Empire of Dust (10 page)

“Up there!” one of the pirates cries, pointing with his sword to Heph. “Get him!” Heph aims an arrow straight down. As a pirate starts to climb the rigging, a spear embeds itself in his back and he falls off.

Kat looks up at Heph, then unsheathes her sword, and jumps into the melee of waving arms, gleaming swords, and red-crested helmets below. Arrow nocked in the bowstring, he shifts right and left, trying to pick an enemy target. But everyone is moving so fast he is afraid he might shoot one of his own men—or Kat.

Where is Kat? Over the cries and clanging of the battle below, over the moaning wind and creaking ship, Heph hears his own heart beating. His own rapid breathing.
Calm.
He has to stay calm and focused to get through this. To get Kat through this.

Then he sees her again, fighting like Athena on the prow with a man twice her size. The pirate grins, obviously thinking it's a good joke to fight a skinny girl, but Kat holds her ground. She holds it—but doesn't gain. Heph fires at the man, and the arrow sinks deep into his back. Kat doesn't even look up at him as she moves on to the next pirate, her sword a blur of silver.

A pirate pops his head out of the hatch and another one takes a heavy wood casket from him—gold coins or jewels, Heph assumes, as he tries to take aim. But the ship rolls again, and the men duck behind a Macedonian fighting another pirate and spring onto their ship.

Lightning tears across the sky and thunder booms as rain beats down. Up high on the mast, when the ship rises, Heph feels as if he is riding it into the clouds. When it sinks, he wonders if it will slam into sand. Sometimes the ship rolls so far to either side, he could almost reach out and touch the waves. Below him, soldiers and pirates slide into the rail, somersault across the deck, and slam into the heap of timber tied between the masts. The pirates back on their own vessel are shouting orders Heph can't understand, and those remaining on the ship suddenly retreat, nimbly climbing onto the grappling plank, and jump onto their ship. They row away, oars battling the waves furiously. But why?

The answer comes to Heph in the slight movement in his peripheral vision. Turning to face starboard, he sees another ship flying a black flag, its many white oars beating like birds' wings through the molten seas. Heph's heart stutters when he recognizes what kind of ship this is: a Rhodian battle rammer that the pirates must have captured. This ship has an eight-foot-long spade of sharp bronze on its bow just below the waterline. Now that the pirates have plundered the
Prometheus,
they will destroy it so there is no word of their crimes. Everyone will think the ship went down in the storm.

“Battle ram!” he cries as he scrambles down the rigging, but the wind whips his words into the roiling sea. Does anyone else see it? Or are they all too busy fighting? Kat! Where is Kat? He leaps onto the heaving deck just as she staggers toward him, a bloody sword in her hand. Heph sees a jagged cut on her upper arm and trickles of blood down to her wrist, but she doesn't seem to notice.

“Kat, that second ship is a rammer,” he shouts, watching it struggle toward them. “It will try to sink us.”

“Heph, I have an idea,” she says, her hand cupped to her mouth. “Several of us should climb up the masts and those below should pass up jugs of olive oil. We can throw them down onto the rammer.”

“What?” Heph says, wondering if he's heard her correctly over the whistling wind.

“That barrel of tar, over there,” she says, pointing with her sword to a barrel lashed to the mast. “Heph, dip your arrows in it, set them on fire, and shoot them onto the oil on the decks of the rammer before it strikes us.”

Suddenly he understands. Olive oil—used to light lamps all over the world—is highly flammable. And the tar that sailors use to seal planks and repair small leaks is almost explosive. “It could work,” he says, “if the rain doesn't put the fire out.”

“And if it doesn't set our own ship ablaze in the process,” says a voice behind Heph. He turns to see Captain Zeno with a wild, determined look in his eyes. “I'll issue the orders,” the captain says, before turning and lurching down the deck to a group of sailors.

Heph looks at Kat quizzically. “You sure like throwing pots,” he says. Kat just smiles at him.

