Empire of Dust (31 page)

“I will give you information,” he goes on, “of the interesting yet harmless sort—which you can feed them. It will be a dangerous job, convincing the Assassins that you remain loyal. If they have the slightest suspicion, you will drop dead at the next banquet. But I can help you. We just have to remain one step ahead.”

Kadmus considers this, and Alex sees hope kindling amidst the despair and self-hatred in his face.

“Will you stay with me?” Alex asks, looking into Kadmus's eyes but not, this time, to try and read what's in them. Only to convey what is in his own heart.

“Yes,” Kadmus says softly, “I will.”

* * *

Sarina places the diadem of gold olive leaves on Alex's head and smiles. “Ready, my lord,” she says, tweaking the shoulders of his tunic—rich Tyrian purple, bordered with a wide gold key pattern.

Alex spent most of the one-day journey from Samothrace and the ride from the Pellan lake port thinking about what Aristotle said. Though it stung to learn that his teacher did not want to return with him and claim a coveted spot among his council, his wisdom has shown Alex the path to take.

When he and Kadmus dismounted at the palace this morning, Alex sent word immediately inviting leading citizens to meet with him. He was so eager to get started that he didn't want to take the time to bathe and dress. But if his people are going to agree with the radical changes he wants to make, they need to see the majesty of a prince, not the carelessness of a bedraggled boy traveler.

Now Alex looks into Sarina's eyes—he could drown in their warm, dark depths—and nods. He grabs her hand—it's slender, with long, tapered fingers—and says, “I want you to come with me.”

She blinks in confusion. “But you have called this meeting in the temple, my prince. You will not have need of wine and cakes.”

“It is appropriate for the regent to have a personal attendant with him at all times.”

She frowns slightly, as if not fully trusting his answer, but nods.

Accompanied by six bodyguards, Alex, Kadmus, and Sarina walk from the main palace gates to the nearby central marketplace, where the temple of Zeus the Father is located. The crowd in front of the temple parts as Alex's party arrives. Word must have spread that the prince has something momentous planned.

It's a cool, cloudy afternoon, little bursts of wind toying with cloaks and shawls like invisible kittens. An old man's straw hat rolls in front of Alex like a wheel. Smiling, he picks it up and throws it back to the man.

“Long live Prince Alexander!” the man cries. “May Zeus bless our prince!” cries another, as more and more people clap and cry out blessings.

Ahead of Alex is the temple, freshly painted bright yellow, its four dark red columns topped by bright green acanthus leaves curling around the capitals. He pauses halfway up the steps to the porch, raises his hand in acknowledgment, and smiles. The faces in the crowd light up at this small mark of respect from their prince. His gaze falls on a teenage girl who looks like she's ready to swoon with love for him, a silver-haired matron whose dark eyes glow with admiration, and a pauper beaming a gap-toothed smile.

Inside, the temple is dark and cool, light filtering in the high open windows in slanting bars. This crowd consists of invited guests: wealthy merchants, top palace officials, important priests, major landowners, and leaders of various craft guilds—blacksmiths, armorers, leatherworkers, and jewelers. Most of them prosperous, Macedonian, and male, of course, though there are some widows who have taken over the roles of dead husbands, and several foreign-born individuals.

At the far end of the
naos
, a gigantic statue of Zeus sits on a red marble throne, a sunbeam lighting up his smooth ivory face. His eyes are lapis and onyx, his beard and hair pure silver, his tunic and the lightning bolt in his right hand pure gold. In front of him, at the altar, the priestess Orythia holds the rope of a large white goat, its horns gilded, a garland of blossoms around its neck. Dark gray hair frames the priestess's strong, smooth face, and in her other hand glints the silver blade of a knife.

“Loyal subjects,” Alex says, stepping in front of her. “You must wonder why I am holding this meeting here, in a temple, rather than in the palace throne room or council chamber.” Several heads nod.

“I am proposing changes to our traditional way of governing, and before I do so I must be sure that the gods approve.”

Eyebrows lift in question. Heads turn as people look at one another in surprise.

