The Pillars of Hercules (16 page)

“Word is that the Macks are moving up to attack in force,” the man replied.

“Could be another false alarm,” said Theramenes.

“It’s not,” said the man.

“Let’s go,” said Matthias. They rode hard through the streets, Theramenes leading the way through alleys and roads as they raced northwest as fast as their steeds could carry them. Straight toward the setting sun…

Which all at once was blotted out.

“Holy shit,” said Lugorix.

The sky was almost black with projectiles arcing in toward them. Some of them were burning. Some weren’t. They streaked down, began to disappear amidst the buildings up ahead. The earth began to shake.

“Looks like that guy wasn’t kidding,” said Theramenes.

The Macedonian bombardment seemed to be concentrating on the very portion of the city toward which they were heading. But all they could do was keep riding in toward it—in toward all the shaking and the screaming and the clouds of dust starting to rise up like a wall in front of them. Theramenes had them keeping largely to the secondary roads and side-streets, avoiding most of the troop-traffic on the avenues. Lugorix urged his horse onward, not sure how much more the beast would be able to stand.

But then he caught a glimpse of motion in an adjacent street.

“Chariot,” said Lugorix.

It might not have anything to do with what they seeking, but they’d seen nothing else going so fast. They spurred their horses forward, Theramenes steering them down more short-cuts—through a cul-de-sac to a narrow passage forcing them to ride in single file, then down what seemed like a series of blind alleys. All the while they were heading toward that bombardment. They could hear the noise of the impacts as rocks tore through buildings.

They came out into the same street as the chariot, saw that they’d managed to get ahead of it. Lugorix glanced back, sizing up the situation. The chariot was pulled by two horses. Three men rode within—one at the reins, one holding a sling, the other with several javelins. Further back was a covered wagon, pulled by three more horses, two men riding atop it. A second chariot was bringing up the rear. The procession was moving at full-tilt, racing past the marching militias heading for the wall. And the chariots were being driven with a skill that said those who rode them were no amateurs.

“That’s them,” said Matthias.

“How can you be sure?” said Theramenes.

“They’re Macks,” insisted Matthias. “Barsine is in that damn wagon.”

And if she wasn’t, then they weren’t going to catch her. Lugorix knew that Matthias was fishing in the dark, but what other choice did they have? But then Theramenes narrowed his eyes, looking more closely at one of the men atop the wagon.

“That’s one of them,” he said. “I saw him back at the house.”

Lugorix nodded at Matthias, who immediately started galloping forward, putting more distance between himself and the oncoming procession. Lugorix waited a moment, then spurred his horse in the opposite direction, straight at the chariot, Theramenes trailing in his wake. The chariot’s driver had now noticed the oncoming threat—pointing at them with one hand, holding onto the reins with the other—and his two comrades responded. A javelin just missed Theramenes; a stone streaked past Lugorix’s head: way too close given that they were still more than thirty meters out. The slinger drew back for another chance—and then toppled out of the chariot, an arrow in his head. Matthias’ bow had found his mark. The javeliner lowered his head to gain more cover, waited while Lugorix charged in, raised himself to hurl the javelin at point-blank range. But even as he did so, a second arrow hit him, straight through the chest. He fell down in the vehicle; Lugorix swerved his horse past the chariot, turned in behind it.

And leapt in.

To jump into a chariot from horseback is a maneuver with no middle ground—you have to climb onto your horse and hurl yourself from it in a single fluid motion, which usually leaves you looking either very impressive or very dead. Lugorix’s tribe called it the salmon-leap—and the driver of the chariot barely saw it coming before Lugorix was right beside him, hurling him from the chariot with a barbarian shout of exaltation. Matthias took up the cry, unleashing another arrow at the wagon, hitting one of the men on top of it. The other turned the wagon toward the road’s edge—sending it hurtling down another street that slanted off at an angle. The second chariot accelerated in order to cover its departure. Lugorix hauled tighter on the reins, forcing his newly acquired chariot to slow; restraining his own instinct as much as the horses, since it meant allowing the chariot behind him to draw nearer to his exposed back.

