about him can only be a disappointment, a smudge across the illusion, and who
wants to serve a man he knows is less than perfect? I tell you, Euxenus, if you
hadn’t made me meet Alexander I’d be as happy as a mule in the bean-helm
believing he was perfect; you know, like worth fighting and dying for, worth
spending your whole life dragging up dusty mountain roads with a gut full of
dysentery for. But no; I have to meet the real Alexander, I have to get to know
what he’s really like. Lucky me.
So; they keep me hanging about in this dismal little courtyard for most of the
evening, and I’m just nodding off and trying to find some way to get comfortable
on a hard stone bench when some assistant deputy to the deputy assistant
secretary comes out and says, ‘The King will see you now.’ So I go in, and there
he is, sitting on the step in front of the throne, yapping away while some old
bugger scribbles down everything he says. And part of me’s saying, What’s wrong
with you, you fool? You haven’t done anything wrong, so what’s there to be
afraid of? And the other part’s saying, Well, actually, if you care to consult
the records you’ll find I’ve done any one of a dozen things that’ll get me
dismissed from the service according to regulations, and one or two that just
don’t bear thinking about.. . I am not, in short, the happiest of men at that
particular moment. Looking back, of course, I realise it’s my soldier’s highly
developed sense of the presence of mortal danger; and what the fuck’s the use of
a hair-trigger instinct if you don’t listen to it?
So I stand there, to attention — I’m telling you, wild dogs could have eaten my
feet and I wouldn’t have shifted without being told At ease — until he’s done
with the letter he’s dictating and notices me, like as if a six-foot man in
armour’s difficult to spot in a room that size.
‘Captain Eudaemon,’ he says, ‘at ease, please. Sit down.Thank you for coming.’
You know another thing I hate? It’s when a superior officer talks to you like
you’re the lord mayor or the Persian ambassador or something. You don’t know
what to do. If you carry on being all regulation and by-the-drill-manual, it
looks like you’re being rude. But if you say, ‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do,’ and
flop down in a couch with your feet up on the table, you can bet the next thing
you’ll be hearing is the adjutant reading out the charges. Anyhow, I sit down,
as if on a big row of six-inch spikes, and wait for him to say something.
Which he proceeds to do. He says that of all the remarkable men he’s been
privileged to meet (or some such crap) Euxenus of Athens had done more to shape
his thinking on the critical issues that really count than anyone else alive or
dead, and that he owes said Euxenus more than he can possibly ever repay. I’m
sitting there thinking, Well, that’d be fine if I knew who this Euxenus is, when
it hits me like the roof caving in, he’s talking about my brother Euxenus. Not
to put too fine a point on it, you. But this is so far-fetched, I have to
interrupt and check it out.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I say, ‘but may I just ask; you mean Euxenus son of
Eutychides? My brother?’
‘Of course,’ he says, frowning a little as if he doesn’t like my tone of voice.
‘I’m not ashamed to say it, Captain, that man’s been more than just a mentor to
me, he’s been . . .‘ And he stops, because mentor’s exactly the word he wants to
use, but he can’t because he’s used it already. ‘When the history of these times
is written down,’ Alexander says, ‘people will begin to realise just how
important a man he was, the kind of extraordinary things he achieved.’
‘Sir,’ I say.
‘Which is why,’ he goes on, ‘I want to honour what he’s done for me by doing
something for you. You see,’ he says, ‘I know the sort of man he is, he doesn’t
care for money or position or rubbish like that—’
(‘He said that?’ I interrupted.
‘His exact words,’ my brother replied.
‘Hellfire,’ I said. ‘All right, carry on.’)
‘Rubbish like that,’ he says. ‘How can you insult with money the sort of man who
thinks nothing of abandoning all his worldly wealth and ties just to accept the
position of a lowly tutor, and then rejects all suggestions of reward from his
patron in order to lead a colony to the ends of the earth? I’d be ashamed, my
friend, to offer money to such a man. It’d be a betrayal.’
Wisely, I didn’t say anything to that; just carried on sitting there like I had
a twelve-foot lance up my arse. Actually I was thinking, maybe Euxenus was this
bloke’s tutor, that’s how come he learned to be so incredibly goddamned pompous.
I mean to say, I could see him sitting there listening to himself. Not a pretty
sight, brother, I assure you.
‘So,’ he goes on, ‘since I can’t reward him in person, the least I can do is
extend my favour to his brother, don’t you think?’ And I’m keeping very still
and not saying that if he thought like that, then maybe it’d have been a nice
gesture not to have wiped out most of our bloody family at Ghaeronea — yes, I
heard about that; these things happen, you know? And he sort of smiles and says,
‘You know, Eudaemon, you and I are very much alike, I think.’
Well, this one really gets past me. ‘Sir,’ I say, and I think I was putting it
mildly.