Alex nods, and Orythia slices the goat's throat. The creature falls immediately, bleating, its front legs sprawled out, and its blood gushes into a silver basin. Two young priests lift the still-bleeding carcass onto the altar and slit it open. The liver is placed in a golden bowl and handed to Orythia, who pokes and prods it.

Alex holds his breath, remembering all the stories of kings who ignored omens and suffered disaster as a result. The king of Troy, who refused to hand Helen back to her husband Menelaus. The Great King Xerxes of Persia, who stubbornly invaded Greece. King Croesus of Sardis, who attacked Cyrus of Persia.

The worst thing that could happen is for the goat's liver to be missing—that would signify such an immediate catastrophe everyone would race home and bar their doors. But if the liver is misshapen, or deformed by a black growth, or even if it is the wrong color—a pale and sickly pink instead of a strong reddish-brown—he will have to pretend he was going to alter the rules of ambassadorial appointments and do this another time. But he doesn't want to wait.

Orythia comes forward, smiling, her startlingly ice-blue eyes almost glowing in the soft light of the temple. “My lord,” she says, and he knows before he looks in the bowl that the omens are good. “Never before have I seen such a healthy liver. The color and shape are perfect. But more than that, my prince,” she adds, and Alex feels a shiver of anticipation run through him, “the liver bears an unusual mark.” His heart skips a beat.
What kind of mark?

She places the bowl in his hands and Alex sees a pale jagged mark in the flesh that looks just like a lightning bolt. “Whatever it is you aim to do, my prince, Father Zeus himself has given you his special blessing.”

Alex lowers his head in gratitude and respect, wondering if Father Zeus really approves of the shocking change he is going to make, or if this could be a coincidence. He quickly decides to believe the former. Whatever the case, the omens will make this a lot easier for him, because many here will not like what he's going to do. He places the bowl on the altar for anyone who wants to come and look after the meeting is over.

“My lords and ladies,” he says, “as you are aware, the Macedonian royal council has suffered depletions recently.” Someone in the crowd sniggers. “With my father's attentions turned to war, it is up to me to form a new council. I have invited you here today to make known my wishes.”

Many men in the crowd draw themselves up to their full height and lift their chins.

“General Kadmus, who so ably helped defend us against the Aesarian Lords, will remain my minister of war.” Heads nod. This was expected and hardly controversial.

“My new minister of religion,” he says, and several white-robed priests puff out their chests, “will be Orythia.” Her eyes fly open as a rumble of discontent echoes through the temple.

“My lord?” she asks.

Alex turns toward her. “You have spent your life since childhood serving Zeus the Father devotedly,” he says. “Moreover, you are known to have more of the Sight, priestess, than any priest in Macedon, which will help me to rule.” She lowers her eyes in obedience as the murmurs stop.

He goes down the list, naming a mix of Macedonian-born males, foreign-born males, and Macedonian women, all known for their wisdom, fairness, and business acumen, to the positions of an expanded council: minister of provisions, advisor of the guilds, advisor of foreign trade, minister of finance, counselors for agriculture, armaments, and judicial affairs, and general counselors.

Finally, he beckons Sarina forward from her spot against the wall. She winds her way through the crowd. “This woman, raised to be advisor to pharaohs, has given me council when I needed it,” he says. “She has seen things I have not. She knows things I do not. I name Sarina of Egypt, too, to be a counselor.”

The crowd in front of him is utterly silent, each face marked with a frown, outrage, or puzzlement.

“She's not only a woman, but foreign-born,” says a plump merchant at the front of the crowd. “Worse than that, she's a slave.”

“She is free now,” Alex says, averting his eyes from Sarina's gaze. Her eyes seem to burn with fury.

Alex hears whispered words.
Mistress. Prostitute. Witch. Spy.

Macedon will be a joke.

This goes too far.

Kadmus stands next to Alex and, in the same clear, carrying voice he uses calling out commands on the battlefield, announces, “Sarina of Egypt was one of the three palace women who risked her life to fight the Aesarian Lords last month. She worked the catapult to launch the jars of snakes and scorpions at the enemy, turning the tide of the battle. She is not only intelligent, but as brave as any soldier.” He turns toward her and says, “It is an honor, Sarina. We will welcome your wisdom and insight.”

