To Rescue Tanelorn (15 page)

They treated him with some respect, though they divested him of his sword and led him to the main gate where, after conversation, he was admitted.

He was made to wait several times, being studied and questioned by a variety of viziers and minions of the king, but at last he was ushered into a large chamber.

Big windows let in the flickering torchlight. A great bed of brass, silver, and gold, heaped with silks and furs, was in the centre of the room.

Alexander was sitting up in bed. He had been sweating, Simon could see. His nose told him the same story.

The odour, in fact, was bad. Far worse than ordinary perspiration. Simon couldn’t place the smell.

With a degree of nervousness Simon approached the huge bed.

Suddenly, King Alexander grinned and stuck out a handsome hand.

“You have a letter for me, I hear—and a token?”

“I have, sire.” Simon gave the letter and the little talisman to Alexander, studying the king’s strange face. In a way it was boyish, in another ancient and sensuous. He had a long nose and thick lips, heavily lidded eyes and brown, curly hair. Simon was taken aback by the king’s lack of ceremony, by his friendly grin. Was this the God-King? The spawn of evil?

Alexander read the letter quickly, nodding to himself.

“Did Hano tell you of my debt to him?”

“No, sire,” Simon said tactfully.

“He has many secrets, Hano—but he’s an old man and, in his generosity, keeps few to himself, I’ve heard.”

“He seems curiously tight-lipped, sire,” Simon replied, anxious for his friend’s life, “and even I who saved his life one time in Thebes can never get a full reply to any question I ask him.”

Alexander looked up sharply, staring Simon in the face with peculiarly wide eyes.

“So you wish to join my army. Hano recommends you as a fighting man—suggests you join my staff. I choose my officers with care, Simon of Byzantium.”

“I wish only a trial, sire.”

“You shall have it.”

Alexander studied the letter again.

“You’re from Byzantium, I note. My father Philip was repulsed by that city some years ago—but that does not mean I can have no love for the city—perhaps the contrary. It’s well known I disliked him and can admire a city which withstood his attack.” Alexander smiled again. “Though she did not hold out for long against Philip’s son, did she?”

“No, sire.”

Alexander had an almost tangible vitality, but he was evidently unwell. This ailment was not solely confined to his body, either, Simon felt.

Alexander mused, caressing the little amulet.

“I have need of a herald—a man who can travel between wherever I am campaigning and the capital of Macedonia.”

“I thought Persia was your base these days, sire.”

“You’ve been listening to Greek and Macedonian criticism, no doubt. They say I’ve forsaken my own lands for the fleshpots and honours of the East. That’s a lie. It is too far to travel back always to Pela. Persia offers a better base for my operations. There are still a few acres of the world left for me to conquer, Simon—and they all lie eastwards.”

Alexander sank back into his silks, eyeing the Thracian.

“You’ll serve my mother and myself as a messenger.”

Simon put his hand to his lips and said courteously: “I had rather hoped to go with the army, sire.”

Alexander frowned slightly. “And so you will, of course. No doubt there’ll be fighting for you—and new knowledge. I’m pleased that you’re literate. Most of my captains are chosen for several qualities—courage, loyalty—and learning. You appear to have courage and learning—but I must find out about your loyalty, you understand.”

Simon nodded. “That is logical, sire.”

“Good, then—” Alexander broke off as the doors of the chamber opened behind Simon. The Thracian turned to stare at the door.

A vizier, in long cloth-of-gold robes, hurried into the room.

He prostrated himself before the king’s bed.

“Son of Zeus,” he mumbled, “a message.”

“Is it secret?”

“No, sire—they say it is already common knowledge.”

“Then speak—what is it?” Alexander propped himself into a sitting position again.

“A massacre, sire—in Lonarten—a troop of your Macedonian horse went berserk, killed many hundreds of women and children. There are rumours of cannibalism and unhealthy rites…” The vizier stopped as a smile crossed Alexander’s sensuous lips. “The people are asking for your interference—for compensation.”

Alexander smiled again. Simon was sickened by the sight. The king could be seen to grip hold of the bed-clothes as if attempting to control himself. He groaned once, slightly.