Within moments Heph is high in the rigging next to Kat as she lobs an amphora of olive oil onto the lurching deck of the attacking ship
,
which is having a hard time picking up ramming speed against the angry waves.
Below them and on the other mast, mercenaries and soldiers are also tossing amphorae passed up by men below. Many pots miss as the ships twist and heave, but several hit the rammer's deck. The pirates look up and laugh as the amphorae crack open and oil spills all over the deck.

Heph has a quiver full of arrows dipped in tar. The sailor below her now passes Kat a lantern filled with lit oil lamps. She slides up one of the ox-horn panels and tries to keep it from swinging as Heph dips his first arrow into the flame. It catches immediately despite the rain.

He aims for a slick spot full of broken pottery on the rammer. For a moment a large wave obscures his view, then he spots his target and lets his first arrow fly, quickly followed by two more.

His arrows stick deep into the deck. The flames catch and leap across the ship, sputtering at times from the rain. One of the pirates grabs a rolled-up sail, opens it, and throws it on the flames. It, too, catches fire. The rammer is quite close to the
Prometheus
now and picking up speed. The rowers below deck must be unaware of the fire above because they keep rowing, oars dipping into the churning sea again and again.

“Hold tight!” Heph cries, shouldering his bow and wrapping his arms in the rigging. “They're going to ram!” Kat throws the lantern below and plunges both hands into the tangled ropes.

With a horrifying crunch of splintering wood, the ships collide. Heph and Kat are thrown back from the mast and dangle over the deck before swinging back in. Below them, many men on deck fall, and one man on the other mast loses his grip and flies screaming into the sea. A comrade on deck throws him a rope. Heph sees flailing, foam-flecked arms swim toward it and latch on.

Pushed by wind and waves, the rammer slips back from the
Prometheus
, which is a good thing, as the rammer's top deck is now burning brightly. When a large swell tosses the vessel, several men fall into the flames and catch fire. Screaming, beating at their tunics, they throw themselves overboard and disappear.

Soon the rammer is an inferno, the flames spread by the raging wind, as the pirates leap into the sea. Heph, Kat, and the others up the masts climb down and watch the seas push the burning vessel farther and farther away from the
Prometheus
.

“Now all we have to worry about,” Heph says, “is whether this ship is going to sink.”

As if in response, Captain Zeno climbs nimbly out the hatch to survey the scene. A grin spreads across his tanned face as he spots the enemy ship going down in flames.

“How is it below, Captain?” asks a gangly young sailor with a badly slashed chin.

“It's not a bad breach,” Zeno replies. “They couldn't ram us full speed with the waves interfering. We'll need to take shifts bailing, but we will be able to limp into the nearest port. I'll have to do some calculations to figure out which one.”

Heph knows he should be grateful they're not sinking. After all, not many ships survive a Rhodian battle rammer. But all he can think about is the delay.
Don't fail me
, Alex said. Already things have gone terribly wrong.

“Remove this vermin,” Zeno says to the young sailor, gesturing to the pirates' bodies littering the deck, before climbing back into the hatch.

Kat stares at a dead pirate with a bloody chest, his bandana half off his head. “Writing,” she says. “On his forehead.”

Cringing, she pulls the filthy rag off entirely. Heph sees the words
Runaway Slave
tattooed in Greek on the man's tanned skin. She goes to another body and yanks off that bandana.
Paid in Full
, his tattoo reads.

“That's why pirates wear bandanas,” he says, as two sailors pick up the body and carry it to the railing. “They're all runaway slaves marked in some way on their foreheads.”

“That's horrible,” she says. “No wonder they run away and become pirates.”

Heph sees the corpse fly over the railing as two large waves like foaming blue-gray lips open wide to swallow it.

* * *

Heph, all sweat and seawater, climbs stiffly out of the hatch and gulps in cool night air. This afternoon, after the storm vanished as suddenly as it appeared, a fresh wind filled the sails, pushing them east. But now the
Prometheus
is anchored for the night, rocking gently. A half-moon streams a silver glow through scattered clouds, and creaking lanterns swing on poles, spreading warm arcs of golden light on deck. He plunks down next to Kat, who is sitting against the railing sharing cheese and olives with other men exhausted from bailing. They sit cross-legged looking deeply into wine cups, their flesh orange in the lanterns' glow.

