Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt

by Alexander at the World's End (lit)

  stood was so steep, it was physically impossible for battering-rams to reach the

  walls.

  Alexander didn’t want to hear that. ‘The more impossible it is, the more I’ll do

  it,’ he snarled, as he gave us the pre-mission brief­ing. ‘I always do the

  impossible, remember; that’s why they fear me.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Peitho whispered to me as we stood in the ranks, listening. ‘Got

  to go.’

  ‘Knew you’d see it my way in the end,’ I replied.

  And so, there we went again, building bloody great causeways to bring the siege

  engines up to the walls; or, in my case, standing by. Mind you, for a week or so

  I really thought I might actually be needed, when Alexander suddenly woke up in

  the middle of the night convinced that the Gazans were digging mines under the

  cause­way to collapse it, and sent a team of our sappers to counter-mine them.

  But there weren’t any enemy sappers, and all that happened was that our

  countermine came up right under the weakest part of the causeway, which promptly

  subsided down the hole, killing the miners and a few dozen workers on the

  surface and wast­ing a week’s effort. But eventually it was completed; the

  engines rolled into place and started pounding shit out of the walls. Batis and

  his Arabs refused to surrender; although it was now pretty well a foregone

  conclusion, they counter-attacked, set fire to some of the engines and actually

  forced a company of Macedonian regular infantry to give ground down the hill.

  Cue, needless to say, heroics; Achilles to the rescue. Alexander led the charge

  in person, his sword flashing in the sun, his head bare so that everybody could

  see it was him — and then wham!, a bloody great big catapult-bolt from an engine

  on the walls smashed through his shield and breastplate and knocked him clean

  off his feet onto his bum. Just for once I was actually watching, I actually saw

  it happen; it was like the hand of a god swatting a wasp. Fuch me, I thought,

  he’s dead, no bugger could’ve survived that.

  There was a moment when everything was still; everybody, even the men who were

  hacking at each other with swords, stopped what they were doing and stared, as

  if a herald had just announced the end of the world. I remember thinking, So now

  what? But then Colonel Hephaestion and the bodyguards rushed forward and picked

  him up; someone yelled out, ‘It’s all right, he’s alive!’ Fuch, I thought; then

  the battle started again, with the Arabs hurling themselves at us like madmen,

  trying to cut off Hephaestion’s party and get to Alexander before we did. I

  promise you, brother, I never saw human beings fight so savagely; they were

  slashing at each other, not bothering to protect themselves with their shields,

  so that they were trading slash for slash, the last one to die being the winner.

  I saw a Macedonian and an Arab whittling each other to bits, they just didn’t

  give a damn; it was as if Alexander’s life being in the balance had removed

  every last Arab outside the walls, for what little good that did. There were

  only a few of them, and once we’d done that we were back where we were. Nothing

  had changed. Some smartarse bastard of a doctor patched Alexander up somehow;

  the day after next he was hobbling up and down the lines while everybody cheered

  and shouted and whistled to show how clever they thought he was for still

  managing to be alive. I was still alive too, but nobody seemed terribly

  impressed by that.

  So up came the big siege-engines we’d used at Tyre , and down came the walls. We

  had to make four sorties, mind, and even then those stupid bastard Arabs

  wouldn’t give up. We killed them all, except for some of the women and children.

  Oh, Himself was back in action in time for the last assault, and once again he

  got clobbered by a catapult shot; but this one only whacked him across the

  shins, not even hard enough to break them, and by now it was painfully obvious

  that nothing as mundane as artillery was going to be enough to kill Alexander.

  In fact, it was a moot point whether anything could, which depressed Peitho and

  me no end.

  Poor Batis, the good and faithful servant, was taken alive — alive on balance,

  let’s say; he didn’t give up easily — and frogmarched in front of Alexander, who

  was just coming round after being hit by the engine. As a result he wasn’t in a

  good mood.

  Anaxarchus was duty philosopher that day, and they were playing the Iliad game.

  I can’t remember who Anaxarchus was supposed to be — Nestor or Phoenix, someone

  like that; Alexander was being Achilles, of course, and little Batis — he turned

  out to be this short, fat, bald guy, this man who’d held us up for two whole

  months, made us look like clowns, nearly killed Alexander; I got a good look at

  him and he reminded me of what’s-his-name, Craterus, the funny little chap who

  used to come round with a handcart mending broken crockery — Batis was

  immediately cast as Hector; type-casting, you might say. Now, if you recall your

  Homer, you’ll remember that when Achilles killed Hector in front of the Scaean

  Gate of Troy , he had his body dragged behind his chariot seven times round the

  city walls.

  ‘Do it,’ Alexander commanded.

  ‘Just one thing,’ someone pointed out. ‘He isn’t dead.’

  Alexander looked at him. ‘So?’ he said.

