To Rescue Tanelorn (16 page)

Abaris handed the scroll to Simon. “We’ll furnish you with a horse and a disguise. Will you go to Pela for us? Will you deliver a message to our brothers?”

“Willingly,” Simon said, though he was aware that to journey to the capital of Macedonia would be courting danger.

“They live in secret,” Abaris told Simon, “but we will tell you how to find them. Also we will furnish you with weapons.”

“I’d be grateful for that,” Simon smiled.

“We’ll give you a day for resting and allowing the herbs we’ll give you to drink to do their work—then you can start off. You should have little trouble here, for our magic will protect you and we know a secret way out of the city.”

Simon lay back on the bench. “Healing herbs will be very welcome,” he said, “and something to help me take a dreamless sleep…”

Outside, the courtiers glanced at one another, not daring to enter the room where a man groaned.

A short, clever-looking man in ornate war-gear turned to a calm-faced, sensitive man.

“Why was he so anxious to apprehend the Thracian, I wonder, Anaxarchus?”

The sensitive man shook his head. “I have no idea. I hear he was from my home city, Abdera, before he went to Byzantium. For all my people say that the folk of Abdera are stupid, some very clever men were born there.”

“And you, of course, are one,” the soldier smiled ironically.

“I must be—I am a philosopher attached to Alexander’s train,” Anaxarchus said.

The warrior took several nervous paces up the corridor, wheeled around, cursing. “By the Salamander’s breath, are we never to finish our conquests? What is wrong with Alexander, Anaxarchus? How long has he been like this? Rumours came to Egypt, but I discounted them.”

“He is ill, Ptolemy, that is all,” Anaxarchus said, but he did not believe his own words.

“That is
all
! Even if I had not heard the Oracle of Libya speak of terrible strifings in this world and the others I would be troubled. Things are happening. Anaxarchus—doom-clouds are covering the world.”

“Gloomy, Ptolemy—he is only sick. He has a fever.”

Another awful groan came from behind the doors, a terrified and terrible groan of awful agony. Neither did it seem to represent physical pain but some deeper agony of spirit.

“An unusual fever,” Ptolemy said savagely. He strode towards the doors, but Anaxarchus blocked his passage.

“No, Ptolemy—you would not emerge with your sanity intact, I warn you.”

Ptolemy looked at the scholar for a moment, then turned and almost ran down the corridor.

Inside the locked room, the man—or god—groaned terribly. It was as if the bones of his face were breaking apart to form individual beings. What was he? Even he could not be sure. For years he had been certain of his own power, confident that his greatness was his own. But now, it was obvious to him, poor, tormented Alexander, that he was nothing—nothing but a vessel, an agent through which many forces worked—and even those forces were united under a common name. He knew then, also, that they had entered many others in the past, that, if his strength broke, they would enter many more until their work was done.

Part of him begged for death.

Part of him attempted to fight that which was in him.

Part of him planned—crime.

Simon, cloaked and armed, clamped his knees against his steed’s back and galloped over the sparsely covered plains of Babylon, the folds of his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a stooping hawk.

The horse snorted, its sturdy legs flashing, its eyes big and its heart pounding.

For two hours, Simon had ridden in safety.

But now the cold night air above him was alive with dreadful sounds.

He drew his sword from its scabbard and rode on, telling himself that the noises were the flapping wings of vultures.

Then a shape came swooping in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a pale, human face. But it was not entirely human. Snakes twined on its head, blood dripped from its eyes. The horse came to a sudden halt, reared whinnying.

Simon closed his eyes against the sight.

“The herbs the Magi gave me have induced visions,” he told himself aloud in shaking tones.

But he could not believe it. He had seen them.

The Eumenides—the Furies of legend!

For the face had been that of a woman.

Now the sounds came closer, ominous. Simon urged the frightened horse onwards. Sharp female faces with serpents in place of hair, blood streaming from malevolent eyes, hands like talons, swooped and cackled about him. It was a nightmare.

Then, quite suddenly, there came a dull booming sound from the distance, like the faraway sound of surf. Nearer and nearer it came until the night opened to brightness, a strange golden light which seemed to break through the blackness, splintering it into fragments.

The winged creatures were caught in the glare, wheeled about uncertainly, shrieking and keening.

They were gone.

The light faded.

Simon rode on. And still he insisted to himself that what he had witnessed was hallucination. Something done to his weary brain by the potion the Magi had given him.

The rest of the night was full of nauseous sound, glimpses of things which flew or wriggled. But, convinced that he dreamed, horrified yet keeping close hold on sanity, Simon pushed the steed onwards towards Pela.

Horse and man rested for only a few hours at a time. The journey took days until, at length, eyes sunken in his head from tiredness, face grey and gaunt and mind numb he arrived at the Macedonian capital and sought out the Magi in the clay-built slums of the city.

Massiva, head of the secret order in Pela, was a tall, handsome Numidian. He greeted Simon warmly.

“We were informed of your coming and did our best, when you came close enough, to ward off the dangers which Alexander’s minions sent against you.”

Simon did not reply to this. Silently, he handed over the scroll.

Massiva opened it, read it, frowning.

“This we did not know,” he said. “Olympias has sent aid to Alexander in Babylon.”

The priest offered no explanation, so Simon did not ask for one.