‘Both of us,’ he goes on, ‘have seen our path in life; our way is service, my
friend, service to something that goes beyond what’s here and now. We aren’t men
of the moment, but of all time. Would you agree?’
‘Sir,’ I say.
He nods, as if I’ve just said something really clever. ‘So I know,’ he goes on,
‘that the best reward I can give you is a chance to serve in the noblest, most
productive way you can; and that, of course, is where your brother’s teaching
comes in yet again. I’m sure you’re familiar with his theoretical work on the
art of war, with particular references to siegecraft.’
‘Sir,’ I say.
‘Brilliantly innovative,’ he goes on. ‘Quite wonderful, how a man without a
conventional military background can have such insights.’
(You’ll remember, by the way, that all this stuff’s being spouted at me by this
kid; he’s what, just turned twenty years old? And your most deadly boring old
farts in Assembly were never as turgid as this. Credit where it’s due, brother,
clearly you taught him everything he knows about the effective use of words.)
‘When we march into Asia,’ he goes on, ‘I intend to take with me a siege train
organised and equipped in line with Euxenus’ principles of static warfare,
incorporating all the advances he’s developed in this aspect of military
science. And I want you, Eudaemon, to be part of this. After all, you must be
more familiar with his approach than anybody else in the service — he’s your
brother, after all, it’d be the next best thing to having him there in person.
So I’d like to make you a formal offer of the position of Colonel of Engineers,
with direct command of counter-insurgency operat
ions.
Well now I thought, as I was marched out of there by some secretary; not so bad
after all, as the man said when he shot an arrow at a wolf, missed and hit his
wife’s mother. Obviously young King Alexander is a very strange man indeed, but
Colonel of Engineers, at my age, and a job that’s practically staff, whatever
way you slice it, that can’t be anything but a piece of the good stuff. Of
course, I was really puzzled by all this talk of Euxenus of Athens and his
amazing contributions to the art of war —(‘Me too,’ I pointed out.)
— but being a practical sort (Eudaemon went on) I put all that out of my mind
and went on a colossal piss-up to celebrate, the way any rational man would.
Next morning, feeling a bit fragile and frayed round the edges, I handed over my
company to my replacement in the auxiliaries and reported to the Chief
Engineer’s office.
I knew as soon as I walked in the door that he wasn’t pleased to see me. He had
that face on that shows you here’s a bloke who’s getting on with his job, doing
his best, when the bloody brass reach down from on high and dump some irrelevant
shit on him that he’s got to pretend he likes while he works out how to stop it
getting in the way of the smooth running of his department.
‘So you’re Eudaemon.’ he said.
‘Sir,’ I replied.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘The bee man.’
This time, I really did feel like I’d been woken up in the middle of a
particularly crazy dream. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ I said, ‘but what did you just say?’
‘You’re the man who’s going to be in charge of the bees,’ he said, and then he
grinned at me. I didn’t like that. ‘Well,’ he went on, ‘all I can say is, the
very best of luck. Just try to keep the horrible things from stinging anybody.’
Well now, brother, I hope you’re feeling really ashamed of yourself, because
your sins have finally bloody well found you out; and if you hadn’t broken my
leg, I’d be breaking your bastard neck right now, so maybe you weren’t such a
fool after all. When I reported to my duty assignment a few minutes later, I
realised exactly what you’d done. You’d taken that stuff about the bees out of
Aeneas the Tactician, and you’d passed it off as your own damn idea; and it had
so impressed that clown Alexander— (‘Bees?’
‘Chucking hives of bees down mineshafts to chase out enemy sappers. And to
think; it was me first told you about it—’
‘I swear to you,’ I broke in, ‘on my son’s grave, I never did anything of the
sort.’
‘Alexander said you did. Well,’ he amended, ‘you know what I mean. He said it
was your idea.’
‘Oh, sure,’ I replied angrily. ‘And he said I was his mentor and the wisest man
he ever met. On that basis, you’re going to take his word over mine?’
Eudaemon looked at me for a moment. ‘I’d like to believe you,’ he said, ‘but I
know you too well. A man who earns his living with a tame snake in a wine-jar
isn’t going to be fussy about attributing his sources. And if we’re going to get
along, I suggest you stop lying to me. It makes me angry, being lied to.’)
Anyway (Eudaemon continued) there’s your answer. You asked me what you’d done to
screw up my life, and I’ve told you. Because of you I went from being a
successful, competent professional soldier and in the twinkling of an eye I
became the bee man. And all I can say about that, dear brother, is thank you.
Thank you ever so fucking much.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘A ll right,’ I said, ‘I can see how you’ve got hold of this idea that your
getting this post in the engineers is somehow my responsibility. That’s still
quite a way from “screwed up your life”, though.’
