> The Wrath of Alexander the Great

CHAPTER V

His red quiver safely on his back and his hands on his hips, Barkane stood in the open air at last and studied the stars above, so numerous in the clear desert night they made a milky cloud that stretched across the heavens. The stars let fall a silver sheen over the whole of the lowly earth. Barkane thanked the gods for his luck for he had a brilliant moon as well though he didn't need it. Starlight was sufficient tonight and the constellations he knew so well would guide them. The Wolf was low, with the moon over its shoulder and the Two Maidens lay just above. So the river at his feet flowed south, as he had expected it to. Good, he thought. At least some of his military intelligence turned out to be reliable.
      The journey out through the mountain tunnels had been tortuous. Barkane and the Greeks struggled nearly every step of the way for the tunnels narrowed to mere crawl spaces more than once and they had but a handful of torches among them so there wasn't a member of the escape party that didn't suffer numerous bruises and scrapes from the unforgiving rock in the darkness. They had followed dead-ends twice, only to have the entire group stall and then back up until a suitable alternative route could be found. In the end their trail to freedom was obvious – they followed the fresh air. When they were in doubt, a few brief moments of torch-smoke observation told them the way.

Still, the rocky tunnels were dark, twisting, and filled with stalactites that stabbed down from the variant ceiling so they had to be constantly on guard. Banged heads were frequent when the tunnels narrowed and the ceilings tightened, forcing the men to hunch over for long excruciating stretches as they negotiated the slippery cave floor.
      Crawly creatures scurried about them giving rise to many a start, which resulted in yet more bumps on the head. Each scare was followed by teasing and nervous laughter, more nervous as the claustrophobia began to set in. The place smelt of standing water and old earth, and Barkane felt as if the bowels of this mountain were so old as to predate the gods themselves. At least it was cool in there for which he was thankful. It was a welcome respite from the summer's heat out on top. And surely they wouldn’t perish for lack of water for rivulets flowed from everywhere, lacing the ceiling and walls surrounding them in an endless web of water. The rocky floor gave way to sandy mud, ankle-deep in places.
      Adding to their burden was the useless Helios in such a stupor he had to be carried or dragged the entire way. It was such work Barkane had the men take shifts and near the end even his closest friends cared little for the man and probably allowed his head to bounce more often than was necessary off the recalcitrant rock. Helios would be sore for weeks. He finally began to come to right near the end which only made matters worse for he swore loudly and vomited so that everyone was forced to hold their noses.

      Neither was Sarisse's Methena much better. The girl was injured. The ram fell on her as it crashed their way to freedom and it turned out her injury was worse than the girl had wanted to admit. Her leg bled steadily and grew more swollen by the hour until Markatt insisted on dressing the wound, forcing them all to wait. The impact had broken the skin and she grimaced while he cleaned her leg. Sarisse watched curiously as Markatt scooped handfuls of spider webs from the cave ceilings and stuffed the girl's wound with them to stop up the blood. Finally he wrapped the wound tight with fabric torn from his own tunic. The girl grew so weak she could only walk when a rare smooth floor appeared before she had to be taken up again by one of the men. She, too, swore at her bearers in that eastern tongue of hers that no one understood, but there was no mistaking her tone. A curse is a curse in any tongue. One would think she would be grateful but she chastised the men whenever she brushed up against the walls or even came close. The Greeks grumbled but bore her on just the same. One exception was Markatt. She uttered not a single unkind syllable to the big man and so he ended up shouldering her most of the way. Good thing she weighs but little, thought Barkane, or she would be abandoned to this hell-hole and Sarisse with her if she so insisted. But Barkane knew that

was no more than wishful thinking. He needed Sarisse, though not a soul knew how badly. In the end, he would need her more than he could ever have guessed.
      Finally they had squeezed to freedom through a hole in the rocks smothered by a thorn thicket, which made their break into the fresh air at last both painful and a relief.
      Now, they all lay gathering their breath on the pebbly beach of the river before them, its smooth current noiseless and dark, reflecting the countless stars above their heads. Barkane had ordered Markatt and two soldiers to reconnoiter the bank to the north and Helyar with two others to reconnoiter the southern bank. They had orders to return within the hour and their time was almost up.
      Sarisse was fussing over Methena's cuts and bruises, and occasionally glancing at Barkane, who was surprised to see that the princess seemed unfazed by the trying trip through the caves. Helios dozed heavily at the water's edge and Barkane considered lashing stones to the man and tossing him in for the drunken fool had lost Sajan. Susceptible as he was to the wine, Helios had succumbed to the oldest of tricks – drinking with the enemy. And now here was Barkane with no Captain Sajan yet saddled with the same troop of neophyte Greeks as before. He needed Sajan as much as he needed Sarisse. My quiver is only half-full, he

