Chapter Two
The ship that sat at the underground jetty wasn't like any ship Lugorix had ever seen. At first he wasn't even sure it was a ship. It had no mast, rode low in the water, and was a combination of both metal and wood, lacking towers aft and rear, instead sporting a lower, raised platform which ran along its center. A strange cylinder was positioned just behind that platform—and now as Lugorix looked, he realized there was in fact a mast, but that it was lying along the deck, fastened horizontally into place along with its sail. The entire vessel was no more than thirty feet from end to end. Damitra helped Barsine down onto the platform, whereupon Barsine opened up a hatch. Both women looked up at the men.
"What are you waiting for?" said Barsine.
"Is this a magick ship?" asked Lugorix.
"Not at all," said Barsine.
"Persian," said Matthias, suddenly understanding. "You're Persian spies."
"You forget," said Barsine. "We ruled Egypt first."
"Before Athens took it from you," muttered Matthias as Barsine climbed through the hatch and disappeared within.
Damitra grinned toothlessly. "Like my lady said: we're all on the same side now." She unfastened the ropes and the ship started to drift away. Lugorix and Matthias leapt aboard.
"Welcome to the Xerxes," said Damitra. She tossed her amulet down to Barsine, who caught it—and then shoved it into a strange copper lattice framework set against one of the walls in the compact room below. Sparks flew across that copper and Lugorix felt a rumbling grip the boat. The water behind them started churning and smoke began pouring from the cylinder.
"We're on fire!" screamed Matthias. Lugorix wasn't wasting any time on words—he was about to jump into the water when Damitra yelled at him to stop.
"We're not on fire!" she shouted in his ear. "This ship moves by burning!"
"I see," said Lugorix, not seeing at all. The boat was surging away from the jetty, out into the hidden harbor. Matthias shrugged, started to climb down through the hatch when—
"No," said Damitra. "You need to stay on top till we get clear."
"Of what?" said Lugorix—and then he ducked his head as the roof dipped toward him and the ship churned through a narrow cave-mouth and out into the open ocean. And it was the open ocean, he quickly realized—the tunnel entrance was situated well beyond the Great Harbor, out on the northern edge of the main city-island, which was now on fire in multiple places. Even as Lugorix watched, a series of explosions rocked that receding island; pillars and towers began toppling into one another, causing a chain-reaction of deafening booms and crashes. But then all that noise was drowned out by a larger explosion from above. Lugorix looked upward to see the—
"Pharos," breathed Matthias.
The enormous lighthouse was shaking as though it was in the throes of earthquake—shaking and swaying from side to side. Lugorix thought for a brief moment of all he'd heard about that lighthouse—of how it could its light could be seen by ships for scores of miles, of how its operators could stand at its base and use a series of lenses to gain a telescopic view from the top, of how the giant ballistae at its top could punch straight through the sides of enemy ships. But those who were destroying the Pharos had never given it a chance to deploy such measures. For a moment, the lighthouse's swaying slowed its oscillations—it seemed to Lugorix for just the briefest of instants that the structure would hold against whatever infernal sorcery the Macedonians had unleashed upon it.
Then it started to topple.
Right toward the boat. Lugorix heard himself muttering prayers to Taranis. As if in a dream, he watched that lighthouse blot out the sky as it crashed down toward them. Neither he nor Matthias nor Damitra said a word—he wondered if they as transfixed as he was. Or perhaps they had all already reached the afterlife. Barsine was the only one to react—she stopped the boat entirely, threw the engine into reverse as the lighthouse crashed down toward them, long arcs of fire trailing in its wake. Lugorix's eye was rooted to the statue of Poseidon that adorned the Pharos' summit—the trident that the god held had come loose and sailed like a missile over the boat and into the water. And then the lighthouse itself impacted, a huge wall crashing into the ocean, sending up a vast spray of water even as a colossal wave rolled across them, almost capsizing them entirely. Damitra lost her grip; Lugorix grabbed her with one hand while he held fast to the rails with the other. Barsine stopped reversing, sent the boat forward through swells that rocked them as the ship picked up speed, plowing over the final resting place of the Pharos and out into the deeper ocean. Damitra drew herself from Lugorix's grasp.
"I owe you for your quickness," she said.
Lugorix was too rattled to reply. They were reaching the edge of the burning Athenian fleet; the Xerxes zigged and zagged as Barsine maneuvered it through wreckage. Lugorix gaped as they headed straight at what was left of a trireme, more than a hundred feet long, but now almost burnt to the waterline.
"Those are the smallest of 'em," muttered Matthias.
"What?"
"Look past it," hissed Matthias.