  Well, if he wasn’t dead at the start, he was at the finish. They cut slots

  through his feet with a carpenter’s chisel for the ropes to go through, and

  Alexander drove the chariot himself; since he couldn’t stand, they had to sort

  of tie him into it, to make sure he didn’t fall out when cornering sharply. In

  the event he did eight laps, one more than Achilles (well, naturally; anything

  you can do, and so forth); and when they untied him, they found the restraints

  they’d tied him in with had ripped all the skin off his knees and thighs. He

  didn’t seem to notice; enjoying himself too much, I expect. He stayed in

  character right through. He was brilliant like that. If he hadn’t been a

  soldier, he’d have made a wonderful actor.

  After we’d finished smashing up Gaza , he went through the spoils looking for

  nice presents for his mum and his kid sister back home; really considerate, I

  call that. He sent his mother a lovely ivory dressing-table set, all matching

  (used to belong to Batis’ wife) and he chose some really pretty silk fabric for

  his sister to make tapestries for the family dining-room at Pella . He even sent

  old Leonidas five hundred talents’ weight of frankincense and a hundred talents

  of myrrh, on the grounds that when he was a kid, Leonidas told him off for being

  wasteful with expensive spices and teased him, saying he’d have to wait until

  he’d conquered the Kingdom of Spices before he could afford to chuck the stuff

  around like that.

  (‘Hang on,’ I interrupted. ‘Did you say Leonidas?’

  ‘Yes. Are you deaf as well as clumsy?’

  ‘That wasn’t Leonidas,’ I said. ‘That was me. I made that joke, the first time I

  met him.’

  Eudaemon smiled. ‘Be fair,’ he said, ‘it was an exceptionally for­gettable

  joke.’r />
  ‘Agreed,’ I replied. ‘And absolutely typical of him that he remem­bered it.’

  — And typical, Phryzeutzis, that he remembered it well enough to send his

  extremely thoughtful and staggeringly generous gift to the wrong bloody tutor.

  But that was Alexander for you: every bad thing he did came out right, and every

  good thing he did was ever so slightly wrong.)

  When we met up that evening (Eudaemon continued) Peitho was in an unusually

  assertive mood. ‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘Got to go. No question.

  I think we were the only two sober people in the whole camp; ironic, because

  we’d been as prodigal with the leaves as the boy

  Alexander had apparently been with the frankincense. I shook my head doubtfully.

  ‘Not sure it can be done,’ I replied. ‘How can you kill a bloke who survives

  direct hits from heavy artillery?’

  Peitho scratched his head. ‘I wasn’t suggesting we bombard the bugger to death,’

  he said. ‘I still think poison’s the way to go, personally.’

  I made a rude noise. Aristotle’s book had proved to be a complete and utter

  wash-out; not one slow poison from beginning to end. Yards and yards and miles

  and miles of meaningless philosophical drivel (‘We could bore him to death,

  easy,’ Peitho said gloomily, ‘only we’d never get him to sit still long

  enough’); but actual recipes a bloke could use? Bugger all.

  ‘Slit his throat,’ I said, ‘it’s the only way. Unless the bastard’s some kind of

  god, that’ll kill him, you mark my words.The only question is, how?’

  Peitho frowned. ‘I never heard it was difficult,’ he said. ‘You just sort of get

  a knife and—’

  ‘How do we get close enough to do it,’ I said, ‘without some bugger catching us?

  I mean, selfless heroism’s one thing, but I’m fucked if I’m going to get myself

  killed just to free the world of a pest.’

  ‘Well,’ Peitho said, and poured himself another drink.

  He had a point there, of course. The trouble was, Alexander was never alone. Not

  ever. Apart from his faithful bodyguard-buddies, there were always people

  trooping in to see him, make reports, get orders, explain themselves, pitch

  ideas, beg favours; not to mention all the philosophers and poets and local

  celebrities and general hangers-on that buzzed round him every hour of every day

  in a sort of shimmering cloud, like those tiny midges that you get by the

  thousand on cow-pats. Even when he was asleep there were ten or so blokes in the

  tent with him, lying at his feet like big soppy dogs.

  ‘Got to be poison, then,’ I said after a while. ‘No other way.’

  ‘There’s fire,’ Peitho said. ‘We could set fire to the tent.’

  ‘Nah.’ I shook my head. ‘They’d rescue him quick as spit through a trumpet.

  Poison. Put something in the pea soup. Kill the lot of ‘em.’

  Peitho frowned. ‘I’m not sure we should do that,’ he said. ‘Alexander, yes, but

  poison the whole retinue—’

  ‘So what?’ I said. ‘They’re all Macedonians.’

  ‘I’m Macedonian,’ Peitho pointed out.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘But not a real one, you said so yourself.’

  ‘True.’ He stopped, then looked up with a big grin on his face. ‘The honey,’ he

  said. ‘We could poison the honey.’

  I looked at him. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘I don’t think I’m going to let you share

  my fire any more. The smoke’s doing things to your brain.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Eudaemon. No, listen. It’s perfect. You know how when they sit

  around in his tent after dinner with a big bowl of booze, and they always have a

  jar of honey to sweeten it with? Poison the honey. What with the honey and the

  booze, they’ll never notice the taste; and everybody’ll think it was the wine

  that was poisoned, not the honey, or at least they’ll never be able to prove

  anything, since it all gets mixed up together anyhow. It’ll work, I promise

  you.’