She holds a chunk of cheese up to him.

“Water,” he says, his throat hoarse. His back, shoulders, arms, and legs are throbbing from two hours of nonstop bailing. His neck is as stiff as a plank of wood. Even his feet hurt. His arm shakes as he reaches for Kat's proffered goatskin.

“Has the captain said yet where we're heading?” asks the Macedonian mercenary whom Heph recognizes as the one who called King Philip a lion and Alexander the cub.

Drinking deeply, Heph nods, afraid of Kat's reaction. She hasn't told him much about the sorceress, Ada of Caria, who lives in the mountains above Halicarnassus. Only that in the week or so Kat spent there, she learned years' worth of weapons training and can fight battle-hardened warriors with uncanny skill.

And Kat made it clear that she is utterly devoted to Ada.

“Halicarnassus,” he says casually, wiping the dribbles off his chin. “With the water we're taking on, we won't be there until tomorrow afternoon, he thinks, even with a fair wind.”

“Halicarnassus!” Kat says, her face brightening just as he feared it would. “We could visit Ada! She doesn't live so far from harbor.”

“No, Kat,” Heph says firmly. He looks at the sailors and soldiers nearby. Some of them have the musical accents of Lydia and Caria—Persian provinces. Others have the crisp bite of Athenian Greek. They need to be careful, especially after what happened to Arridheus. No one can know they are on a mission for the prince of Macedon. “My...
father
insisted we get to Egypt as quickly as possible. As soon as we dock in Halicarnassus, we will find the next ship south.”

A mutinous look settles on her face. But before she can speak, a black-bearded sailor sitting nearby leans forward and asks in a Carian accent, “Are you talking about Princess Ada of Caria? Because if so, she's not there anymore.”

“What?” Kat asks, her expression clouding. “Where did she go?”

“No one knows,” the sailor replies. “But when I left last week, it was all anyone could talk about. There was a strange fog hanging over the mountains, they said, and when people went up to investigate, they suspected that dark magic had taken place there—the lady was gone. Some say she has a brother still alive, but no one has seen him either. If you don't mind my asking, how would you know the princess? She is said to be a recluse.”

“What? The likes of us knowing a princess!” Heph says in the best country accent he can muster, forcing a smile. He shoots Kat a warning look and stands up, stretching. Then he ambles over to the bow and stands behind the painted wooden figurehead of a muscular chained Prometheus, an open-winged eagle pecking at his exposed liver.

A moment later, Kat joins him.

“We need to see what has happened to her, see if we can help her,” she says quietly, yet urgency hums in her voice.

He shakes his head. “We are on an urgent mission, Kat,” he replies. “We have no time to waste.”

She says nothing, and when he turns toward her he can see, even in the moonlight, the stubborn tightening of her jaw. “The gods have sent not only a storm but pirates to take us off our planned course, Heph,” she says. “Do you think it is a coincidence that, despite boarding a ship to Egypt, we are now heading for Halicarnassus? If anyone has the power to defeat...our family's enemies, it's my aunt, and it's a short journey to her...farm from port. A few hours at most.”

She has a point. The
Prometheus
could have been attacked a few miles away and now be heading to Miletus or Apasa. Could Fate itself be at work here? At Mieza he learned two prevalent viewpoints about destiny. Some modern philosophers insist that everything in life is random and meaningless and that believing anything else is ignorant superstition. But most people believe that there are no coincidences, and if you look closely enough, you can see divine Fate's connecting threads. Is this diversion to Halicarnassus such a thread?

Heph rubs his forehead. To Ada or to Egypt tomorrow? What is the right answer? He can't fail Alex. Not again. If only he could be sure what to—

A pulsating ball of light with a fiery tail streaks across the sky, illuminating the ship, the sea, and the sky as if it were midday. Heph's seen shooting stars before but none that bright or that close. Kat inhales sharply and some of the men shout and jump up, pointing in wonder. A moment later, it's gone.

“It was headed east,” Kat whispers. “To Caria.”