Lugorix nodded, his eyes wide in disbelief. Triremes may have been the most numerous of the ships in the Athenian navy but they only had three decks of oars. Teteres ("fours") and penteres ("fives") formed the middle types of dreadnaught, while the largest were the octeres and the deceres, though not much was left of those now. Lugorix remembered seeing a decere once—it seemed like it went on forever, bedecked with flags, held upright in the water by long catamaran-outriggers, and sprouting so many oars as to look like the needles covering a hedgehog, while a whole array of ballistae and catapults lined the decks. Such ships were the mainstay of Athenian naval power. But now a whole fleet had been reduced to a holocaust of flame and wreckage. And as Barsine steered her strange vessel ever deeper into the maelstrom, it became clear that parts of the ocean itself were on fire—that Alexander's incendiary somehow burnt on the surface of the water. Damitra was muttering something in Persian that Lugorix figured to be a prayer. She was gazing at intently at one spot in particular. Lugorix stared.
And then he realized what she was looking at.
"People," he said slowly.
Sailors adrift in the water had noticed them, were swimming toward them, screaming for help. But their boat simply accelerated, the paddlewheels within turning ever faster as it churned past. Matthias looked aghast.
"What in Athena's name are we doing?" he asked.
"Not picking up survivors," said Damitra.
"Why not?"
"Too great a risk."
"According to Barsine?"
"She gives the orders."
Matthias' face darkened. The yelling was growing louder as stricken sailors realized their last chance was passing them by. Matthias turned to the hatch but—
"No," said Damitra. "Don't go down."
"I need to talk to her."
"You mean you need to force her."
"Try and stop me, witch."
"I'll stop you," said Lugorix suddenly. Matthias whirled toward him.
"What's your problem? Those sailors are—"
"Already dead," said Lugorix. "Most of them are badly burnt. We stop for any, the rest will swamp us. And even if they don't, the pursuit has that much more time to catch us."
"I haven't seen any pursuit yet."
"We should keep it that way. If anyone climbs aboard, be sure to throw them back in."
"What?"
"That why we're up here," said Lugorix. And then, to Damitra: "True?"
She nodded gravely. "And once we get out of here, you'll be keeping watch."
They were leaving the fleet in their wake now, heading out into the swells of open ocean. Spray lit by the glow of the burning boats behind them splashed across their faces. Lugorix grasped the railing, looked at his friend's bemused expression.
"So where are we going?" Matthias asked Damitra.
"Athens," she replied.
"Why?"
"Mistress has friends there."
"That's just fine," said Lugorix. "Best place to hire out for more merc duty."
"You're already hired," said Damitra.
"You keep saying that," said Matthias. "But every time I ask for details, Barsine tells me to shut up."
"That's because she noble."
"Nobles abandon sailors to drown?"
"Nobles don't negotiate with servants," said Damitra.
Matthias' laugh was more of a bark. "You're her servant. We're just along for the ride."
"She'll need your help in Athens."
"For what?"
"Bodyguards."
"To protect her from who?"
"Mistress has many enemies. Macedonian spies everywhere."
"Don't you have powers that help you beat them? That allow you to see 'em?"
"I see them closing in. And you saw what they did to Egypt."
"But Egypt is just one province," said Lugorix. "Athens is the capital. Biggest fortress in the world. Impossible to take by storm—"
"They may not need to take it by storm."
There was a long pause.
"But you need to help mistress," she added.
"She'll need to pay," replied Matthias."
"She will."
"Will she?"
"She's very rich."
"Now we're talking."
"Now keep watch."
"What?"
But Damitra was already climbing below. Matthias watched her go, then turned to Lugorix.
"You believe any of that?"
Lugorix pondered this. "What part of it don't you?" he asked.
"The part about her being so damn rich."
"She owns this boat, doesn't she?"
"Doesn't mean she has gold somewhere."
"She's noble."
"Are you some kind of parrot? Once she was noble. Persian Empire doesn't mean shit now. Not since Alexander got through with it."
"Well," said Lugorix thoughtfully, "looks like the Persians still got some kind of operation going. And anyone with a boat like this might have a hefty payday waiting for us."
"Are you crazy? This bitch is trouble."
"That's what you say about anyone you have a crush on."
Matthias snorted. "I have a crush on her? Zeus man! She's the one with the crush on me."
"She does an excellent job disguising it."
"She's an aristo. They're good at playing hard to get."
"You need to quit while you're ahead, Greek." Lugorix sensed he wasn't getting through to him, but figured it was worth a shot. "She already got us out of that Mack-infested hellhole. If she can get us gold, so much the better. But I doubt you'll get a slice of her into the bargain."
"Remember how I told you I was saving myself?"
"Get ready to wait a long time."