A slingstone streaked past and smashed Theramenes in the skull; the man went down and his riderless horse raced away. Matthias was now riding straight at Lugorix—straight past him and at the chariot behind him, firing an arrow that went wide of the driver. But as the driver focused on Matthias, Lugorix pulled in the reins, suddenly braking his own chariot. As the opposing chariot shot past him, he tossed a javelin at the driver, hitting him in the neck while Matthias simultaneously put an arrow into one of the horses. The chariot went out of control, cartwheeling behind the remaining terrified horse, disintegrating even as it tossed its hapless riders through the air.

“Let’s get after that wagon,” snarled Matthias. Lugorix nodded.

“What in the name of all the gods are you guys doing?” yelled someone from a window.

“Killing Macks,” said Lugorix—next moment, he and Matthias were riding down the road the wagon had taken. The chariots had bought that wagon time—maybe enough to matter. Through the buildings the walls were becoming visible. They rounded a corner, and had to ride through people racing past them, doing their utmost to escape the Macedonian bombardment which was crashing down like rain all around them. Ahead of them was the end of the road—shots of fire streaking in and around the northwest barbican-fortress, a mass of towers and battlements that stretched across both inner and outer walls. But its interior gates lay open. The wagon charged inside.

“Come on,” said Matthias, as they galloped across the open ground toward the barbican. A huge stone smashed into the ground only a short distance away. Another impacted on the inner wall, sending pieces of the battlements tumbling into the city below. Still another projectile crashed onto the far side of the open ground, near some fleeing soldiers. It seemed to be some kind of vial—and where it had just shattered, a murky yellow gas arose. Lugorix didn’t feel like getting anywhere near it. And now those soldiers who had been caught within the growing cloud were suddenly writhing, clawing at their eyes, rolling over and over upon the ground as though they were possessed.

“Demons,” muttered Lugorix.

“Worse,” said Matthias. “Poison.”

They rode through the gate and into the fortress. Which was a madhouse. It was as though civil war had been unleashed within. They were in one of the courtyards; Lugorix found himself looking up at balconies, ramps and stairs. Men were fighting with each other everywhere. All wore the uniform of the Athenian army.

“Complicated,” said Matthias.

“There,”
said Lugorix.

He gestured to the wagon, which had come to rest against the far wall. A door lay open nearby. Matthias and Lugorix rode over to the wagon. A quick look within ascertained that its drivers had fled with the contents. The two men headed through the door, found themselves in a corridor.

“They’ll be making for the outer wall,” said Matthias.

“Or helping let the rest of the Macks inside,” said Lugorix.

“Or both,” shot back Matthias. The corridor ended in a metal ladder. They started to clamber up it, Lugorix becoming increasingly unsure that they were on the right track. But all they could do was keep going. They could hear the noise of combat all around, but this route took them directly into the fortress’ rafters. They went up for what seemed to be at least a hundred feet—rather a long way when one didn’t know what was at the top of it. Finally they emerged onto a platform.

And their jaws dropped at the view.

Chapter Eight

E
umenes walked through the dirt-walled trenches. Macedonian soldiers raced past; those who noticed him saluted. All around were the noises of siege machinery: the clanking of levers, the whir of gears, the crackle of flame as missiles were set alight, the telltale whine as they were released, all of it multiplied by hundreds of times… the sound of impending death, a sound that all too often wouldn’t even be heard on the receiving end. Eumenes could only imagine what it would be like within Athens right now. All the more so as the city hadn’t been expecting this so soon.

For that matter, neither had he. Thanks to Philip, none of them had. The master-manipulator had once again shown why he was the ruler of them all. He’d talked a good game about the schemes to take down the Athenian Empire, the whole time brewing his own plan. Eumenes kicked himself for not anticipating it. The one thing that Philip was particularly proud of was his siege-train—something that was notoriously immobile, save for the few elite engineers who had accompanied Alexander east against Persia. Athens was Philip’s big chance to show the world what he’d been building. Egypt or not, Philip would have eventually struck at Athens. Everything they’d discussed in that meeting had been mere contingency planning.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

Wheels within wheels, a convoluted chain of logic: for even if they captured the center of everything—even if they took Athens and raped its women, killed its men, sold its children into slavery… even if they won it all, there would still be the West to deal with. There were some empires where the capture of the capital spelled doom for the rest of the imperium. Athens wasn’t like that. After all, Persia herself had taken Athens only to have the entire population flee to the island of Salamis, from where they annihilated Persia’s navy. This time, the people could flee much further, on the backs of hundreds upon hundreds of ships. Without a navy to do the pursuing, the Macedonians were going to have to use the land. So one way or another, Alexander’s expedition would set forth.