With effort he said: “We must call a halt to—we must stop…” Then he flung back his handsome head and bellowed with laughter. It was a laughter totally evil, a horrible, malicious joy which seethed around the room, echoing and roaring in Simon’s horrified ears.

“Seize the complainers,” Alexander shouted, “we’ll sell them as eunuchs to the harems of Turkey. Teach them that the ways of a god are not the ways of a mere king—teach them not to question the word or actions of the Son of Zeus!”

Hurriedly, the vizier backed out of the room.

Simon, forgetful for his own safety, leaned forward and shouted into Alexander’s twisted face:

“You are mad—for your own sake do not let this massacre continue. Your unruly troops will cause a revolution—you will lose your empire.”

Alexander’s eyes opened even wider. A hand leapt from the silks and furs and seized Simon’s ear. The mouth curled and even teeth moved as Alexander snarled:

“For you I will
invent
a death!”

Simon grasped the wrist, attempting to wrest himself from Alexander’s grip. He was sickened, trembling and shaken by the strength in one so evidently ill. He felt the presence of something more than common insanity. What had changed the pleasant, practical soldier into this manifestation of evil? How could such different qualities exist in one body? Terror clouded his mind.

With a wrench he was free of the king’s grasp and backed panting away from him.

“They said you were Ahriman’s spawn—and I did not believe them,” he gasped.

Alexander grimaced, flung back the bed-clothes and leapt to the ground, advancing towards Simon, with hands outstretched.

“I am Zeus’s son—born of god and mortal to rule the world. Abase yourself, heretic, for I have the power to send you to Hades!”

“All men have that power,” Simon said, turned and ran for the great doors, tugged them open and, before he could be stopped, fled down the shouting corridors, blind to everything but the need to escape from the screaming madman behind him.

He remembered little of the flight, of the two fights, in the first of which he somehow gained a weapon, of his breathless running through the streets of Babylon with hordes of soldiers seeking him out.

He ran.

He had run himself virtually to death when several warriors pinned him in a blind alley and he turned, snarling like an animal to defend himself. Crouching, sword raised, he waited for them as they cautiously advanced.

They had not expected such ferocity. He had cut the first soldier down in a trice and sliced the flesh from another’s arm.

In front of him, as if superimposed on the real scene before him, was the great, sensuous head of Alexander still roaring with crazy laughter.

Simon had seen madmen many times. But Alexander had more than madness. He slashed with his sword and missed his target, fell forward, rolled on his back, brought his sword across his face to deflect a blade which had hurtled down through the confused night. He edged back, flung himself sideways, slashing, scrambled up and brought the edge of his sword up to chop a man’s jugular.

Then he was running again, every limb aching, but a terrible fear, a fear of more than death or torture, driving, driving him onward to escape.

When the silent, dark-robed men appeared out of the night and surrounded him he cut at one but his sword seemed to meet metal, his hand went numb and the blade fell to the stones of the streets.

Alexander’s face rose before him, laughing, laughing. The roaring, evil merriment filled his head, then his whole body until it seemed that he, Simon, was Alexander, that he was enjoying the bloody joke, the evil, malignant glee pouring wildly from his shaking body.

Then peace of a kind, and hazy, mysterious dreams where he saw strange shapes moving through the smoke from a million red and glowing braziers.

Simon felt a hard, smooth surface beneath his back.

He opened his eyes warily.

A lean, white, thin-lipped face looked kindly down at him.

“I am Abaris,” he said.

“Simon of Byzantium,” said the Thracian.

“You have witnessed darkness?” It was only half a question.

“Yes,” Simon replied, bemused.

“We are men of light. The Magi welcome you. You are safe here.”

“Magi? They are priests in Persia—but you’re not Persian.”

“That is so.”

“Abaris? There is an Abaris of legend—a wizard, was he not—a priest of Apollo who rode on an arrow?”

The Magi made no reply to this, simply smiled.

“You have incurred the wrath of Alexander. How long would you say you had to live?”

“A strange question. I’d say as long as my wits were sharp enough to evade the searchings of his soldiers.”

“You would be wrong.”