The mutterings cease. Alexander strides outside to address the people in the marketplace, as those inside crowd behind him on the temple porch.

“People of Macedon,” he says, “as we look ahead to our future, we must ask ourselves what kind of nation, what kind of people, we want to be. When we cast our gaze just a day's sail to our east, we see Persia. Its culture is rich, we know, its army powerful. Yet everyone there lives in fear of the Great King. Do you wish to live in fear of your king and his counselors?”

Heads shake. Voices murmur.

“As for me, I have no wish to rule over a flock of stunned, scared sheep,” he continues. “I want our culture to thrive, our
people
to thrive, to believe not only in me, your future king, but in Macedon, and in its rightful place in the known world. I want my advisors to come from all segments of Macedonian society, bringing me different kinds of knowledge and wisdom. I want every citizen to take pride in our nation and to support its expansion. And in fact, I have realized something more—we will never win new lands without understanding
their
cultures.”

“Long live the prince!” cries a male voice from somewhere in the crowd. “We will not live like Persian sheep!” cries an old woman, lifting a cane. They clap and cheer as Alex and his entourage return to the palace.

At the main gate, a guard takes Kadmus aside as Alex and Sarina return to his room. She says nothing, but he can feel a hot, pulsing anger pouring from her. The click-clack of her sandals on the floor reminds him of a hand repeatedly slapping a face. As soon as he closes the door she rounds on him, nostrils flaring and dark eyes sharp as flints.

“With all due respect, Prince, you have done me no favor.”

He puts his hands on her upper arms. “Don't pay attention to what those people said in there. You have already served as my advisor—”

“Your
unofficial
advisor,” she cuts in, fury surging thickly in her voice as she shakes off his hands. “Now I am a public laughingstock. Everyone will hate me. They might even try to kill me! How can I bear the shame of it?”

Alex takes her hand, and though she tries to pull away from his grip, he holds fast. “The shame of what, Sarina?” he asks softly.

Her mouth parts, but she says nothing. There is a heat between them so strong, it is a kind of invisible fire pit, radiating outwards, warming Alexander's skin.

“That you've chosen me because, because...” Her smooth dark cheeks refuse to blush, but she looks away. “Because you desire me.”

Surprise stabs through him.
Does
he desire her? He cannot help but take in the stunning curves of her lithe body, the gloss of her hair, the intensity of her gaze, the feeling he gets around her. And yet...

“Sarina, listen to me,” he continues. “You have helped me unofficially already. You have given me invaluable advice in dealing with treachery. That is why I trust you. Not,” he says, pausing to check within himself, to confirm that this is in fact true, “for any other reason.”

How can he make her understand? And Kadmus, too, for that matter. That Alex can love and yet not love, desire and yet not desire. That all of his decisions, and loyalties, are of the mind, not the body. That the body is but an imperfect vessel of the soul of a man: his ambition, his strength, his destiny.

“Prince Alexander!” a voice says.

Alex looks over her shoulder to see Kadmus himself in the open doorway, his hair unkempt and an open scroll in his hand.

“What news?” Alex asks calmly, masking the sense of foreboding creeping up the back of his neck.

Sarina turns abruptly and slides past Kadmus, leaving the room with her head bowed low.

“What news?” Alex prompts again, more loudly.

“Your father the king has fought a great battle at the walls of Byzantium and captured many men. But he has lost far more than he has gained. I fear—”

Alex bristles, holding up his hand. He knows already. His father's pride will never allow him to retreat, even though this war is draining the treasury and leaving Macedon defenseless against its enemies. How can Philip not see this? He finds his fists clenching.

“Fortunately,” Kadmus says, “the king captured many men whose families could afford their ransom, and he is already using these funds to hire mercenaries. The men who were not ransomed were put to death—all except one.”

Alex frowns. “What has this man done to spare him the fate of his brothers?”

“This Persian went into a building set on fire by our arrows and rescued those who dwelled there...even though the civilians were Greek. When he came out, our soldiers captured him. Philip wants to reward him with an honorable public death to show Macedonians the bravest of the Persians.”