Alexander at the Worlds End Tom Holt

by Alexander at the World's End (lit)

  they’ll fight you to the last drop of blood one minute and let you walk all over

  them the next. As far as I could tell, they didn’t really seem to notice we were

  there, like we were invisible or some­thing. They did everything we told them to

  do; but when we were talking to them they appeared to be listening to somebody

  else we couldn’t even see.

  Personally, I liked Egypt . I could fancy living there.

  Alexander decided to found a city. The pretext was that a replace­ment was

  needed for Tyre ; it had been the commercial centre of the whole Near East and

  now that it was nothing but a pile of rubble, people hadn’t got anywhere to buy

  and sell things. This wasn’t actually true; the market was in the new town,

  which we hadn’t really touched. I think Alexander (who absolutely adored Egypt ,

  for some reason) just wanted to found a city there. There was something

  distinctly fishy about Alexander and founding cities. He founded cities every

  bloody place he went, he left them behind him like a trail of broken wine-jars.

  As is tolerably well known by now, Alexander had no sex-life whatsoever, and my

  theory is that he got his fun doing to countries what normal people do to women,

  cities being the tangible outcome. At least, that’s part of it; the other part,

  brother dear, is that you left him to found the perfect city, so obviously

  found­ing perfect cities is what really great men do. And to think; I could have

  strangled you when we were both kids, and I never knew it was going to be

  important.

  The name of this city was to be Alexandria ; hardly surprising, since all the

  cities he founded were called Alexandria . Anyway, for a long time he was

  utterly obsessed with the project and wouldn’t tolerate anybody even mentioning

  anything else (such as the war or the King of Persia; but that was all right,

  because every time the Great King tried to rally his enormous army and come

  after us, something went wrong; a general died or a province rebelled or plague

  broke out or a river flooded or a supply-train was robbed by suddenly

  materialising nomads or the omens were bad, so nothing ever got done.

  Incompetence and rotten luck every step of the way; a one-legged dwarf could

  probably have conquered Persia at that time).

  The Egyptian priests advised Alexander to visit the holy shrine of Ammon.

  Actually, not true; they told him he’d already visited the holy shrine of Ammon,

  in a sense, and unless he hurried up and actually went there in person, with his

  physical body, it was going to upset a lot of things and throw the whole balance

  of cosmic forces out of kilter. So off he went, with a packed lunch and an

  entourage of hundreds of soldiers and thousands of Egyptian priests (who claimed

  they knew exactly what had happened when he went there, but politely changed the

  subject when he asked them to tell him).

  The shrine of Ammon is at a place called the Oasis of Siva, in the middle of the

  unspeakably awful Libyan desert . Needless to say, they got lost; the Egyptian

  priests knew the way all right, but when Alexander set off in the wrong

  direction they didn’t say any­thing, assuming that since he’d been there before

  he knew the way too. When they were all about ready to drop dead of heat and

  thirst, apparently they happened to bump into two enormous ser­pents blessed

  with the power of human speech, who told them to turn left at the next big sand

  dune and follow their noses; whereupon the heavens opened, it poured with rain

  for two whole days and they all got soaking wet. It was either talking serpents

  or a couple of camel-drovers; accounts differ. You’re the historian, you choose.

  Well, they found the place eventually, and in he went, and out he came again.

  ‘How’d it go?’ they asked.

  ‘I heard what I wanted,’ he said, and that was all they got out of him on the

  long trudge back to Alexandria . As a justification for a long and hazardous

  journey, it doesn’t amount to much; he could have done that just as easily if

  he’d stayed home, where a substantial number of the officers on his general

  staff devoted their lives to mak­ing sure he only heard things he’d be likely to

  want to hear, What’s not in doubt, however, is that whatever it was he heard out

  there in the desert had a significant effect on him. One school of thought

  regards it as some kind of spiritual rebirth, while others hold that even if you

  do have a magnificent head of long golden hair, if you insist on going several

  days in the desert sun without a hat, you get what’s coming to you.

  At first, the changes were subtle, and could easily have been due to something

  else; he was worried about something, or preoccupied with profound matters of

  state and strategy, or just pissed off and in a foul mood. He didn’t talk all

  the time like he used to, there was less of the obvious delight he’d always

  taken in being leader of the pack. Most of all, he started wanting to be alone

  occasionally, which he’d never shown any sign of wanting before. People who’d

  been close to him, or reckoned they were, went around muttering about the bad

  effect Egypt was having on morale generally, and how it was time to move on and

  find someone new to kill, rather than moping about boozing and enjoying

  ourselves.

  But for once, Alexander wasn’t the sole focus of attention, every hour of every

  day. It was announced that a concert party was on its way from Athens to

  entertain the troops, and for a day or so nobody could talk about anything else.