Matthias nodded ruefully. "Waiting's all we can do right now anyway."
Lugorix knew that Matthias was right. The hours slid by and the water washed across them and gradually the glow behind them disappeared into the night. Stars shone above them, sprinkling illumination across the waves. Lugorix felt like those stars were hauling him up into the sky—like that water was dragging him under. The last few hours seemed like one big crazy dream. He realized dimly that he was beyond exhausted.
"Time for sleep," said a voice.
He whirled. Damitra stood there. Matthias stretched and started for the hatch.
"Not you," she said, gesturing at Lugorix. "Him."
"What about me?"
"You stand guard till dawn."
"That's still hours off!"
"If you see anything—anything at all—call down."
Matthias nodded slowly. Lugorix climbed down into the cramped control-room of the strange craft, Damitra following him. In addition to that humming copper lattice, there were levers and gears all around, and he didn't understand any of it. He expected to see Barsine at the helm, peering through one of the viewing slits. But instead she was asleep in a cot in the corner, curled up, her knees against her stomach. Damitra had taken her place at the helm—and now she pointed to a hatch aft-side.
"Sleep there," she said.
"What is this ship?" he asked.
She seemed about to tell him to get stuffed. But then her face softened. "Long-range explorer," she said.
"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.
"So what's it to be?" boomed Craterus. "Are we to march on Carthage?"
"Zeus," said the pacing man, "why are you even saying such things?"
"Perdiccas here is so damn cautious," said Craterus, warming to his audience. "All that hesitation, it's a wonder we made it to Egypt."
"Well, we did seize it without permission," said Ptolemy, taking his seat.
Craterus laughed sarcastically. "Permission? From the Athenians?"
"From Philip," said Eumenes. "We have yet to receive any word from him."
"What can he say?" asked Craterus. "Alexander's presented his father with a fait accompli."
"And war with Athens," muttered Harpalus.
"A war both of them wanted," said Ptolemy.
"But I suspect the old man would have preferred to choose the timing," said Perdiccas.
There was a moment's silence.
"Doesn't matter," said Hephaestion. "If Alexander had failed to take Egypt on the first try, it might be a different story. But Philip's not one to be disappointed with victory."
"Nor am I," said a voice.
They all rose as Alexander stepped into the room. He'd exchanged his armor for a purple cloak. Bodyguards hovered in the archway behind him.
"Leave us," he said.
They did so, closing the doors as they went. Alexander took his seat at the table's head, his voice almost a purr.
"Where's Meleager?" he asked.
"He couldn't make it," said Craterus, seating himself with the rest of them. "Still south of the city, dealing with some Athenian stragglers."
"He should be here," said Alexander softly.
Craterus shrugged. "That's what I told him."
"No matter," said the prince. "You can pass on our decisions to him from now on."
Craterus nodded, faint satisfaction on his face. Alexander looked around the room, meeting each of their gazes in turn. His eyes lingered on Eumenes last. Those eyes were dikoros—"of two pupils"; one so brown as to verge on black, the other clear blue. That was supposed to be testament to his divine origins, but Eumenes had seen others with the same condition. Though he had to admit none had been so striking.
"Report," said Alexander.
Eumenes blinked. He was used to Alexander asking him to start meetings with a summary of events, but there was something new and dangerous in the prince's expression. Perhaps the result of so many thousands falling on their knees before him on the temple steps outside. Eumenes held Alexander's stare while he replied.
"The Delta's ours. What's left of Athenian resistance is falling back on Thebes, but we've cut all their communications and they're coming apart even as they retreat. We estimate at least two hundred Athenian ships have been destroyed by the incendiary that Hephaestion's alchemists compounded back East—"
"We should call it Greek fire," said Craterus. "Given it did such a good job turning their asses into cinder."
Everyone laughed, but Eumenes just smiled wanly. Yet another reminder of his own Greekness—though he noted that Alexander wasn't sharing in the mirth either.
"That's enough," said the prince, and the laughter stopped instantly. "Hephaestion, how much of the incendiary is left?"
"Several vats," said Hephaestion. "But my alchemists are working around the clock to make more."
"What about the black powder?"
"There were several instances where it detonated prematurely. A number of my men were killed. But it brought down their Pharos. A little more refinement, and I'm sure we'll be able to use it more precisely."
Alexander nodded, turned to the man sitting next to Hephaestion. "Harpalus."
"My prince."
"What of the temple treasury?"
"Secure," replied Harpalus. "The Athenians fled too quickly to take it with them. It remains in the custody of the priests—"
"Not for long," said Alexander. "They've agreed to reimburse our expenses."
"Which are considerable," said Harpalus. "And likely to climb higher as the full cost of this new war comes due."
