Empire of Dust (32 page)

Alex shakes his head in amazement. What kind of Persian would risk his life to help Greeks?

“Where is this man?”

“He was taken to the palace jail,” Kadmus says. “We're waiting for your orders.”

“I wish to meet a soldier that so impressed my father. Take me to him.”

The Persian sits patiently on fresh straw in a ground-floor cell of the palace jail—used for the occasional brawling soldier, misbehaving servant, and drunken palace employee. With a great clanking of chains, he rises as Alex and Kadmus enter, and continues to rise. He's half a head taller than Alex, with shoulder-length black curls and a face of almost feminine beauty, his eyes fringed with thick lashes. He has an aura of calm about him, despite being chained.

Kadmus pushes him to his knees. “Kneel before the prince regent,” he says.

The prisoner bows his head and clasps his hands in respect.

“Rise,” Alex says in Persian, and the man does so, rattling and clinking again.

“So, you rescued people from a burning building instead of retreating with your men,” Alex continues. “Did you know the people you saved were Greeks?”

“Yes, lord,” the prisoner says in rapid Persian. “That is the neighborhood of Greeks, near the western wall. All Greek people in Byzantium live there.”

“But are Greeks not your enemy in this war of Byzantium?”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But no one deserves to
burn
to death. These were mothers, fathers, children, all of them civilians.” His face twists in pain so intense, it is as if Kadmus had kneed him in the groin. “Kings choose war, and we soldiers fight as is our duty. But civilians should not suffer as much as they do. Soldiers are strong, and it is our responsibility to protect those weaker than us, even the innocent enemy.”

Alex stands thunderstruck. The man is right, of course. But what Greek king would ever consider such a shocking idea? Innocent enemies are routinely slaughtered, raped, robbed, or enslaved. Everyone shrugs it off as the price of losing a war. Alex suddenly wonders what it would be like if he, as king, granted clemency to innocent civilians, particularly from those kingdoms who surrender peacefully and make an alliance with Macedon. Wouldn't all the other countries in his path of conquest do the same rather than run the risk of war? It would be something like that children's game of standing roof tiles up in a long curving row and pushing over the first one; all the others behind topple neatly to the ground in turn.

He turns to Kadmus. “And this is the man Philip wants us to execute?” he asks, incredulous.

Kadmus nods. “The king recognized his courage and wants him to have an honorable death.”

“There would be nothing honorable about executing this man,” Alex snaps. He looks back at the prisoner. “As you have heard, my father wants me to execute you.”

The man nods and raises sad eyes. “You must obey your father, lord.”

“Do you not wish to live?” Alex asks impatiently.

The man shrugs. “I have no family. I did love a girl, but she is dead. When I die, I will swim the River of Ordeal and find her on the other side.”

“Do you speak Greek?” Alex asks.

“Nai, oligon ti.”
Yes, a little bit. His lips wrap thickly around the Greek words.

Alex makes up his mind. He has already caused such an uproar this morning, what's one more bit of scandal? “Find your dead girl if you wish, but it won't be any time soon. Kadmus, unchain this man.”

“Prince,” Kadmus says urgently, “if we release him, he will go straight back to the Persian army and fight your father again at Byzantium.”

Alex scowls. “As do those who are ransomed. This man had no family to ransom him. What is the difference? A sack of coins?” He stares pointedly at Kadmus, who unlocks the prisoner's chains and removes them from his wrists. The man massages the sore spots where the iron chafed him raw and looks at Alex expectantly.

“What is your rank?” Alex asks in Greek.

“Captain, my lord.”

Captain. A high rank given for bravery, skill, and intelligence.

“You obviously understand the Persian culture. Do you understand the Persian mind?”

The man sighs. “I know it, my lord, but I do not share it. The Persian mind has wheels set within wheels, secrets within secrets. Flowers and jewels conceal death. You Greeks are more...” He knits his brow, searching for the right Greek word. “Straight... Straight...”

“Straightforward,” Alex says.

“Yes! That is the word,” the soldier agrees.

“Then listen carefully, my straightforward friend.” He stops in front of the prisoner and fixes his eyes on him. “I hear—” he glances briefly at Kadmus “—that there are powerful groups in Persia outside of the Great King, surreptitiously interfering with his policy. A guild of assassins. I need advice on how to deal with Persia—perhaps you can help me.”