  In retrospect there’s nothing sur­prising about that; we’re Athenians, grandsons

  of Eupolis, we grew up with it, but for provincials (I’m being nice here,

  calling them that) the thought of seeing genuine Athenian theatre was rather

  more exciting than pyramids and crocodiles and the singing statue of Memnon, Son

  of the Dawn. Indeed, people even started taking notice of me, what with the

  family connection and all, and it was no use my saying I was completely out of

  touch and I’d never been all that keen to start with, they automatically assumed

  I was a theatre buff, drama critic and boyhood chum of every Athenian actor

  they’d ever heard of. They made me recite everything I could remember, from

  Grandfather’s stuff right back to the slabs of Aeschylus that Father made us

  learn when we were kids, and when I’d run out and told them I couldn’t remember

  any more they just got snotty and accused me of being stand-offish.

  When the concert party finally arrived, I expected there’d be a riot. Instead of

  the flower of the Attic stage, we’d been sent the trash, the dross, the

  understudies’ understudies. You remember Telecritus, that doddering old ham we

  saw a few times when we were kids? I’d assumed he’d died years ago, and the

  performances he gave while he was there didn’t do much to convince me otherwise;

  but the Macedonians loved him. They thought he was marvellous, even when he

  forgot his lines and started making them up, or patching in bits from other

  plays. Honestly, I thought it was a rather clever skit and was laughing quietly

  to myself, when some big hairy joker sitting next to me told me to shut my face

  or he’d push it o
ut my neck for me.

  I’ll tell you who was in that company, though. I don’t suppose you’ll remember

  him, but I knew him quite well at one stage —Sostratus, our neighbour Achias’

  eldest boy.

  ‘Hello, Sostratus,’ I said, having walked up quietly behind him. ‘What’re you

  doing here?’

  He jumped about twice his own height into the air, then spun round. ‘Sorry,’ he

  said. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘Eudaemon,’ I replied. ‘Eutychides’ son. Our fathers shared a boundary in

  Pallene, remember?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and his face fell like a bucket down a well-shaft. ‘You.’

  I grinned. ‘Nice to see you too, Sostratus. How’s the nose these days?’

  He scowled. ‘Still not right,’ he said.

  ‘After all these years,’ I replied, ‘fancy. That’s a shame. How’s things at

  home?’

  ‘Awful,’ he replied. ‘That’s why I’m here. Anything to get out of the City for a

  month or so.’

  ‘In what way awful?’ I asked.

  He made a vague, all-encompassing gesture; far better than any­thing he’d done

  on stage, where he acted with all the style and fluency of a ploughshare. ‘Every

  way you can possibly think of,’ he said. ‘Har­vests have been pathetic, prices

  through the roof, goddamned Macedonians chucking their weight around, nothing in

  the shops, everybody at each other’s throats in Assembly—’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Good to see some things never change. So you’re an actor now,

  are you? Since when?’

  He sighed. ‘Since I gave Orestes my share of the farm. No point both of us

  starving to death, after all.’

  ‘I see,’ I replied. ‘And how is your brother? Did he ever marry that tart from

  over the Mesogaia he was so crazy about? What was her name, now? Callipyge,

  something like that.’

  Sostratus looked at me. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I did.’

  ‘Oh. And how’s she keeping?’

  ‘She died last year.’

  ‘Ah. That’s too bad.’

  ‘Not really,’ Sostratus said, with another sigh. ‘She was an evil bitch.’ He

  studied me for a moment down the full length of his nose. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s

  it like, working for the Macedonians?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ I replied. ‘It’s a living.’

  ‘You were probably wise to clear out when you did,’ Sostratus said. ‘Things have

  been getting steadily worse all the time. Oh, by the way.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You remember Megasthenes? He was in our gang when we were boys.’

  I smiled. ‘Of course I remember him. Never been anybody who could imitate a dog

  being sick like Megasthenes could. How is the old son of a—?’

  ‘He’s dead too,’ Sostratus said. ‘Got stabbed to death by robbers on the way

  home from the City. In broad daylight, too.’

  You’ve no idea how much meeting Sostratus cheered me up. I’ve always found other

  people’s bad news has that effect on me; you listen to a catalogue of woes and

  then think of your own troubles, and you come away all happy and grateful. What

  really bucked me up, though, was the thought that if I’d stayed in Athens and

  taken my rightful share of the family property, I could well have ended up just

  as miser­able as Sostratus. In fact, he made me feel so good about myself that I

  decided to do something for him.

  ‘What’re these?’ he asked, as I pressed the gift into his hands.

  ‘Just dried leaves,’ I told him. ‘You chuck them on the fire and they make the

  room smell nice.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘All the way from Scythia ,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Oh. Are they valuable?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘Depends,’ I said. ‘If you mean valuable as in selling

  them for money, probably not. On the other hand, how can you put a price on

  happiness and a general sense of well-being?’

  He looked at the leaves for a moment as if he expected them to try to steal the

  money out of his mouth. ‘I could do with something like that, actually,’ he

  said. ‘That bastard Coenus has started a tannery right across the street from

  our house, and you wouldn’t believe the stench—’

  ‘Try the leaves,’ I said. ‘Just the job.’

