers.”

Darius nods and tries to keep an expression of polite interest. “Like a clever horse, we, too, must keep going in the face of obstacles, sire. The disappearance of Princess Zofia of Sardis has still not been solved, but Macedon has accepted our story that she died suddenly. Girls often die of fevers—it is not so unusual.”

The king nods. “Though it is unusual when a princess disappears,” he says, almost hissing the last words, his dark eyes gliding from the track below to Darius.

Darius starts inwardly, but his well-trained face continues to smile benignly. “I imagine the prince of Macedon will not mind our solution,” he says. As soon as word had come thundering over the Royal Road from a sweat-soaked courier that Princess Zofia had vanished, Darius had, with the Great King's approval, personally selected three girls from the royal harem to be Alexander's new brides. They were all dark-haired and doe-eyed, with the smooth skin of women who bathed in milk. Their sparkling eyes smiled at Darius, proof that they found him attractive despite his forty years. His body is as hard as it was two decades ago, and much more muscular. His proud, hawklike face fascinated them almost as much as the aura of power he wears like cologne, a scent that leaves women swooning in his wake.

He watched the girls excitedly climb into the royal
harmanaxa
of bright red cowhide with their eunuchs. This magnificent vehicle would take the brides sixteen hundred miles west along the Royal Road, from Persepolis to the port of Apasa, where the brides would board a ship bound for Macedon.

The thought of what their gauzy robes concealed caused Darius many agonizing hours since then, the needling pinpricks of desire. And then the surge of true power when he refused to give in to what his body demanded.

Artaxerxes's next words seem to echo Darius's thought. “With these new brides, the boy will be spending the next several months in bed. I know I would, if I were sixteen.”

Darius needs to move the conversation in another direction. “The point is, Uncle, Philip is trapped in Byzantium now that we are reinforcing the city. When we distract Prince Alexander with the brides, who will be defending Macedon? Now is the time.”

“I don't want outright war, grandson,” Artaxerxes says as he removes his heavy crown and sets it on the bench beside him, rubbing the deep red mark at the top of his forehead. It irritates Darius like a pebble in his boot that the king refers to him in the more remote relationship—grandson rather than nephew. Darius's mother, Artaxerxes's daughter, married the Great King's much younger half brother in a typical arranged palace union.

“These marriages will help us avoid that,” Artaxerxes continues. “We are playing both sides against the middle. Luring Macedon in as our ally through the brides. Defending our other ally, Byzantium, against their attacker, Macedon. We are using diplomacy to sow confusion and uncertainty. No one knows exactly where they stand with us. It is a good plan. A Persian plan.” A hot desert breeze blows a wispy silver tendril against his lined cheek.

“Macedon is rising, that is clear, sire,” Darius says. “But they are small as yet. The conquests of which they are so proud are rebellious clans, cattle thieves and raiders. They haven't yet conquered an organized nation with a strong military. Now would be the time to vanquish them. Before Philip returns. Before their prince gains more experience.”

“Vanquish? Oh, I think not,” Artaxerxes replies. From an ornately jeweled scabbard, he unsheathes his dagger with a slow scrape and holds it up. Darius can't help but admire how the smooth, polished iron glints in the sun. It is a masterpiece that belonged to Cyrus the Great two hundred years ago, its ivory hilt marvelously carved with winged deities and studded with gemstones.

“The last time Persia tried to vanquish the Greek nations, it cost us greatly,” the king says, running his fingers over the blade. “You, grandson, were named for the great King Darius who burned Athens and tumbled their Parthenon to the ground. Perhaps you would like to do something similar. But remember that Darius lost our army at Marathon and his son Xerxes lost our navy at Salamis.”

Darius sits in silence. No matter how fast Artaxerxes can walk, he is too old to be king. Careful and plodding, the blood in his veins hardly flows at all; it is gelid with age and caution. He can hardly believe this is the same man who, to grab the throne, murdered eighty brothers in a single day, personally strangling the infants in their cribs. “Sire, that was a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“A valuable lesson nonetheless,” the king says, running a thumb over a protruding sapphire. “We do not want to make an enemy of Macedon. If these brides have children, Alexander's heirs will be half-Persian, raised by Persian mothers. They will be unwilling to attack us and will attack Greek city-states instead: Athens, Sparta, Corinth. These heirs will do our work for us. It spares men, treasure, and resources for us to use elsewhere. It is a brilliant scheme.”

Darius nods as if he is truly considering Artaxerxes's nonsense. On the racetrack before them, horses spark up clouds of dust. He says, “Perhaps we should ask ourselves, sire, where Philip will look when he has solidified his gains in Greece. To Judea, that dusty land of goats, sand fleas, and squabbling tribes?”

He swats at something that landed on his cheek and it falls to his lap. A large black sand fly. He flicks it away and continues. “Will he look west to that ambitious village of farmers and shepherds called Rome? North to the wild Scythians and their endless fields of grass? Or will he not look
east
, to Persia, a land rich in gold and manpower? If we rid ourselves of both Philip and Alexander and control that idiot Arridheus, we can marry
him
to a Persian princess
and
rule all of Greece.”

The old man looks up at Darius, his small, dark eyes hard. “A good strategy. And one we can implement whenever we wish. But for now, I want Alexander to be wooed by brides, not killed by swords. And, Darius, you would do well to take a new wife. Perhaps it would help you keep your war-hungry sword in its hilt.”

Darius takes the dig in stride. Since the death of the mother of his firstborn son, Ochus, Darius has sworn off the touch of a woman. It's a vow that has left him many a frustrated night. But he will not succumb to the gross temptations of the flesh, as the old king has, at the risk of losing mastery of his own mind.

He has woven so many complex plots across this great nation that the web of deceit could engulf and strangle him if he isn't careful at all times.

He watches as the king pushes on the round ivory pommel of his dagger and it springs open, revealing a hollow compartment filled with tiny stone vials. Poison, Darius assumes, used to coat the weapon or drop into someone's wine. The king must think this will impress him. But Darius first used this old trick when he was six and borrowed the vial he found in his older brother's sword to poison the bad-tempered nursemaid who beat him.

“Only barbarians rush in foolishly with swords drawn, young Darius,” the king says. He snaps the compartment shut and slides the dagger back into its scabbard. “Tell me. Have you heard more of the Hunor? Have you learned yet what has happened to them?”

Darius hesitates. The latest tales are so horrifying he can't repeat them, at least not until they are confirmed. “I have sent men to investigate the rumors. I should know more soon, Uncle.”

The king nods, exhaling deeply. “If it is as they say, then the greatest threat to our empire is not that barbarian one-eyed king of Macedon. Nor any other mortal kingdom, for that matter. We'd be wisest to fear the evil that is as yet unknown.”

And for the first time all day, Darius wonders if, for once, the king is right.