Chapter Nine

ALEXANDER FEELS A
twist in his gut as the prisoners lurch forward through the crowd. Despite the ovenlike heat, all of Pella seems to have turned out for the trial. The courtyard is packed. Every palace window and balcony is crammed with faces, and dozens of people sit on the orange tiled roofs.

Hagnon, Theopompus, Gordias, and Kadmus—his council—shuffle up the scaffold stairs, their manacles clanking, and stand in a little clump of misery in front of Alex. He slows his breathing and tries to calm the rapid stutter of his heart. Today he needs to show he is worthy to be a king. Today, a member of his council may die.

He's seated ramrod-straight on a throne, his ankles crossed nonchalantly, a studied expression of alert dignity on his face. Behind him stands Sarina, Alex's new personal attendant. Despite rumors that she has become
more
than an attendant—that she's been attending to his needs in the bedroom as well—Alexander has kept their relationship platonic. Though he can't deny the effect her beauty has on him, and the persuasion of her hands against his tight muscles, he is far more moved by her words.

Her sandalwood perfume wafts near him and gives him strength as he rises to stand, a liquid regal move he has practiced for public appearances. He faces his council members.

“At least one of you—maybe more—is a traitor,” he says loudly and slowly, projecting his voice the way Aristotle taught him for large audiences. “Each day at noon, I will pick one of your names at random from a pot and I will question that person with all the insight gods give to kings. If treachery is found, the traitor shall be beheaded immediately.”

The four counselors look at one another in panic as time stretches out unbearably. “Theopompus,” Alex says, “do you have anything to say?”

Theopompus, his turquoise eyes huge, moves his bulky frame forward. The normally exquisitely groomed minister is rumpled, his hair uncombed.

“My lord,” he says in his deep rich voice, “is it possible that it was one of the guards who accompanied the young prince Arridheus who sold the secret to our enemies?”

Alex feels mounting irritation, a grinding sensation on the back of his neck. Theopompus's charm and persuasion are legendary in the Greek world, and now he is using them as weapons against him.

“And the traitor arranged to have himself slaughtered or his hand cut off?” he asks harshly. Theopompus lowers his head and steps back. “Gordias,” Alex says, “what do you have to say?” Gordias hobbles forward, the manacles almost too heavy for his ancient frame to bear. Alex casts his gaze around the spectators, many of whom wince or shake their heads. No one wants to see a bearded grandfather, beloved of the gods he serves, treated this way. Alex feels a bitter pang of regret, but he steels himself for what must be done. The spy must be rooted out. For the sake of Macedon.

“The gods protect the innocent,” the old priest says, spitting on the scaffold. He doesn't look at Alex. His wrinkled face is a mask of disapproval.

“Priests always speak in riddles,” Alex says to the muttering crowd. “Though in this case mysterious words could be hiding treason.” He turns to the next prisoner. “Hagnon.”

“My lord, my prince, I protest my innocence!” Hagnon chirps, lifting plump, manacled hands in supplication. “For many years I have served your father loyally! Write to him! Ask him!”

Alex raises his hand as if to ward off a blow. “Silence,” he commands. Do they really think he savors their discomfort any more than they themselves do? He'd rather be anywhere but here. Except that one of them is the rat. One of them has sold him out. One of them has offered up his little brother to the enemy and will do greater damage until he is rooted out. The idea that someone this high in his ranks is using Alex, speaking to him every day in meetings while smugly hiding his true allegiance, is nauseating.
Especially
when Alexander has always prided himself on his ability to detect men's true nature in their eyes. How has this traitor continued to elude him?

He must remind himself of Sarina's story: The god who allowed his people to prove themselves, one by one, in death. He takes a deep breath. “Kadmus,” he says.

The young general's calm gray eyes meet his. “I am ready for trial,” he says. “I have nothing to hide.”

Alex hopes that this is true. Above all, it would pain him to find Kadmus at fault. The general has been nothing but noble. He is young and strong, intelligent and reliable. He has become what Heph was to Alex.

Well, almost.

Alex is unwilling to believe that he has lost a friend—a brother, nearly—in Heph. Only that he needed space from Heph's hotheadedness in order to find his own voice as regent. And Heph needed space, too, to cool down, to be of real service. Alex feels sure that when Heph returns from Egypt, all will be well between them again.