  He thought a little longer, then said, ‘Thank you.’ I think he was almost as

  surprised as I was to hear the words come out of his mouth. ‘Well then, this

  trip won’t be a complete dead loss, then. Almost,’ he added, ‘but not quite.’

  I frowned. ‘Aren’t they paying you, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh sure. Not much, but something. Trouble is, I spent most of what I’ve been

  paid already on what I thought were genuine bona fide goods, and it turns out

  they’re worthless.’ He grinned wretchedly. ‘Just my luck,’ he added.

  ‘Sounds like it,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Oh, I was in the market at Ephesus , we stopped there a day or so on our way

  here, and I saw this stall selling jars of honey. Dirt cheap; of course, if I’d

  had the sense I’d been born with I’d have suspected something was wrong then and

  there. Anyhow, I bought the stuff, twelve jars of it, and stowed it under my

  bench back on the ship. Turned out later — and of course I only found this out

  after we’d set sail, when it was too late to do anything about it — this honey

  was made by bees who fed off this special sort of shrub you only get in that

  region; big bushy job with glossy leaves, purple flower in late spring. Can’t

  remember the name offhand. Anyhow, the point is, honey made with pollen from

  that stuff’s deadly poison. Eat so much as a finger’s wipe of it and you’re

  dead, just like that. Talk about a narrow escape; I could have wiped out half of

  Attica with that lot. Although,’ he added, ‘the way things are there right now,

  maybe I’d have been doing them a favour, at that.’

  I waited for a moment before saying anything. ‘This honey,’ I said. ‘Where is it

  now?’

  ‘Still on the ship,’ he replied. ‘When I’ve got five minutes I’ll dump it into

  the sea and wash out the jars. Might get a few obols for them, you never know.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ll take them off your hands for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  He scowled at me. ‘What do you want with twelve jars of deadly poison?’

  Well, he had me there. ‘I’ll give you what you paid for them,’ I said.

  ‘Answer the question, dammit. What do you—’

  ‘Mice,’ I said. ‘And wasps. They can be a real pest, out here in the desert.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered, looking away. ‘What if someone ate some by mistake

  and died? Wouldn’t people say it was my fault?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ I replied. ‘And anyway, I’ll take full responsibility. But nobody’s

  going to die, I promise you. Not any more.’

  ‘What do you mean “any more”?’

  ‘Do you want to get rid of the stuff or don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, all right. But you’ll promise me you won’t—’

  ‘I promise.’

  Well, we hauled the stuff back on a cart. Then I gave Sostratus the slip and

  went to look for Peitho.

  ‘Poisoned honey?’ he said. ‘That’s right.’

  He bit his lip
thoughtfully. ‘How do you know it works?’ he said.

  I frowned. ‘Well, it’s not as if he was trying to sell it to me. Why’d he say it

  was deadly poison if it wasn’t?’

  ‘Maybe he was just exaggerating,’ Peitho said. ‘Maybe it just makes you ill,

  gives you the runs or something.’

  I considered this for a moment. ‘So what do you suggest?’ I said. ‘You want to

  test it on somebody first, is that it?’

  He looked at me all strange. ‘No, of course not. Well, not on some­body.

  Something.’

  I couldn’t see any harm in that. ‘Such as?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. It’d have to be something big,’ he went on. ‘If we use a dog or a

  sheep, that wouldn’t prove anything.’

  I had a brainwave. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘What about a camel?’

  ‘That’d do,’ he replied. ‘Where are we going to get a camel from?’

  I clicked my tongue impatiently. ‘This is Egypt ,’ I said. ‘Every­where you

  look, there’s bloody camels.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You find us a camel.’

  So I did. I marched straight down to the livestock pens, grabbed the smallest

  and most hapless-looking Egyptian clerk I could find and started yelling at him,

  hoping he wasn’t one of those annoy­ing cosmopolitan Egyptians who can speak

  Greek. Fortunately he wasn’t, so I was able to terrify him into letting me book

  out a camel without actually stealing it. Works every time, that trick; if

  you’re annoyed and you outrank them and they can’t understand a word you’re

  saying, all they really want to do is get out of your way. Understandably, of

  course; the Macedonian reputation for un­mitigated bastardry is entirely

  merited.

  The camel hit the deck like a windfall apple off a tree; I’ll swear its stupid,

  ugly mouth was still churning away when it went splat. Don’t

  think I’ve ever seen anything taken dead that quickly since my first campaign in

  Illyria , when the man next to me in the line had his head taken off by a

  catapult bolt.

  ‘It works, then,’ Peitho said.

  ‘Looks like it,’ I replied.

  He prodded the camel’s nose with his foot. ‘What are we going to do with this?’

  he asked.

  I hadn’t really given the matter any thought. Under normal cir­cumstances, I’d

  simply have called over the nearest couple of squaddies and told them to clear