The Pillars of Hercules (28 page)

“Alexander thinks himself to be the incarnation of Hercules. That much the world knows. But what the world doesn’t is how literally he takes it. The legends say that Hercules had twelve labors. Two of those were in the far west, at the Gardens of Hesperides, near the gateway to the Ocean…the Pillars of Hercules that he gave his name to. One of those two western labors was to steal the golden apples from the nymphs who dwelt there. Supposedly, tasting one of the apples confers immortality.”

The word hung in the room. Outside the window, the hammering had finally stopped.

“Perhaps that’s what godhood means,” said Barsine quietly. “I don’t know. As for the other labor, it involved stealing the cattle of the monster Geryon.”

“Which probably weren’t cattle at all,” said Lugorix.

“Exactly. That’s how you need to think about this. Just because a myth is a metaphor doesn’t make it any less real. The edge of the world contains artifacts of tremendous power. From sharing Alexander’s bed, I learnt that he thinks of those artifacts night and day. And now he’s coming west to get them.”

“And to conquer the western reaches of Athens’ empire.”

“Like I said, he never does anything that’s aimed at a single purpose.”

“So we’re going to this Garden?”

“First we need to find out where it is.”

“I thought you just told me—didn’t you say the legends say it’s near the Pillars?”

Barsine laughed. “The myths also say it’s ‘beyond the sunset,’ but that description could use a little precision, don’t you think? So we’ve been working on it. As was Aristotle. Unfortunately, Eurydice wasn’t privy to all of his secrets. She and I have been trying to piece together what we can, and we think the answer lies at Carthage.”

That brought Lugorix up short. “Why there?” he asked.

“The Carthaginians have explored more of the west than any other people. They’ve been out beyond the Pillars into the Ocean. They’ve journeyed to the Islands of Thule, and down the coast of Africa. They’ve discovered so much they’ve forgotten half of it. Maybe more. Some of their map-rooms suffered damage when Athens took over. Other parts of their library were buried during the Athenian bombardment. So Carthage is where we need to go. But getting there won’t be easy.”

“We can’t just sail there?”

“There’s no ‘just’ about it. West of here is where things get dicey. No one’s quite sure what’s going on out there. There are reports that monsters are prowling the sea-lanes.”

Lugorix sighed. Now he’d heard it all. “What kind of monsters?” he asked.

“Probably the usual kind—something real dressed up in bullshit. But whatever’s going on, ships are disappearing. Individual ships are no longer safe. Only well-armed convoys seem to be getting through to ports west of here. And with a Macedonian army closing in from the land, Carthage seems to be on the brink of rebellion. Agathocles told me that a week ago, Cleon dispatched a fleet of a hundred ships to reinforce the Athenian position there. So we’re going to have to tread carefully. Speaking of which, can you get out of bed?”

“I can try.” He pulled himself to his feet, clutched at a bedpost for balance, steadied himself.

That was when he saw what lay out the window. He was looking through an interior wall, down into the watershed in which they’d moored the
Xerxes
. But that vessel was practically a different ship now. It lay in a large drydock—and not only did it sport new armor plating, but large containers had been positioned along the sides and under the ship itself.

“What do those containers carry?” asked Lugorix.

“Right now they’re empty,” said Barsine. “But when the time’s right, they’ll fill with water.”

Lugorix mulled this over. For a ship travelling out of sight of land to carry water was nothing new, but it seemed crazy that they’d need to drink so much of it. He sensed that there was something about this that he wasn’t quite getting. He was about to ask Barsine. But the words faded in his mouth as he spotted Matthias and Eurydice. His friend had his hand on the ass of Aristotle’s daughter as the two of them kissed on the aft-deck of the
Xerxes
. Lugorix was surprised to hear Barsine chuckling beside him.

“An excellent development on two fronts,” she said. “Not only does it stop your friend from importuning me every time I get near him, but it also means he’s coming with us.”

This was news to Lugorix. “Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because that way he gets to be with Eurydice.”

“So she’s agreed to go with you?”

“Indeed.”