“Sarina,” Alex says now, and she walks forward holding a many-handled
hydria
, used for fetching water. On its bulbous glazed exterior, red soldiers clash on a black painted background. Inside are four
ostraca
, pottery shards, on which she has scratched the names of his counselors with a knife.

Alex puts his hand down the vase's neck into its cool, dark belly, and picks up the first
ostracon
he touches.
Not Kadmus. Please not Kadmus.

It's not, and relief floods him as he calls out loudly, “Hagnon, son of Protis.”

Hagnon is trembling like a palsied man, his eyes flitting right and left as if seeking escape. When he doesn't step forward, the guard pushes him hard and he stumbles, awkwardly regaining balance as his chains clatter.

“When my guards searched your palace quarters and your country estate,” Alexander says, “do you know what they found?” Hagnon opens his mouth but only a squeak comes out.

“They found heaps of foreign gold coins hidden in the walls,” Alex says, walking around the prisoner, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Persian darics, Athenian owls, and Phoenician shekels, as well as gold cups and jeweled belts.”

The murmurs die away and an eerie silence blankets the crowd. “You do not come from a wealthy family, Hagnon. You worked your way up in the ministry, and your salary, though generous, would never buy such treasure. Did you obtain it from Macedon's enemies as bribes?”

“N-no, my prince,” Hagnon says, his entire body shaking as if he has the falling sickness. Sweat pours off his face.

“How much did you receive for selling out my brother?” Alex says, feeling anger flush his face and neck. “How much was Arri worth to you?”

“I never—I swear! I am not a spy!” Hagnon cries.

Alex steps closer and stares directly into the treasurer's brown eyes. He needs to harness his abilities and enter the man's memory himself. What did he do to persuade Hagnon to loosen his purse strings at the council meeting? He must do the same things now. He calms his breathing, relaxes, and tries to empty his mind, though the trying itself must be a thought. After a time, he thinks of swimming in the river behind the palace on hot summer days, splashing his friends. He remembers laughing with Aristotle and the other boys around the fire pit on winter evenings at school in Mieza.

It doesn't work. He's still standing there, staring into frightened, darting little eyes, aware of sweat trickling under his tunic and a general miasma of impatience in the crowd. He wonders if perhaps it's not supposed to work, that no one should be able to enter the memories of others at will. But this is to find a traitor, he reminds himself. To save innocent lives, to keep the entire nation of Macedon strong. He makes a silent vow to himself and any gods who might be listening: he will never trespass on anyone's memories unless it is absolutely necessary. Like now.

Then he relaxes again and clears his mind, experiencing that strange sensation of loss at being human, at being Alex. He replaces the emptiness with thoughts of Kat, her arms around him, flying over the fields with him on Bucephalus. He feels her soft cheek against the back of his neck, the warmth of her against his back, and the wind in his face. He feels that anything is possible.

Around him, the harsh sunlight fades and all sounds are silenced as he's pulled forward. He enters the small dark eyes and travels through a tunnel of white light, emerging in Hagnon's office in the palace.

A tan man, his long beard braided with ivory adornments, slaps down a heavy pouch of coins on the desk, and Hagnon hands him a small scroll. The man takes it, grinning. Alex hovers invisibly, studying him. He wears gold earrings and a red-and-blue checked tunic. Persian.

With a jolt, Alex reels backward through the tunnel. He finds himself once more in his body on the scaffold, his ears ringing. He looks at Hagnon, at the crowded courtyard, at a boy eating a cucumber on the roof, his legs dangling over the side, in wonder and confusion, and then remembers where he is and what he has to do.

“What information have you sold to our enemies? Military secrets?” Alex asks, revolted by the sweat pouring off the man. The minster's limp dark hair is slick with it, his tunic sticking to his paunchy body.

“You have been privy to all of my father's war planning: the number of men we have, the kinds of munitions, and the tactics we devise.” He moves closer, the sour stench of fear nearly engulfing him, and whispers, “Are you the reason why King Philip is failing in Byzantium?”