thought. Sajan would have to be regained.
      As to the Greeks, something had changed, something that would never escape the attention of a seasoned officer like Barkane. The Greeks had fallen in line long enough to convincingly barge their way into the fort. And, panicked as they were when Bousardis appeared at the gates, they proceeded to keep up with the rapid-fire series of orders that Barkane set them to and did a more than passable job setting up the defenses in the square and then retreating into the mine. They grumbled less and less and Barkane had never seen so much wood piled in one place as quickly as when he ordered them to stack the chamber. They had then executed an orderly retreat through the mines and when they emerged from the depths of the mountain into the night and Barkane ordered them to keep close order – they were in unknown territory, after all - they had done so. When Barkane ordered them to assemble water crews and scouting crews the men responded competently and quickly, without a word of protest.
      And Argon. Barkane had witnessed the man's moment of panic first-hand but the man had rallied his senses and pulled not only himself but his men through as well. If Barkane didn't know better, it almost looked as if Argon was beginning to enjoy himself. At the very moment that

thought struck Barkane, Argon approached him alone, his voice low. The young man took a drink from a goatskin and cleared his throat. Barkane waited while Argon drew in a deep breath, his eyes to the ground.
      "I would wish that you would continue to wear my armor, sir," he said.
      "That is unnecessary, Argon."
      "My family would be honored, sir."
      Barkane smiled. "But that would mean you should have to wear my weather-beaten kit. Surely no joy for anyone."
      Argon bowed his head.
      "That would be an honor for me, sir."
      Barkane thought for a moment. "Very well, soldier. Go look after your troops."
      "Yes, sir," and Argon left him. Barkane watched him walk away with energy in his step. The young man wore Barkane's armor proudly. His weapons no longer lay about unattended. His bow was draped over his shoulder at the ready and his quiver too. His sword was clean and sharp and sheathed properly. Not one, but two daggers poked from the belt at his waist. Barkane remembered more; that during preparations in the woods on the horse escape from Bousardis's army, the well born Argon had worked his countrymen into the ground; that every time his troops

needed him, Argon was there. By Carthaginian standards, the man had no military experience whatsoever. But Barkane was beginning to think he had the makings of a soldier after all.
      Barkane knew Bousardis would hedge his bets. The fire in the chamber would hold him off for a few hours but most likely the man would commandeer scouts from the villagers at the fort and send at least a portion of his men around the mountain in pursuit. How many? Barkane wondered. By the height of the moon, Barkane judged he had two hours until sunup when Markatt and Helyar emerged from the night almost simultaneously with their respective scouting squads.
      "Boats," Helyar said. "Fishing scows."
      "How many?"
      Helyar grinned. "Enough, sir."
      Helyar had tripped across a fishing settlement sleeping peacefully on the warm summer river. He explained that they were the poorest of river scows but they would float.
      "Fish?" Barkane asked.
      "Salted and hanging by the rack-full, sir."
      Barkane turned to Markatt.
      "Upriver?"
      "Nothing but swamp, sir."

      "Very well," said Barkane.
      "We move out in two hours." The order went out to rest and though the men tried, they were too excited from the day's events to sleep. All but the seasoned Carthaginians. They were dozing heavily in moments, bothered only by the agitated Greeks who whispered among themselves until Barkane barked, "Close your eyes and mouths at least. We've a busy day ahead."
      Barkane's mind was on Sajan. The man would be conniving with Bousardis no end. What would he tell the general? He would confirm my identity, Barkane thought, that much was assured. Would he reveal the scheme for the gems at the mint? Barkane decided it didn't matter. Bousardis would know they were headed for the sea. Besides, so far Bousardis seemed to know where Barkane was going every step of the way.
      Barkane watched the women together nearby, the young Methena eyeing him suspiciously, as usual. Then she rolled her robes and shawls around herself and curled up to sleep. Sarisse only smiled and then rolled on her back to stare at the endless brightness of the gods' heavens above.
      "Sleep," Barkane told her.
      She propped her head up on an elbow.
      "Yes, sleep will be but a simple matter what with Alexander's men breathing down our necks. I'm thinking I