"Don't be so dramatic," said Ptolemy. "Athens has far more to lose than we do. They survive on commerce. The loss of Egypt probably bankrupted half their merchants. I'd give a lot to see the hand-wringing that must be going on in that debate-club they call their Assembly."
"They still have plenty of resources to draw on," said Hephaestion.
"Like what?" asked Ptolemy.
"The rest of the Mediterranean," said Perdiccas dryly.
"Which is why we need to push on Carthage," said Craterus. Eumenes abruptly realized that what had looked like a joke earlier had actually masked serious intent. He said nothing though, waiting on the reaction of others.
"That's a thousand miles west of here." Perdiccas was practically spluttering. "Maintaining our supply lines in the face of the Athenian navy—"
"With the Greek fire, we can annihilate that navy if it ventures too close to the shore." Craterus looked straight at his prince. "Alexander, how else are we to finish Athens? We can't strike at her heart directly. Her walls remain impregnable."
"Don't be so defeatist," said Ptolemy.
"I'm being realistic," said Craterus. "We have to chop off the pieces of Athens' empire like so many limbs, and we have to content ourselves with those portions we can get at without ships."
"We'll have ships soon enough," said Hephaestion. "And we already burnt two hundred of theirs in a single night."
"But they have two thousand more," said Craterus. "Greek fire or no Greek fire, we can't hope to match them on the ocean."
"Precisely why it would be rash to aim at Carthage," said Alexander. Eumenes exhaled slowly, not realizing till that moment he'd been holding his breath. "Ptolemy's right. Without ships, your supply line would on the knife-edge between ocean and desert."
"But the Greek fire—"
"Doesn't make us invincible. The Athenians could land marines in force at any point they like and long before we reached Libya, our whole army would be guarding its own supply-line. The risk of utter annihilation—"
"So what would you have us do instead?" asked Craterus, and to Eumenes it sounded almost like a challenge. But Alexander, ever unpredictable, didn't seem to take it as such. He simply looked around the room—looked almost like he was puzzled.
"Are there no other ideas on the table, then?"
"Keep building up our navy," said Hephaestion. "We'll be ready within a few years."
"Madness," said Ptolemy. "You overestimate the difficulty of building and crewing a fleet that's worth the name. And in a few years—"
"We may not have that long anyway," said Craterus.
"Now that may be true, regardless," said Harpalus.
"Exactly," said Alexander. "Say Athens learns how to replicate the fire? Say they have other secret weapons? Their Guilds must be working around the clock to devise them. Besides"—and here he smiled a smile of pure insouciance—"we're still young. Fame and glory are fleeting. Why wait to destroy Athens when we're old? Why not find a way to defeat them now?"
Eumenes mulled this over. It was starting to sound like the move into Egypt wasn't part of some larger plan. Alexander was a born opportunist, but this was taking opportunism to levels that bordered on hubris. Either that, or Alexander really did have something in mind. Eumenes hated to think of the expression on Philip's face if his son didn't.
"We're heading west," pronounced Alexander.
Everyone looked at each other. Perdiccas was the first to give voice to the resultant confusion. "Didn't you just say that we weren't—"
"There's more to the west of here than Carthage."
"Such as?" asked Ptolemy.
"Siwah."
"The oasis?" asked Harpalus.
"The Oracle," said Alexander. "Of Zeus-Ammon."
"You're going to ask Zeus what to do?" asked Craterus.
"I'm going to consult with Him. On a wide range of matters." Alexander's voice was steel. "That's the real reason I came to Egypt, after all."
The group absorbed this. Eumenes suspected he wasn't the only one getting a sinking feeling. Not so much because an oracle couldn't speak truth—indeed, the one at Siwah was particularly famous for combining both the Greek and Egyptian aspects of the All-Father—but because he suspected he knew what was really going on here. He locked eyes with Harpalus across the room, knew they were both thinking the same thing. Olympias. Alexander's deceased bitch-queen of a mother. Who'd despised his father. Who'd filled his head with fantasies about how his father wasn't really Philip—who'd hinted to him that it was Zeus instead. The victories in the East and Egypt had apparently left Alexander on the verge of believing it was true.
Now a trip to Siwah would settle the matter.
Ptolemy made a bid for sanity. "That's a three day journey through trekless desert," he said. "A Persian king lost an entire army trying to get there a couple centuries back—"
"I'm not taking an entire army," replied Alexander evenly. "Some bodyguards. Some cavalry. Hephaestion, of course." He looked around the table. "And you, Eumenes."
Eumenes tried to dodge it. "Shouldn't I be staying in Memphis to administer the business of empire—"
"The business of empire comes with me."
It took all Eumenes' skill to keep his face expressionless.