  I leaned back and rubbed my chin thoughtfully. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But that

  still doesn’t answer the question; what do we poison the buggers with? We still

  haven’t got a clue.’

  Peitho shook his head. ‘No, no, you’re wrong. They taste the food but they never

  taste the wine; no point, they all drink the wine and Alexander always assumes

  that anybody who’d want to kill him would be an upper-class Macedonian. Anybody

  who poisoned the wine would have to drink it himself.’

  He had something there. ‘So we wouldn’t have to use a slow poison,’ I replied.

  ‘Not at all. Quicker the better, really; the first drink’s always a toast to the

  gods, they all drink simultaneously, so — what’s so damn funny?

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, as soon as I’d managed to get a grip on myself and stop

  laughing. ‘It’s just the picture that came into my mind just then, all those

  fucking great long-haired Macedonians swilling down a toast and then hitting the

  deck at precisely the same moment—’

  Peitho sighed. ‘You’re a sad bastard, Eudaemon,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s think.

  What was that poison you found in the book the other day?’

  ‘White hellebore roots,’ I said. ‘One dewdrop’ll kill an elephant. Good stuff.’

  He nodded. ‘Sounds just the ticket. Where do we get some from?’

  ‘Search me,’ I said, shrugging my shoulders.

  ‘All right, we can dig some up. What does it look like? Where does it grow? Come

  on, you read the book.’

  ‘It didn’t say,’ I said. ‘It’s a crummy book.’

  ‘Obviously.’ Peitho slumped forward, his cheeks cupped in his palms. ‘Why is

  nothing ever bloody straightforward?’ he said.

  We made no further progress that night, mainly because I fell asleep; next thing

  I knew it was morning, and we were moving out. We talked a little more about it

  over the next few days, but what with one thing and another — we were getting

  ready to invade Egypt, and everybody was suddenly busy, except me, of course —

  there wasn’t really much time for sitting about.

  Alexander’s conquest of Egypt was the biggest non-event ever. The Persian

  governor, a man called Mazaces, surrendered before we even asked him to; poor

  bugger, he had no army, and the thought of what had happened to Batis obviously

  troubled him. We crossed the desert between Syria and Egypt in a week and headed

  straight for Memphis , the capital, where Alexander was officially crowned.

  It’s an odd thing with the Egyptians; they believe their kings are the eldest

  sons of their chief god, or maybe the same eldest son born over and over again,

  I’m not sure — no, that doesn’t make sense, because then how could the reigning

  king and his son and heir both be alive at the same time? Actually, I don’t

  think they worry about things like that. They don’t think about these things in

  the same way we do. In fact, I’d go further and say they’re all as crazy as

  fruit-bats, the lot of ‘em. Anyway, it didn’t bother them at all that one moment

  Darius of Persia had been the only begotten son of god and Alexander the next. I

  think the argument went something like, everything and everybody is god to some

  degree or other, but some people and things are a bit more god than the rest,

>   which explains why some people have to work for a living and others don’t.

  Anyway, they were pretty confident that Alexander was a whole heap of god and

  therefore not only qualified but eternally predestined to be King of Egypt;

  which was convenient, bearing in mind that he had a large and ruthless army

  standing by to kill anybody who said otherwise.

  ‘How do I look?’ he’s supposed to have whispered to his buddy Hephaestion,

  immediately after the coronation. ‘I’ve never been a god before.’

  ‘Your nose is maybe a bit longer,’ Hephaestion replied. ‘Apart from that, pretty

  much the same.’

  So there we were in Egypt , the richest, oldest and weirdest country in the

  entire world. Everything in Egypt is weird, brother, everything. We were in the

  Kingdom of the Weird. It was, I think, where we all deserved to be.

  I ask you; it’s a country that’s mostly burned desert, but every year the river

  floods and drowns out all the farms and villages, leaving them covered in thick

  slimy mud — and that’s great, because if you spit a grape-pip into Egyptian mud,

  ten minutes later you’ve got a mature vine. In Egypt , dead people live in huge

  triangular palaces without windows, while the living don’t even bother to build

  proper houses, because where’s the point if they’re going to get buried in mud

  anyhow? In Egypt , it’s compulsory to drink wine but illegal to make it; that’s

  why we Athenians have been selling them our rot-gut stuff for a thousand years.

  In Egypt the King never dies, and god is every stray cat and white cow you see

  as you walk down the street.

  People just don’t care, in Egypt ; they don’t care about anything, because life

  is just an illusion and you don’t really start living till you’re dead. They

  don’t grow wheat because it’s their living, they do it because it’s a religious

  act, and it’s got to be done the right way, with priests supervising everything,

  or it doesn’t count. In Egypt they write everything down, but once it’s written

  down nobody reads it because it doesn’t matter (nothing matters). In Egypt ,

  they don’t run away when a crocodile slides up out of the water, because a

  crocodile is god and has every right to eat anybody He chooses. In Egypt ,