“I would never!” Hagnon says, his voice cracking.

Alex whispers again, “What was on the document you gave the Persian with the long black beard in your office, Hagnon? The one who gave you a sack of gold in return?”

Hagnon steps back as if Alex struck him, his eyes open wide. He shakes his head. “How do you know?” he asks in a shaking voice. “No one was there. But it wasn't what you think, I swear...”

Now tears are falling onto his pale, sagging cheeks. He crumples to his knees and tries to grab Alex's hands to kiss them. Disgusted, Alex turns away. Behind the throne, Sarina looks at him, solemn-faced.

He has killed many men in battle but that is very different. In battle the enemy is trying to kill
him
. Weapons raised, they race toward him, equally matched in strength. There is a fairness about it. He even grieves for his slain enemies afterward, for lives lost with bravery and honor. But this sobbing wreck of a man before him isn't able to defend himself at all. Worse, as Alex turns back to look at him, he sees a puddle forming around his knees. Hagnon has wet himself in fear. The other prisoners share Alex's distaste. They look away, wincing.

Alex straightens his shoulders and reminds himself that traitors deserve death. He has no right to be regent of Macedon—or ever hope to be king—if he doesn't have the strength to go through with this. He tries to imagine himself the brave god of Sarina's stories. He tries to imagine himself the king he is meant to become.

A drop of his own sweat trickles from his eyebrow onto his cheek. He wants to wipe it off with the back of his hand, but the knowledge that hundreds of people are watching him keeps his hand at his side. He doesn't want the people to think he is sweating because he is nervous or indecisive.

His gaze sweeps over the crowd. A pretty woman at a palace window leans out, her eyes wide in expectation. An old man near the scaffold stares at Hagnon, his mouth open. To Alex's left, a group of well-dressed merchants mumble to each other behind their hands. Everyone here is expecting him to be strong, to prove that despite his youth he is a leader.

“Hagnon,” Alex says quietly. “This is your last chance. Tell me what you sold to the Persian. Was it our plans to take Arri to safety?”

“No, not that!” Hagnon, still kneeling, shakes his head. “Other things, but never that!”

A spike of anger shoots through Alex's entire body. Arri, his little brother who can't understand what is happening, is still missing. And this man, though perhaps he did not betray this particular secret, cannot be trusted. This man, muttering nonsense, is making Alex look like a weak, indecisive fool.

His father expects more of him. Macedon
needs
more of him. He looks around at the expectant faces of the crowd.

“Kill him,” Alex says, almost choking on the words. He swallows hard as a guard steps forward. A sword flashes in the sun and comes down with an awful
thud
, like a knife hitting a melon. Blood sprays over Alex's white tunic as Hagnon's head rolls into the crowd.

He swallows again, praying to all the gods that his face doesn't show the horror and sickness entwined in his gut.

People scream and push backward as the head hits the ground and rolls to their feet. On the scaffold, Hagnon's body is still kneeling, blood pouring from the fountain of a neck, until it falls to the side.

Alex looks back at Sarina, trying to control the faint tremor throughout his body. Sarina nods almost imperceptibly, her eyes steady. As far as he can tell, she did not even wince at the violence. And the people—in the courtyard, in the windows, on the balconies and roofs—wear expressions of grim satisfaction. The prince regent has killed a traitor in his father's council. When the time comes, he will be a strong king.

Alex takes a deep breath and feels his stomach unknot. So this is what it feels like to be a ruler who is both respected and feared.

He turns to Gordias, Kadmus, and Theopompus. “Tomorrow, one of you will be tried, unless the guilty one admits to betraying my brother.” Alex waits for the relief to wash over him. To feel calm now that the deed has been done. But peace eludes him. His trackers have lost Arri's trail—it's as though the earth has opened up and swallowed him. And the traitor is still out there, while the Aesarian Lords, only a day's ride away, probably have Cynane and are planning another attack.

He has always longed to rule, watching his father govern with a mixture of awe and jealousy. But is this what it is like—one catastrophe after another? If only he had someone to talk to, but the people he trusts most in the world are gone. He sent them out himself, and now they are far beyond his reach.