might be better off running off into the wilderness and taking my chances with Methena rather than with this crew."
      Barkane gave her a stern look.
      "This crew saved your life today."
      "Hmmpf. I was safe and sound before your arrival, thank you very much, sir." But she didn't mean it. Both she and Barkane knew the danger she was in; that her life was forfeit the moment the great city of Tyre fell.
      And fall it would, that much was certain. Any day now, Barkane thought. He closed his eyes and prayed he would reach the city before it fell to what could only be an ugly end. How much time did he have? Not much, he thought.
      When the sun came up a sleeping Asi River village woke up to find their river boats had all gone missing in the middle of the night. The villagers searched the banks of the river for two leagues. By the end of that long day they had found nothing. At sunset, the villagers met and just as they had decided to dispatch a delegation to the nearby fort at Tahtani they were met by the surprise of their lives – two hundred sixty horsemen came galloping into their meager village. The simple fishing folk were terrified. The horsemen separated many of the men and interrogated them. They were ill-tempered and rough with everyone until they were satisfied that no one here knew a

thing.
      Since the town had a plentiful supply of food and night was upon them once more, the ornery general in charge ordered bushel after bushel of fish cooked and heaped high for his men. They ate with the ravenous appetite of soldiers continuously on the move. Then the general ordered the entire village billeted and his tired men were put up by the dozen in every smokehouse and hut in the settlement. The villagers were forced to sleep out in the open and to tend the cavalry's fires and every need. The villagers would remember hearing the name "Barkane" cursed often and with venom, but of course, they knew nothing. Bousardis scowled and so did Zeno and Cleon for they knew who had stolen the boats.
      At first light the next morning there was more rude behavior as the cavalry organized and then the horde and their anxious general were off in a ground-rumbling stampede of hooves leaving nothing behind but dust and dismay and empty fish racks.
      For rapid river travel, Barkane's boats proved the better choice. The river ran through sprawling marshes on either side that made passage by horse difficult and as his cavalry struggled Bousardis realized the boats would have glided easily past long before.

      By the time another sweltering day had passed, Bousardis's hundreds had nothing to show for their hot pursuit but fruitless curses and exhausted horses. Bousardis steamed at his misfortune and winced when he thought again of Barkane's deception back at the fort – the nerve of the man. To impersonate a Macedonian General! The Carthaginian will die in pain, Bousardis promised himself. But not tonight. His cavalry was so exhausted he had just ordered camp for the night when one of his scouts rode up in the darkness. The scout had brought one of Knossos's soldiers from the fort and though the man was no Persian native, at least he could be trusted and stood a chance of knowing the land a little better than the Macedonians.
      Bousardis's scout grinned.
      "Good news, sir. Madig lies on this river ahead."
      But the man's grin vanished when Bousardis bolted upright in his saddle-pad at the news.
      "What? Madig?!"
      "Yes, sir...it, uh, it is not far, sir…"
      The scout cringed. Why wouldn't it be good news? Madig was one of the Persian King Darius's captured Royal Stables. There would be provisions and fresh horses there.
      Bousardis felt his blood boil.
      Madig is where Alexander, the great equine connoisseur

himself, had stowed thousands of his finest horses plucked from his Companion Cavalry Guard for safe-keeping while he lay siege to Tyre in the south.
      Bousardis surprised the scout and his officers alike by reversing orders. "Strike camp at once," came the command. Zeno and Cleon mirrored their general's change in mood and bayed mercilessly at the troops until everyone was packed up and moving again. Bousardis seethed. Damn him to all Hades, let him not take Madig!