Kadmus is nearly spluttering with shock. He pulls Alex to the other side of the cell and says in a low voice, “Your highness, you cannot trust a Persian.”

Alex smiles sadly. “You're talking to me about trust?” Kadmus lowers his eyes. “And,” Alex adds, “this man has no family in Persia, no ties to be threatened in exchange for disloyalty. Still, we will keep an eye on him, keep him away from discussions of military planning.”

Kadmus clutches Alex's arm. “You can't be thinking to make this man a council member?”

“No, not a full council member, yet. I am not as foolish as that.” He studies the man, taking in his height and calm demeanor. “Let us call him our resident Persian expert.”

“But—”

“That is all, Kadmus.”

“Very well,” Kadmus says, though he looks unhappy about it. “Though your father—”

“—will find out that in his absence I am doing things my own way. If he wants things done
his
way, he should stop making a fool of himself in Byzantium and come home to rule his kingdom. Now, get this man a bath, a room, a meal, and a tunic.”

He turns to the prisoner. “Your name?”

“Cosmas, son of Borzin.”

Alexander nods. “Welcome, Cosmas, to Pella.”

He leaves the dank air of the prison behind, pleased with himself. His new council is composed of individuals with wildly different backgrounds, cultures, and experiences. He will have many viewpoints, strategies, and perspectives to choose from, helping him rule with wisdom and insight. The gods would approve, he imagines.

And so, too, he thinks with a smile, will his old teacher, Aristotle.

* * *

In the wide marble hall, a series of slave girls carrying buckets of steaming water pass him by, heading toward the queen's apartments. So, she's back again.

And now that his work restoring the council is done, there can be no further delay.

He must have the truth.

The guards outside his mother's room lower their spears in salute as he pushes open the door to her chamber. She is setting items in a basket on her worktable, probably preparing for a bath, given the steaming water. Her favorite snake is wrapped around her neck, a living, writhing shawl of shimmering green coils with a pattern of gold. A small black snake is coiled around her upper arm like a bracelet, and several others peer curiously into the basket.

She looks up startled, and then her face softens. “Oh, Alexander, you should really knock, you know. I've just been called to my bath.” Her diaphanous violet robes give off a delicate fragrance, he notices.

His gaze falls on the items in the basket. A silver bowl, a strange red flower, a knife, a small leather pouch, and what looks like a handkerchief with dried blood on it.

“In your absence, dear, I sent Cynane off to get married,” she says as if that's some sort of explanation for the strange items. She strokes the large snake around her neck, “She will wed King Amyntas of Dardania.”

Cynane, a wife.
Alex has a hard time wrapping his mind around the idea and wonders how his mother got his sister to agree. And isn't there something wrong with King Amyntas? Isn't he a half-wit or something? “You should have waited for me to return before bundling her off,” he says.

“Your father approved of the match,” she says airily.

“My
father
?” he asks softly. The word feels like flint on his tongue. His heart hammers in his chest. Now is the time. He must have answers.

“Yes, your fa—”

“Mother, I know.”

The air hangs heavily between them.

She stares at him.

And then suddenly, she laughs. It's a silvery, tinkling sound that conceals more than it conveys. “Know what, my darling? That he's as glad as I am that your ill-tempered sister is gone?”

“I. Know.” The words dangle in the air like a pair of knives. “You've been keeping a secret from me my entire life.”

Olympias places her hands on the basket, but remains silent.

“I'm not Philip's son, am I?”

The queen's face is impassive, as quiet as a lake on a windless day. And—try though he might—he cannot see beneath her surface. The green snake lifts its large head and stares at Alex with inscrutable eyes, and he has the strangest sense that the snake is blocking him from seeing into his mother's memories.

“There are many kings in the world, Alexander,” she says quietly, stroking the snake again. “It is not so unusual to have a king for a father. Even my pathetic father was a king.”

What is she trying to say?

“But you, my heart's treasure, flesh of my flesh—
your
father has far greater power than you could ever imagine. Soon my love, soon.”

Alexander is entranced, mesmerized by her words as she steps out the door in a whisper of robes, and he is left behind, alone in her bedroom.