Simon pushed himself upright on the wide bench and looked around him. Two other priests sat regarding him from across the bare room. Daylight filtered in from a hole in the ceiling.

“Do I really owe you my life?”

“We think you do—but you are in no debt. We wish we could give such concrete aid to all enemies of Alexander.”

“I am not his enemy—he is mine.”

“You have witnessed what he is—can you still say that?”

Simon nodded. “I am his enemy,” he agreed and then amended this with: “Or at least the enemy of what he represents.”

“You are exact—we also are the enemies of what Alexander represents.”

Simon put his head on one side and smiled slightly. “Ah—let us be careful. He is insane, that is all. He represents material evil, not supernatural.”

Briefly, Abaris looked impatiently away, frowning. Then his features resumed their earlier look.

“It is a bold thing to be an unbeliever in these times.”

“Bold or not—it is what I am.” Simon swung his legs off the bench. He felt incredibly weak.

Abaris said: “We Magi worship Ormuzd. Simply—Alexander represents Ahriman.”

“These are the twin facets of your single deity are they not?” Simon said. He nodded. “I know a little about your cult—it’s cleaner than most. You worship Fire, Sun and Light—with a minimum of ritual.”

“True. A man who is confident in his soul needs little ritual.”

Simon was satisfied by this.

“We would be grateful if you would ally yourself with us, the Magi,” Abaris said quietly. “In return we will protect you from Alexander’s minions as best we can.”

“I told you—and I do not wish to seem ungrateful—my wits will keep me safe from the Macedonian’s warriors.”

“We refer to his supernatural minions.”

Simon shook his head. “I respect your beliefs—but I cannot accept them personally.”

Abaris leaned forward and said urgently, softly:

“Simon, you must aid us. Alexander and his mother are both possessed. For years we have been aware of this. For years we have attempted to fight the forces possessing them—and we are losing. You have seen how Ahriman controls Alexander. You must aid us!”

Simon said: “You have cloaked the simple fact of Alexander’s madness in a shroud of supernatural speculation.”

Abaris shook his head, saying nothing. Simon continued:

“I have seen many men go mad with riches and power—Alexander is another. When he dies his good works will survive but the evil will be eliminated by time.”

“You are naïve, young man. Why, Achilles believed that…” Abaris bit his lip and lapsed into silence.

“Achilles? He died a thousand years ago. How do you know what he believed?”

Abaris turned away. “Of course, I could not know,” he said. His eyes were hooded.

“You give me cause to think you really are the Abaris of legend,” Simon smiled. He was joking. But even to his ears the joke rang true.

Abaris said: “Can a man live for more than a thousand years?”

“No,” Simon said, “no.” He said it almost savagely, for it was what he wished to believe.

Out there, in a palace of Babylon, there was
evil,
he thought. But it was not, could not be—
must
not be supernatural.

Abaris now said:

“Alexander has reigned almost thirteen years—a mystic number. Our oracles prophesied that the turning point would come after thirteen years of rule. Now, as we fear, Alexander and the forces which act through him will bring an unchecked reign of evil to the world—or else, and the chance is small, he will be stopped.”

“You wish me to aid you in this. I must dissent. To help you I would have to believe you—that I cannot do.”

Abaris seemed to accept this. When he next spoke it was in a detached, trancelike voice.

“Ahriman—the multiplicity of Ahrimans whom we designate by the one name—selected Olympias many years ago. He needed a vessel through which to work and, at that time, no mortal had been born who would serve Ahriman’s purpose. So he took possession of poor Olympias. Philip, that great and wronged man, went regularly to the Isle of Samothrace on pilgrimage and, one year, Olympias made it her business to be there also. A love potion was all she needed. Philip was enamoured of her. They had a son—Alexander…”

Simon said wearily: “This is mere gossip such as old women make in the markets.”

“Ormuzd protect you if you ever learn the truth,” was all Abaris said.

Simon rose shakily. “If there is anything I can do to repay you—some material act, perhaps—I am very willing.”

Abaris thought for a moment. Then he took a scroll from his robe. He unrolled it and glanced over the weird script. It was not Persian, Simon knew, but what it was he could not tell.