Lugorix mulled this over. “Maybe she
does
believe Macks killed her father.”

“Maybe. Though in truth, she doesn’t seem to be that interested in politics. I think for her it’s more about uncovering the secrets her father might have been keeping from her.”

“That sounds healthy.”

“I prefer to think of it as useful.”

“And it’d be even more so if I agreed to come along as well?”

She looked up at him. “You could put it that way.”

“Not until after I’ve returned to my village.”

“To deal with your brother?”

“With the silver you owe me, yes.”

That brought her up short. “How will that silver help?”

“Do you mean you don’t have it?”

She looked offended. “My word is my bond. Mardonius has the silver, so it’s yours whenever you want it. I’m just trying to figure out how it will help in fighting your brother.”

“My brother won’t fight fair,” said Lugorix. “Nor will his retainers. So I need to buy some of my own.”

“Can’t you appeal to your village’s chief?”

“My brother
is
the chief.”

“Ah,” she said. “But can’t your brother wait?”

“I
can’t wait.”

“Neither can I,” she replied. “I need you, Lugorix. You’re smarter than your friend, and you’re the better fighter.”

He said nothing. She cleared her throat as though hesitating. Then—

“Besides, Matthias told me.”

“Told you what?”

“About your sister.”

Lugorix felt the color drain from his face. “Why did he do that?”

“Probably to make you mad.”

“He’s succeeded.”

“Look. I’m sorry if I remind you of her. I wouldn’t have wished that on you.”

Lugorix blinked rapidly. There was something in his eyes.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

It was a few moments before he could answer. “My brother wanted her,” he said, though it wasn’t the
want
he should have had to mean and it didn’t even sound like his own voice talking. He felt like he was staring down at his own body while it spoke with this woman who—when all was said and done—was nothing more than stranger. “He tried to force himself on her. She screamed and my father came to her aid, and then my brother slew him. And then he slew my mother and… everybody else. I was hunting all night, but when I got back I knew the truth. It was written on his face, but he’d already blamed me. He’d done the killing with my own blade and bribed the elders, so it was easy.”

“How did he become chief?”

“My father was chief before him. He’d become chief for nineteen years, from when my sister was—when she was born…”

To his horror, Lugorix realized tears were running down his face. Men weren’t supposed to do that, but Barsine didn’t seem to mind. “It’s okay,” she said. She reached forward and cradled him in her arms. He pulled her to him and kissed her cheek, ran his fingers through her hair. Sexually, he’d never wanted a woman less. Emotionally, he’d never wanted one more.

“I won’t let harm come to you,” he said.

“You should go back to your village.”

“It can wait.” A moment’s pause, then: “Your baby can’t.”

Her eyes went wide. But she didn’t deny it. There was no point.

“Does Alexander know you carry his child?” he asked softly.

“Why do you think he pursues me so remorselessly?”

Lugorix stroked her hair. His sister was dead. Barsine wasn’t. Nor was Alexander. As if in a dream, he heard Barsine telling him they’d received word his army had emerged from Europe’s interior and made landfall on the Mediterranean. He heard himself asking where. He heard her whispering the answer.

By the time Eumenes rode through the city gates, there wasn’t much left of the city to ride through. Bodies were everywhere. Most of the buildings that hadn’t been destroyed during the Macedonian bombardment had been set on fire subsequently. And those that were still standing were mostly filled with soldiers raping and killing whoever was in them. The screaming made Eumenes’ skin crawl. He hadn’t heard anything so bad since Egypt.

It didn’t have to have been this way, of course. But the commanders of the defenses of Massilia had made the mistake that so many had made these last few years: underestimating Alexander. Secure in their command of the Rhone delta, high walls around them and the ocean at their backs, they’d defied the king and declined surrender. And in so doing, they’d doomed the population. This was partially because the best way to get Alexander motivated was by refusing him. But it was also a function of the soldiers he’d augmented his army with since that battle against the Scythians. The headwaters of the Danube had given way to endless dark forests, reputed to be the dwelling place of all manner of goblins and spirits—not to mention a myriad barbarian tribes which Eumenes had expected would set upon the expedition from all sides. Given how many men the Macedonians had lost against the Scythians, it had seemed to Eumenes that the writing was on the wall—that the attrition of constant barbarian attacks would gradually whittle the army down till Alexander was forced to turn back.

