The Pillars of Hercules (4 page)

“What’s that mean?”

“Commissioned by the now-deceased Great King Artaxerxes to find the edges of the Earth.”

“The Earth has edges?”

“Of course. It’s flat.”

Lugorix remembered the mercenaries debating this very issue around the campfire one night. Some had said it was flat, others claimed it was round. Others had used the word
sphere
. Lugorix had gotten bored and wandered off to look for whores. “And so you want to reach the edges?”

“Artaxerxes wanted the chroniclers to tell the story of the edges of his dominions. But his jealous vizier Bagoas had him poisoned. Then purged his court. Among those who perished was Barsine’s father, the satrap Artabazus.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Lugorix.

“Indeed. But he was the man who Artaxerxes had put in charge of the building of the
Xerxes.
Before he was executed, he told his daughter the location, in what used to be our secret docks in province of Egypt. Which by now belonged to Athens. And shortly thereafter, Bagoas himself was poisoned by the Great King Darius III. So fugitive Barsine was summoned back to court. She went. But a few years later, Alexander came. Now she’s trying to escape all over again.”

Lugorix’s eyes had glazed over halfway through this. History wasn’t something he gave a shit about. “Interesting,” he said.

She looked amused. “Get some sleep,” she said. He climbed through into an even more confined space, found another cot, passed out before he even knew it.

He dreamt again of home, dreamt of his family’s funeral pyre on that day so long ago—dreamt anew of Athens. Images of Egypt tore through him like wounds. Barsine’s face danced in front of him, but he knew far more fear than he did desire. He saw Matthias shoving past him and chasing her, antlers on his head and a donkey’s tail on his behind. And then—

“Wake now,” said Damitra.

Lugorix opened his eyes. It felt like he’d just closed them. He staggered through into the engine-room; Barsine was still asleep. Damitra gestured at the hatch above them. He climbed through to find that dawn had just broken, the sun scattering the ocean with dappled light. Matthias was staring at that sun, looking like utter shit, but still awake. He turned to regard Lugorix, his eyes red with whatever stimulant he’d taken.

“So soon,” he muttered.

“Try not to dream of Egypt,” said Lugorix.

Matthias nodded, shoved past him while Lugorix settled down to watch the Mediterranean.

There wasn’t much left of the city from which they had departed. The Macedonian forces had razed most of Alcibiadia to the ground. All that was left of Pharos Lighthouse was a smoking stump. The bodies of thousands of Athenian sailors littered the beaches, but that was nothing compared to the tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians lying dead in the streets. Only native Egyptians had been spared. Fresh from their triumphant sack of the city, the bulk of the Macedonian army had moved on to the base of the Nile delta—the ancient Egyptian capital of Memphis, from which the Athenian garrison had already fled. Alexander was now entering the city in triumph and the whole population had turned out to welcome him as liberator, lining the roads, watching from the rooftops, straining to get a glimpse of the man himself. The cheering was deafening as row upon row of troops from the Macedonian phalanx paraded down the Azure Way, their massed
sarissae
extending upward in an endless field of spears, a procession of armor-clad elephants pacing after them. It seemed no wonder that Persia had fallen so quickly, that Athens’ hold on Egypt had crumbled overnight. Sun glistened on the bronze armor of the young conqueror, and those who could see the face beneath the ram horns that adorned his helmet marveled at his beauty—like a god, they said. Still others said that he
was
a god—the divine Pharaoh reborn, returned to claim his rightful heritage.

All of which was causing Eumenes no little anxiety. From his position toward the rear of Alexander’s cavalry entourage, the chief of staff watched his prince bask in a tidal wave of adulation far beyond anything anybody had expected. Certainly it blotted out the specter the Macedonian high command had been living with these last few months—Alexander’s chagrin at ceasing his eastward advance, his outrage at his father’s orders to garrison Persia and return to Macedonia. Alexander had indeed turned west, but not back to Macedonia—instead he’d struck suddenly at Egypt and met with utter success. Yet Eumenes knew all too well that when it came to Alexander, success could be even more dangerous than failure. And those stories his damn mother used to wind him up with… if the man
really
started to think that he was a god, then only the gods knew what would happen.