But even though he is alone, his mother's words still echo in his head.

Your father has far greater power than you could ever imagine.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ROXANA CLAPS HER
chubby little hands and cries, “Pegasus! Pegasus! Give me a ride and fly away with me!”

Laughing, Zo bends over and her sister climbs onto her back, throws her arms around her neck, and kicks her gently in the waist. Zo gallops down the long, cool blue corridors, waving her arms as if they were wings as Roxana squeals in delight. Through the open windows, the scent of roses wafts in, clinging to sunbeams. Neighing loudly, Zo turns the corner to see a plump eunuch carrying a silver tray piled high with fresh bread, a crock of golden butter, and roast lamb with parsley, and Zo wants to stop to eat. She's starving, but Roxana is on her back, and that is more important. Food will be there later, but Roxana... There's something troubling Zo about Roxana.

“Pegasus knows its way by the stars!” her sister cries, and Zo joins in. “Pegasus knows the way of fate! Pegasus is never lost!”

The scene shifts, and Zo finds herself in her uncle's throne room, looking around in desperation for Roxana. A tall, hooded figure glides toward her down the dais, and she is terrified that King Shershah will punish her, because she has done something horrible, though she can't remember exactly what it was.

When the figure throws back the hood, she sees it is Cosmas, and his dark eyes are sad, disappointed. “Love is duty,” he says, shaking his head. “You have failed your duty in so many ways. Better if you had died as I believed, instead of running away like a fool.”

Maybe she is a fool, she wants to say, but love certainly isn't
duty.
How can anyone believe that? How could she ever have loved him? She looks at him standing there, slouched in front of the throne. He has no spirit. No fire. He's just a good-looking, sweet guy with shoulders too wide for his body and impossibly long eyelashes that fluttered their way right into her heart. How stupid was it to love a man for his eyelashes?

Another figure approaches, a little shorter but broader, gait swaggering. He rips the cloak off impatiently and throws it to the ground. Ochus, his golden eyes gleaming fiercely in the torchlight, wearing the skin of the lion he killed with his bare hands when she tried to escape.

“He's the fool,” Ochus says, smirking at Cosmas. “Love is passion, the spark between a man and a woman that drives them both mad with desire.”

She remembers the feel of Ochus's mouth, moist and hungry, against hers. And then her thoughts drift to the fact that he had been sent to murder her by the Assassins, the secret group operating outside even the power of the Great King Artaxerxes. Ochus recognized the X marks over the hearts of the girls in the
harmanaxa.
He knew his brothers had fulfilled their assignment to murder Alexander's new brides, and were probably fanning out searching for him and Zo. Perhaps the Assassins were hot on their heels when he abandoned her. To save her. Or to let her die out in the wilderness, for all he knows. How can she love him now?

Licking her dry, parched lips, she wants something to drink more than anything in the world. Cosmas, staring at her with all his sincerity and seriousness, reminds her of a cup of water: pure and refreshing...but for the first time she wonders if she would have eventually become bored by him. Ochus, on the other hand, arms crossed and eyeing her intently, is a cup of fire mead, dangerous and fierce and exciting.

Yes
, Zo agrees. Ochus is right, not Cosmas. And it is Ochus she wants now. She goes toward him, arms outstretched. He grabs her wrists, twists her around, and cries, “Guards! Lock her up for lying.”

Faceless soldiers tromp into the throne room and drag her away. She's so hungry. Why didn't she eat that lamb? Where is Roxana? She trips and her head slams down on the marble tiles. No, not marble. Dirt. A dirt floor. Wearily, she sits up and rubs her eyes. Light streaming in through the holes in the roof is the color of tarnished silver and falls on split wooden logs piled high against one wall. Is it dusk? Or just before dawn?

Now she remembers. She's in a firewood hut. She found it by the light of the moon last night outside the wooden palisade of a hillside village and curled up in it. Now, with the sun coming up, the gates will be open, the villagers heading out to their fields and orchards.

Somehow she has survived the past... How many days has it been since Ochus abandoned her? Eight? Ten? She never found the road he told her about, but he was right about finding pools of water near clumps of trees. One day she found a clutch of bird eggs in a nest and devoured them raw. And then, a few days ago, she had the amazing good luck to stumble upon a hunter's tent with skins full of olives and dried meat, though the hunter was nowhere to be found.