Yet the exact opposite had occurred. The victory over the Scythians had spread word of Alexander’s renown as no threats or proclamations could ever have done. Tribes practically trampled each other to join the man they believed to be the conquering sun-god from the east. From all sides, the best warriors of each tribe flocked to join him. Alexander was only too happy to oblige. In short order, he had a barbarian auxiliary that was almost ten thousand strong. And those numbers were just the beginning. By the time they’d emerged from the forest into the Rhone river valley, most of those who joined the expedition were Gauls: tall blonde barbarians covered with tattoos who were only too happy to sign up with the Macedonians when they heard what Alexander’s next objective was. All too many of those Gauls saw the merchants of Massilia as bloodsuckers. The merchants of Massilia saw the Gauls as being in their economic orbit. Perhaps both were right. But now it no longer mattered.

The siege had been over quickly. Massilia was well-protected, but the army that had taken Tyre had made short work of defenses intended to protect against scattershot tribal activity. Alexander might not have been able to bring with him high-end siege technology like the Leviathans, but he had his engineers, and they had all the wood they needed to construct a whole range of ballistae and catapults. So energetically did the Gauls set to work felling the requisite trees that the bombardment began mere days after the city had been invested. The defenders were swept from the walls even as those walls crumbled. Elephants and horsemen charged in through the breaches. At the height of the assault, Alexander unleashed a series of fire-ships: rafts packed with the black powder that drifted down the Rhone to destroy river-gates and bridges alike, thereby paving the way for more rafts packed with Macedonian shock-troops. There was never even a need to commit the golems—they remained to defend the Macedonian camp in case the Athenians happened to have had the foresight or resources to have hidden reinforcements outside the city.

But they didn’t. According to the figures Eumenes had assembled subsequently, the garrison of Massilia had numbered less than five thousand. And only a thousand of those had been Athenians; the rest had been Gaulish mercenaries, most of whom deserted en masse when they saw so many of their brethren amidst the attacking forces. The result was as inevitable as it was bloody: in the space of a day, a city that had been Greek for almost three hundred years was laid to waste, along with any illusion that Alexander was incapable of reaching the western regions of the Athenian Empire.

Yet Alexander was in a furious mood all the same. He was always in a mood these days. He’d been acting ever stranger as they moved into the headwaters of the Danube. The drinking parties had stopped and he’d taken to leaving the camp for hours at a time every few nights. Where he went, Eumenes had no idea. Even worse, he took no bodyguards. Sometimes while he was out there, storms ripped through the woods; the weather in the forests was terrible and getting worse. Eumenes feared that the king would get struck by lightning or killed by wandering barbarians. But he returned just before dawn each morning to stumble past the stunned sentries, a hollow look on his face and the burning need for a goblet or two of wine before he was up to giving orders. Of course, by the time reveille was sounded, he was looking his normal self again—every inch the warrior-king, ready to lead his troops on to victory.

But now that victory had been achieved at Massilia, he was pissed. And Eumenes could guess the reason why—a guess that was confirmed when he finally reached Alexander at the burnt remnants of the city’s dockside. The king was yelling at Hephaestion in front of several bodyguards—an almost unthinkable public show of temper at the one man who he’d always made a point to never criticize in public. As Eumenes rode up, Hephaestion was turning away and stalking off, having been dismissed. Eumenes dismounted and saluted.

“My king,” he said.

“Look at that,” snarled Alexander, gesticulating at the burning boats sinking into the harbor. There were a lot of them.

But nowhere near enough.

“Their fleet escaped,” said Alexander.

Of course it did,
thought Eumenes.
It was a fleet.
But he kept silent. More than three hundred ships had been in that harbor, and from the looks of the wreckage out there only fifty had been sunk. Another fifty had been burnt in drydock. But that still left about two hundred that had made it out into the Mediterranean.