Ahead, the cheering grew still louder. They were coming out into the city’s central plaza, which lay in the shadow of the mammoth Temple of Ptah. Officers barked orders; men spread out as the marching phalanx seamlessly doubled its width, herding back the crowd and ensuring that much more space for Alexander. The phalanx then parted down the middle, allowing Alexander and his officers to ride straight up the marbled steps that led over the temple moat to Ptah’s main gate. Crocodiles filled that moat; Eumenes could see them sunning themselves like nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. At the topmost step, Alexander gave the order to dismount. He turned to acknowledge the crowds as his bodyguards stood around him.

Then he raised a single hand for silence. As though he had pulled a lever, the crowd noise suddenly began to die down.
He has them in the palm of his hand,
Eumenes realized. He could tell them to do anything, follow him anywhere—and they would. Even so, the bodyguards were anxiously scanning the crowd, looking for that lone Athenian assassin who could turn the whole world on its head with a single blow. He wouldn’t survive the casting of his dart or dagger—but if he was accurate in its throw, his name would assuredly live forever. But Alexander was as heedless of danger as he had been when he’d led the charge that broke the Persian center at Gaugemela—and Eumenes couldn’t help but notice that his face was flushed with the same barely restrained excitement. A temple interpreter stepped up beside Alexander, and translated as Alexander started speaking:

“People of Memphis. People of Egypt!” That set them cheering again, but this time he kept talking, projecting his voice in the marvelous stentorian tones that his tutor Aristotle had taught him back when he was a mere boy instead of a man with the face of one. “People of Egypt! I congratulate you on once more claiming your status as a free people! The curse of Athens has been lifted! No longer will they take the fruit of your labors, no longer will they own what belongs to you! Instead, now it is
you
that will own
them
. What would you do with your new possessions?”

The crowd’s cheering subsided into a bewildered burbling. No one knew where he was going with this, least of all Eumenes. But he knew Alexander well enough to know that this was merely part of the his ruler’s rhetorical style—drawing his audience in, leading them on. Other orators became bogged down when their audience floundered in confusion. Alexander simply used it to his advantage.

“What would you do with them?” he repeated. And suddenly Eumenes realized what was to take place. Macedonian soldiers were leading a score or so of bedraggled men from out of the mass of the army and up the stairs—Athenian soldiers, officials, and mercenaries. Some still wore their armor. Some were wounded. All looked scared.

“These men came from over the sea to plunder you,” said Alexander. “Do any of you know any reason why they should receive clemency for it?”

The crowd bayed like wolves. They understood their role now, and yelled for blood with the alacrity of those who know they are going to get it. One of the prisoners began begging for mercy, but his guard cuffed him hard on the head, sending him stumbling to his knees.

“I didn’t think so,” said Alexander, though only those close to him could hear him now. “Throw them in.” This last to the soldiers who held the Athenians. They began to scream as they realized the manner of their death—and then they were shoved off the steps and into the temple moat as the crowd bellowed with delight. Most of that crowd couldn’t see what was going on in the moat—but Eumenes could, and his horror was only amplified by the fact that he had to pretend that he was enjoying this. The crocodiles thrashed about the hapless Athenians, pulling off limbs like they were made of wet clay, turning the water red with blood. Other crocodiles seized their prey and dragged them down to the bottom, still struggling, until more crocodiles tore the victims piecemeal from their captors’ jaws. Eumenes had no idea the moat contained so many of the animals. He found the sight of that writhing carpet of reptiles to be little short of obscene—found it hard to believe anyone could worship anything so repulsive, save as a talisman of horror, and in that moment he hated Egypt with all his heart. With a start, he realized that Alexander was giving more instructions. The soldiers were saluting, dispersing back into the temple.

Eumenes went with those soldiers. He had much to do.

Being diplomatic with the priests and ensuring that nothing got stolen was part of it—Eumenes also had to issue not-so-gentle reminders that Alexander had laid down a firm mandate that all native Egyptian religions were to be left unmolested. But that task was made more complex by the conqueror’s wish to make Ptah’s temple the temporary Macedonian HQ. It was the largest building in the city and the most easily defensible. And it was to be the site of the meeting of his top generals that Alexander had ordered take place once his speech to the people of Memphis was concluded.