But first Philip wanted to gain the greatest prize of all.

The trench through which Eumenes was walking gave way to a tunnel, which in turn led to a chamber carved out of the earth. Windows on the far side of that chamber served as viewing-slits to look out upon the ground between the siege-works and Athens. Several Macedonian officers were in the room, most of them standing around a table poring over charts showing firing angles and trajectory vectors. Alexander and Hephaestion stood in a corner, deep in conversation.

“My prince,” said Eumenes as he joined them.

As always, Hephaestion looked less than thrilled to have a third party enter a conversation between him and Alexander. Alexander, on the other hand, just looked tired. Dark circles were set under his eyes. The nightly drinking sessions had been picking up. That was one thing Eumenes was glad he didn’t get invited to—such parties could be dangerous, as Cleitus and Philotas had both discovered. Alexander had personally killed both men in the midst of arguments while everybody was deep in their cups. Eumenes found it hard enough to deal with his prince sober.

“We were wondering where you’d got to,” said Alexander.

“Your father detained me,” replied Eumenes.

Alexander smiled wanly. “Let’s hope that’s not literal,” he said.

“If it was, would he be here?” muttered Hephaestion.

“He wanted to talk with me about logistics for the march up the Danube,” said Eumenes.

Alexander glanced over his shoulder as though he was speaking too loud. “What about it?”

Eumenes handed Alexander a scrollcase. “All details in there, Alexander. Men, horses, equipment, machinery, food, supplies, everything.”

“What about intelligence on the local tribes?”

“We already have the data on that,” said Hephaestion, breaking in.

“You have the older figures,” said Eumenes. “That data has now been revised.”

“Revised?” asked Hephaestion. He looked incredulous; after all, it was his network of spies. “You mean the scouts and traders got it wrong?”

“No,” said Eumenes. “They got it right. It’s just that the tribal populations have changed.”

“Why the hell would they have changed?” said Hephaestion—and then broke off, as he realized that Alexander was laughing. Eumenes couldn’t help but smile; apparently Alexander had never bothered to mention this part of Philip’s plan to Hephaestion. Hephaestion managed a grin that fooled no one.

“What am I missing?” he asked.

“What do you know about the walls of Athens?” asked Alexander.

Hephaestion stared, not enjoying this Socratic exchange in the slightest. “They’re going to be a tough nut to crack,” he replied.

“How many Macedonian soldiers do you think will be killed storming them?”

“Too many,” said Hephaestion.

“Exactly,” said Alexander. “By definition, too many.”

There was a pause.

“And such soldiers are our scarcest resource,” added Alexander.

“Sure,” said Hephaestion, “so that’s why we use mercenaries—
oh
.” He broke off as he finally saw the point—managed a broader grin this time. “Did you see them on the road, Eumenes?” he asked.

“In untold numbers,” replied the Greek.

The platform was roofed and made of stone, protruding out from the inner wall, allowing one to look over the lower, outer wall and at the plain surrounding Athens. Fire and smoke cut across the sky as more and more projectiles streaked in toward the city. The Macedonian siege-lines were dimly visible through the haze. The moat that surrounded the outer walls looked like a sea on which a storm was raging; as Lugorix watched, slabs of rock impacted around one of the Athenian warships in the middle of the moat—and then there was a crash as another landed directly on top the warship, sending pieces of meat and wood flying through the air, leaving nothing remaining of the ship.

“There,”
said Matthias, pointing along the platform. Lugorix nodded—they ran to the end of the platform, started down some stairs that led along the underside of one of the arches that connected the outer wall with the inner wall. The steps were steep—and as the two men clambered in toward the inner wall, they could see that it had been swept of defenders, that now soldiers were raising the ramps and barring the grilled doors that gave way to the battlements on either side, effectively blocking off access from the top of the north and west walls to this corner barbican-fortress. Those soldiers wore Athenian uniforms, but so did the men who they were firing darts and arrows at through slits in the grilles.