Massiva shook his head wearily. “I do not understand how one human can endure so much,” he said, “but then she has other aid than human…”

“What are these stories about her?” Simon asked, thinking that he might at last find some truth where before he had heard nothing but rumour and hints.

“The simple facts concerning her activities are common knowledge here,” Massiva told him. “She is an ardent initiate of a number of mystery cults, all worshipping the dark forces. The usual unpleasant rites, secret initiations, orgiastic celebrations. Three of the main ones, supposedly having no communication with one another, are the cults of Orpheus, Dionysius and Demeter. It’s hinted that Alexander was conceived at one of these rites. In a way that is the truth—for Olympias was selected by the Dark One when she was a girl participating in the rites of a similar cult.”

Simon shook his head impatiently at this. “I asked you for facts—not speculation.”

Massiva looked surprised. “I indulged in no speculation, my friend. Why, the whole city lives in fear of Olympias and her friends and servants. Evil is so thick here that ordinary folk can hardly breathe for its stink.”

Simon said shortly: “Well, I hope the information is useful to you. I’ve paid my debt, at least. Now, can you recommend a tavern where I can stay?”

“I can recommend none well, in this cursed city. You might try the Tower of Cimbri. It’s comfortable, so I’ve heard. But be wary, take iron to bed with you.”

“I’d do that in any event,” Simon grinned, “with Alexander after my blood and me staying in his home city.”

“You’re courageous, Thracian—do not be foolish.”

“Don’t worry, friend.” Simon left the house, remounted his horse and rode it towards the tavern quarter, eventually locating the Tower of Cimbri.

He was about to enter when he heard the sound of running from an alley which ran along the side of the building. Then a girl screamed. Drawing his sword he ran into the alley and, because he had become so hardened to sights of horror, hardly noticed the misshapen creatures menacing a frightened girl, save that they were armed and evidently powerful. The girl’s eyes were round with fear and she was half-fainting. One of the twisted men put out a blunt paw to seize her, but wailed out its pain as Simon’s sword caught it in the shoulder blades.

The others turned, reaching for their weapons. Simon cut two down before they could draw their swords. The fourth swung at Simon but was too clumsy. He died in a moment, his neck cloven.

Instead of thanking him, the girl stared down at the corpses in terror.

“You fool,” she muttered.

“Fool?” Simon was taken aback.

“You have killed four of Queen Olympias’s retainers—did you not recognize the livery—or their kind?”

“I’m a stranger in Pela.”

“Then leave now—or be doomed.”

“No, I must see that you are safe. Quickly—I have a horse waiting in the street.” He supported her with one arm though she protested and helped her into the saddle.

He got up behind her.

“Where do you live?”

“Near the west wall—but hurry, by Hera, or they’ll find the corpses and give chase.”

Following her directions, Simon guided the horse through the evening half-light.

They came to a pleasant, large house, surrounded by a garden which in turn was enclosed in high walls. They rode through the gates and she dismounted, closing them behind her. An old man appeared in the doorway to the courtyard.

“Camilla? What’s happening?”

“Later, father. Have the servants stable the horse and make sure all the gates are locked—Olympias’s retainers attempted to kidnap me again. This man saved me from them—but four are dead.”

“Dead? Gods!” The old man pursed his lips. He was dressed in a loose toga and had a stern, patrician face. He was evidently a nobleman, though his black-haired daughter was most unlike him.

Quickly, Simon was ushered into the house. Servants were summoned bringing bread, cheese and fruit. He ate gratefully. As he ate he told as much of his personal story as he wished to divulge. The patrician, Merates, listened without commenting.

When Simon had finished, Merates made no direct remark but instead said, half to himself:

“If King Philip had not continued his line, there would be peace and achievement in this war-wrecked world. I curse the name of Alexander—and the she-snake who bore him. If Alexander had been left to his father’s teaching, he might well have carried on the great plan of Philip. But his warped mother put different ideas into his head—turned him against his father. Now there is evil on every wind, it blows east and west, south and north—and the hounds of darkness rend, slaver and howl in Alexander’s bloody wake.”

Camilla shuddered. She had changed her street robe into a loose, diaphanous gown of blue silk. Her long, black, unbound hair fell down her back, gleaming like dark wine.

She said: “Now, though Alexander’s off on his conquests, Olympias terrorizes Pela more than ever before. All comely youths and girls are sought out to take part in her ghastly rituals. For ten or more months she has tried to encourage me to join until, at last, her patience failed and she attempted to kidnap me. She will know that someone killed the servitors—but she need not know it was you, Simon.”

Simon nodded mutely. He found it difficult to speak as he breathed in the girl’s dark beauty, intoxicated by it as he had never before been.

They were troubled times. Times of high deeds and feats of learning; times of obscene evil and wild daring. Alexander mirrored his times. With one breath he would order a massacre, with another honour a conquered city for its courage in withstanding him. His great horse Bucephalus bore his bright-armoured master across the known world. Fire destroyed ancient seats of civilization, wise men were slain and innocents drowned in the flood tide of his conquests. Yet he caused new cities to be raised and libraries to be built. Men of learning followed in his train—this pupil of Aristotle—and he was an enigma to all. Greece, Persia, Babylonia, Assyria, Egypt, all fell to him. Four mighty races, four ancient civilizations bore Alexander’s yoke. People had speculated on whether he was a force for darkness or enlightenment—whether he would rend the world to fragments or unite it in lasting peace. An enigma.