“Has he told you what he plans to discuss?”

Eumenes turned to find himself looking up at the chief marshal Hephaestion, whose annoyed face was almost as red as his hair. It was plain just how much the question was costing Alexander’s lover—particularly given the disdain he bore for Eumenes. They all despised him, of course—a mere Greek amidst the elite of Macedonia. Even though his father had been a guest-friend of Philip, even though he’d been brought up in the royal court—none of that mattered to the Macedonian generals. And they found it all the more galling that Alexander found his secretary’s mind so useful. All paperwork, all logistics, all bureaucracy passed through the hands of Eumenes.

But not all confidences.

“He hasn’t,” said Eumenes. The two men continued to walk down the temple’s torchlit corridor, past a series of carved stone crocodiles, guards trailing a respectful distance behind them. “Though I assumed he’d told—”

“Assume nothing,” snapped Hephaestion.

Eumenes nodded tactfully. He couldn’t even begin to fathom the complexities of Hephaestion’s relationship with Alexander, though he had no reason to believe it was immune to the tension that had been gripping the prince lately. But if Alexander was keeping secrets from the man who both shared his bed and headed his network of spies, then that fact boded less than well for the upcoming conference. All this flashed through Eumenes’ mind in an instant, and then he instinctively steered the conversation toward safer ground.

“Meleager,” he said.

“What about him?”

“Just got word he won’t be attending. Craterus has him consolidating our forces south of the city.” Hephaestion nodded at this; Eumenes could almost see the wheels turn within his mind as he mulled over what Craterus was up to. Hephaestion’s relations with Alexander’s other chief marshal were even worse than his relations with his secretary, though Eumenes could practically read Hephaestion’s thoughts on this particular matter: that Craterus’ power-play wasn’t a threat to himself, was instead simply designed to keep out of the room a man who was a particular favorite with the infantry, and with whom Craterus had clashed on more than one occasion. Even better, with Meleager absent, everybody could cast aspersions at him behind his back. Hephaestion nodded to Eumenes; understanding passed between them. They headed through an archway into the records chamber.

The Egyptian scribes who populated that chamber had already been moved elsewhere and replaced with Eumenes’ own. They were still setting up shop, though, unfurling scrolls and dispatches, supervised by a man with a copper-toned beard and nervous disposition. He waved a casual greeting.

“Harpalus,” said Eumenes.

Alexander’s treasurer nodded. “A relief to see you,” he said. “I was afraid the conference had already begun.”

“He hasn’t even left the steps yet,” said Eumenes.

Harpalus raised an eyebrow.

“Though he seems to have finished bringing justice to the captured Athenians,” added Eumenes.

Harpalus nodded. Had Hephaestion not been present, Eumenes knew that he would have said something cynical. Harpalus was a born accountant—his mind was all logic and numbers, which was probably why he was the only one among Alexander’s entourage with whom Eumenes could let his guard down. But right now, with Hephaestion standing there, Harpalus had to content himself with business.

“The priests have cooperated totally,” the treasurer said. “Their scribes have been showing me the account ledgers.”

Eumenes frowned. “What about the real ones?”

“Ah. Those too.”

“Isn’t it about time we got started?” said a voice.

People said that Ptolemy’s nose was always five steps ahead of him. In truth, it was more aquiline than long, but court wags had never been known for their literal accuracy. Then again, it was an underhanded tribute to his political deftness: his ability to never get tied up in any one faction while somehow remaining on good terms with them all. But right now the expression on that hail-fellow-well-met face was more than a little puzzled.

“He’s still out on the steps,” said Hephaestion.

“The others are waiting,” replied Ptolemy. 

“So let them wait.”

“We could go join them.”

“We could,” said Eumenes. He gave some instructions to the scribes, then led the top brass through jackal-painted corridors into a vaulted chamber dominated by a massive marble table. A bearded giant of a man sat at one end while a leaner man paced. They looked up as the group entered.