Now those provisions are gone, and her goatskin is empty. Her throat feels as if she has eaten dust. She stretches. Despite her deep sleep, every bone in her body throbs with fatigue. But for the first time since Ochus left, she feels hope bubbling up in her chest, boisterous and irrepressible. The gold jewelry in her pack will buy food and drink, a place to rest, and probably a horse to find the Spirit Eaters and the Hunor village to change her fate.

Her body is frustratingly slow at following her command to walk. She trips over a rock in the gray light and stumbles, nearly falling. Outside the palisade are a few nicely tended olive and fig trees. She's tempted to search the branches for fruit, but wonders if she could even swallow it without water. No, there's something better just moments away. Water, fortified with wine. Fresh milk. Bread. Meat. Herbed cheese. She's almost there. She just has to put one foot in front of the other, climbing the rocky path up the steep hill.

Now that she's close, she realizes it's less of a village and more a collection of thatched huts behind a wooden wall. But right now she finds the huts more beautiful than the gleaming palace of Sardis.

As she suspected, someone has unbarred the wooden gate with the advent of morning. She swings it open and enters the settlement. There's an empty paddock to her left—have the villagers already taken the horses and oxen out to the fields? Just a short way down the dirt path between huts—thanks be to Anahita and all the gods—is a well. She races toward it and with trembling arms cranks up a bucket of sloshing water, which she places on the stone rim. Just as she's about to cup her hands in it, she realizes there's something wrong with the water. It doesn't look clean. There are bits of...something floating in it, like little pieces of raw meat. It smells bad. As thirsty as she is, she backs away from it.

It's only then that she notices the stillness of the village. In Sardis early in the morning, wells are crowded with women gathering water to brew tea and boil eggs, to wash in and rinse out night pots. Jugs balanced elegantly on their heads, the women go home satisfied with new gossip and off-color jokes.

But at this well, on this morning, there are no women. Zo narrows her eyes and looks toward the roofs. There is no friendly furl of smoke signaling baking bread and simmering stew. Unease prickles her scalp. Perhaps some wild animal has chased the villagers—and their animals—away.

She remembers the rumors she and Ochus kept hearing along the Royal Road, of entire villages vanishing. Of horses disappearing and bones left behind.

She pulls Ochus's knife out of the sheath on her belt and stands perfectly still, not even breathing, listening for a growl, a roar. There's nothing but the soft sigh of the wind across the plains and, it seems, the buzzing of flies. She walks to the closest cottage and sees that the door is lying on the dirt floor, deep scratch marks gouged in its surface. A wooden bar, which the inhabitants evidently slid into place to keep the door secure, lies broken in half beside the door.

She doesn't want to go inside, but her situation is desperate. Pausing a moment to offer a prayer to Mithras, she steps past the threshold and looks around. In the early light, everything is painted with shades of gray and black. There's a fire pit in the center of the cottage with rolled-up sleeping mats around it. She sees a bread oven in the corner, a table and benches on the side. Her heart leaps. There's food on the table. Whatever happened, the villagers were not expecting it.

One hand still grasping the knife, she picks up the circular loaf of bread and bites into it, almost cracking a tooth. Hard as a rock—but not moldy, which must mean the attack happened not more than a couple of days ago. Four cups are tipped over and flies rub their legs in the dark splotches on the dirt floor. The wine amphora is cracked and drained, the water buckets tipped over. There is nothing to drink here. She grabs a handful of olives from a bowl and pushes them into her mouth but they stick in her dry throat. She wraps the rest in a napkin and stashes them in her pack for later.

Though she sees no danger, she knows she needs to get out of here as soon as she can. Two knives glint a dull silver on the table. She picks them up and tucks them into her belt. On her way out the door she grabs a little ox-horn lantern. That might come in handy.

Silently, she enters the cottage next door. Its door hangs off the hinges like a grimace, and on the ground, there are long, dark streaks. In the full light of day, they would almost certainly be red. It's almost as if someone horribly wounded had been dragged through the broken furniture and dragged outside...

Run!
The thought hammers at her mind.
Run, now!