He scowled at me. ‘You just don’t know,’ he said. ‘You really haven’t got a
clue. The question is, have I got the patience and energy to tell you?’
I shrugged. ‘Please yourself,’ I said. ‘Obviously, I’m dying to hear what you’ve
been up to all these years, but if you’re holding some sort of irrational
grudge—’
“‘Irrational grudge”,’ he repeated, shifting his weight slightly to ease the
pain in his broken leg. ‘You know, it’d be easier if I had a walking-stick. A
bit of broken spear-shaft would do. Anything long enough to reach over to where
you’re sitting so I could smash your stupid face. Listen, Euxenus, I haven’t got
an irrational grudge, as you so charmingly put it. It’s an entirely rational
grudge, and the thought that by the time I’m up and about again, you’ll be
safely away in Sog-bloody-diana, where I won’t be able to get at you, is enough
to make me—’
I sighed. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Tell me all about it. Maybe talking about it’ll
calm you down.’
‘Wouldn’t count on it, brother,’ he yawned, and I noticed that he was missing
two front teeth. ‘Still, I suppose it’s only right and proper you know what
you’ve done. Then, if you’ve got even a tiny shred of decency left in you,
you’ll piss off and hang yourself, and save me a job.’
Consider, dear brother (Eudaemon said) the life of the bee. Now, you’re the
philosopher, and I wouldn’t presume to teach you your trade, if you can call it
that; but haven’t you ever stopped to think that, apart from minor details like
size and flying ability, man and bee are as close as — well, brothers? To judge
by that dumb look on your face, obviously you haven’t, so I’ll explain it to
you.
Men build. So do bees. Men live in communities. So do bees. Ideally, men work
together to accomplish the common goal, the good of the many, the well-being of
the commonwealth. So do bees. Men sometimes make the ultimate sacrifice and give
their lives for their home and family. So do bees. Men have territories, and
like to beat the shit out of invaders and interlopers. So do bees. Human
societies have the workers at the bottom, the better sort of people in the
middle and the big boss at the top. So do bees. Truth is, for as long as there’s
been cities, people have been trying to live as much like bees as they can
possibly manage; the order, the dedication, the diligence, the selflessness, not
to mention the annihilation of individual liberty and the blind intolerance of
every other living thing. So far at least, humans can’t fly and their leaders
aren’t females; apart from that, all that separates man and bee is a trivial
matter of scale; and like they say, size isn’t everything.
Basically, I don’t like bees; never have, certainly never will. Partly it’s
because the buzzing sets my teeth on edge and I don’t like getting stung, but
it’s not just that, by any means. What really gets to me, I think, is this
depressing resemblance between them and me. It’s like what Dad used to say to us
when we were kids and he was dragging us off to be apprentices; work hard, study
carefully, observe, learn, one day you could be just like him. Well, I look at
Brother Bee, with his smart uniform and his chain of command and his manifest
destiny and his regulation spear jammed up his arse, and I see me. Then, if I’m
q
uick enough, I tread on him.
My first day as Colonel of Bees, a sergeant took me over to an enclosure on the
far side of the camp, where nobody ever seemed to go, and introduced me to my
new command. There were something like ten million of them, divided into
twenty-five hives, each under the command of a queen who, presumably, reported
directly to me. The first thing they did was chase me three times round the
enclosure and sting me on the legs. It was then I discovered, rather to my
disgust, that I’m allergic to bee-stings.
I should have known, of course. You may remember, when we were kids — I think I
was about eight or nine at the time — one summer I got stung by a bee just under
my chin, and the whole of my neck swelled up like a wineskin and for about a
week everybody was certain I was going to die. Seems I’m one of those people who
can get really seriously ill from bee-venom, because by the start of my second
day as Colonel of Bees I was so badly crippled up I could only just crawl out of
bed far enough to fall on the floor and lie there on my face.
Well, for two pins I’d have packed it in then and there, and so what if it meant
the end of my career with the Macedonian army? But before I was well enough to
crawl to His Majesty’s pavilion and turn in my command, my sergeant showed up
with a couple of Scythians in tow. Really evil-looking types they were — well,
you’d know all about them — and I was just about to ask the sergeant what the
hell he thought he was doing filling my quarters with bloodthirsty cannibals
when he said that these Scythians were experts in everything to do with bees,
including how to deal with a bad reaction to getting stung.
To cut a long story short, these Scythians gave me a big jar of stuff to put on
the stings which drew the poison out before it could do me any real harm, and
another jar of a different kind of stuff to stop them coming anywhere near me in
the first place, and both of these worked fine, believe it or not, though the
smell was something else. It’d have been just fine if they’d left it at that,
but they didn’t.
Oh, did I mention that apart from making me swell up like that, the bee-stings
were also quite amazingly painful? Well, they were. Every bit of me seemed to
Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt Page 53