She steps back into the dirt path between the cottages, almost falling in her haste to leave the abandoned village. As fast as she tries to run, it feels as if lead ingots have been tied to her legs, which are weak and awkward. She trips over something and tumbles into the dirt. Pushing herself up, she looks back and sees the pale shiny bone of a human skull minus its lower jaw, teeth marks over its shiny surface as if something has chewed on it.

She scrambles up and runs wildly. But this isn't the way she came in. Is there another gate? Or is she trapped inside the village with the wild animals that did this? Looking over her shoulder, she races ahead until she realizes something is blocking her path, a huge heap of...stones. No, not stones.

Bones. Long leg bones. Rib cages. Skulls—not just of humans, but horses and oxen. A scattering of vertebrae like white coral sea creatures. Flies buzz and hover and land on the bones, hoping for a meal, but almost all of the skin, the flesh, and muscle have been sucked clean.

And the bones—every one of them that Zo can see—have deep teeth marks gouged on them. Someone—some
thing
—has devoured this entire village and sucked the marrow out of the bones.

Heart hammering, she races around the pile, past a forge, its furnace cold and dead, and flings herself out a little gate. The sun is rising now over the distant hills, the light strengthening.

She runs across a dry, rocky expanse, no idea which way she's heading, no sense of how far she may be from the nearest road. She could swear she has reached the end of the world. Maybe she has. But she keeps running, knowing that if she stops, she might never move again. She might collapse forever. Her lungs are aching, her throat filled with dust. She knows she must stop at some point, must find water, but where? Nowhere seems safe. And so she runs, until, in the haze of dry heat before her, she suddenly sees that the ground seems to stop.

She slows down, coming to the edge of a steep hill. A short way behind her, towering white cliffs rise heavenward.

The view of the canyon below takes her breath away. At her feet are rocks of every shape and size, fallen from the cliffs. But farther away, shades of yellow grass mix with gray-purple underbrush, bone-white dirt and gnarled, stunted black trees. More untamed land, on and on and on as far as the eye can see. Down there, toward her right, is a clump of trees. Water. She will get water first, then run as fast as possible from whatever evil has devoured this village.

She finds what looks like a path and slowly makes her way down, clinging to rocks and twisted bushes. Loose earth crumbles beneath her feet, and she slips onto her back with a shock. Yet perhaps it's a good idea to stay low to the ground. She slides down the rest of the way on her rear end. At the hill's rocky base, as she stands up and dusts off her tunic, she smells something. Dampness. Water. And then she sees the opening of a cave. There's water inside the cave.

Quickly rifling through her pack, she strikes her iron on flint and sparks the oil lamp inside the ox-horn lantern into flame. Checking the knives in her belt, she walks inside the cave, holding the lantern high. It's cooler in here, the air refreshingly moist on her sweaty skin...but she has to find water. She still feels like she's about to faint. She puts her hand on the cave wall for support and gasps.

Underneath her palm, she feels dampness. She holds up the lantern and sees that the wall in front of her shimmers with wetness.

Barely able to control herself, Zo sets down the lantern. Long shadows dance around her as she leans her entire body against the wall. It takes a few moments for the dampness to soak into her clothes, like lying on dewy grass on a summer's morning. The wetness wraps around her tired, fevered body.

A sound comes from the far end of the cave. She snatches up the lantern and holds it high, but the area is cloaked in blackness so intense the dim light cannot begin to penetrate it. She is not sure what kind of sound she heard. There is something like an animal movement, a turning, a digging of claws into earth. And then...whispers.

What animals whisper? None. She is imagining things. She is so thirsty.

Carefully, she turns back toward the sparkling wall, leans forward and gingerly places her lips against it, like a first kiss. The taste of earth and stone fills her mouth, but she doesn't focus on it. She focuses on the tiniest droplet of water that has fallen onto her tongue.

There is a blast of pure, refreshing cold, like opening a door in a gusting blizzard. It tastes like water from a virgin mountain stream tumbling wildly over crystal. It tastes the way music sounds when it grabs your heart so violently it makes your eyes sting with the beauty of life and love and loss. It tastes the way roses smell and true love feels. It tastes of things much bigger than human life, of ancient gods and brightly burning stars and endless oceans deep with secrets, of fate and death, courage and joy.