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      There they lay, slung between the hills and the river bank, as motionless as stone in the stillness of the deep hour.
      The Royal Stables at Madig.
      Barkane had ordered Argon and Helyar to the hills above the river to reconnoiter and now the scent of horses filled their noses. The two of them peered through the darkness from a forested rise that overlooked the cavalry complex on the banks of the river below.
      Darius and his father before him had stationed horses here for all their western military campaigns. Now the Royal Stables were in the hands of the only man that mattered anymore: Alexander. But he was preoccupied with

the siege of Tyre to the south and the great one had no need for cavalry - for now.
      The Royal Stables were a sight to see for any man, let alone a horseman like Helyar. They spread out in all their majesty all along the river like a living, breathing horseman's banquet beneath the moonlight.
      The stables were all of carved stone and two stories high topped with finely crafted tiled roofs, a luxury in this resource-scarce territory. The stone and high ceilings served to keep the horses cool even in the roasting heat of high summer. The stables consisted of concentric rings of nearly fifty buildings surrounded by a vast network of stone walls which boxed in the multitude of paddocks and stretched across the desert until Helyar lost sight of their expanse in the darkness. Another multitude of buildings served the stable complex; hay barns, granaries, workshops, smith houses, a coopery, well-houses, leather and tack works, and more. A horse-ferry and wheelhouse of ambitious size hugged the river bank with a matching ferry wheelhouse far across the river on the opposite bank. Thick hemp cabling ran across the river connecting the two, the cables so heavy they sagged until they sat mostly in the water. The expensive ferry was a necessity as the river was too wide and deep here to ford on horseback.

      Darius had seen to it the Royal Stables were fitted with the very best of everything.
      The sprawling paddocks were designed so that strategically placed chutes ran down to the water for drinking and bathing to keep the animals cool in the blistering heat. Helyar could tell by the trafficked areas which buildings were granaries. Farther up the hill from the river were the barracks where apparently all the soldiers and stable hands were asleep. They could see that three of the four barrack buildings were shuttered and only one was in use. Horses stood at ease in every corner of the paddocks but most congregated at the gates to the stable area and many more would be inside.
      "Movement," whispered Argon and the two of them hunched lower in the weeds and froze. Below them, a single figure casting the feeblest of moon shadows sauntered from the barracks. The man stumbled sleepily to the very edge of a paddock and stopped, wavering in one place with legs spread and both arms bent to his belt in the unmistakable pose of a man relieving himself. They held their breath until the man finished and eventually disappeared back into the sleeping barracks.
      Helyar frowned. A single man urinating in the middle of the night gave him small clue as to the number of

soldiers garrisoned here. Barkane was convinced Alexander needed his men down in Tyre and that there would be fewer men here than in Tahtani for there were no threats in the area for Alexander to worry about. Who would dare cross the new Emperor of all Persia?
      As Helyar and Argon crept down the hill they could see Barkane and the rest of the Greeks paddling the stolen river scows silently in the shallows toward the ferry.
      The ferry itself, Barkane was happy to see, was on this side of the wide river, as it should be, he thought; secure. Each wheelhouse was a two-story timber and stone affair that housed a giant wheel so heavy it took a team of oxen to rotate the thing. Barkane ordered a halt just up river of the ferry while he both scanned for any movement on the expansive ferry docks and waited for Helyar. He could see another team of oxen tied up at the wheelhouse on the opposite bank. When Helyar arrived and gave his report, Barkane whispered just loudly enough for everyone within earshot to hear.
      "Thirty men here, no more. And only some will be soldiers. The rest will be stable hands. Think the lot of you can handle stable hands?" The Greeks grinned uninsulted and Barkane was pleased. They grow more game by the hour, he thought.

      Moments later they were in the wheelhouse itself and Barkane stared at the huge apparatus in the dim while his eyes got used to the light. Cabling as thick as saplings coiled around the towering wheel nearly as big as the building that housed it. It must have taken hundreds of men months to build this place, he thought, and the special cable itself would have been months in the making by teams of the finest cordsmen Persia could buy. Still, a few purposeful whacks with a stout axe would sever the thick cables and render the entire apparatus useless with the ferry stranded on this side of the river and Bousardis fuming on the other. The thought brought a smile to Barkane's face in the dark.
      "Axes," he said.
      A man cleared his throat, working up his nerve to speak. He was a big man, one of the biggest of the Greeks, mostly in his waist. Barkane knew him only as a cousin of Sestus.
      "Excuse me, Commander," the rotund man finally said.
      "What is it?" Barkane said.
      "My pardon, sir, but your intention is to disable the ferry on this side, yes?"
      Barkane only nodded his head.
      "My family owns a mill, sir. I have a suggestion."

      A miller. That would explain the man's girth, Barkane thought, for only the rich and those steeped in grain would be so well-fed and grow so round.
      Barkane was impatient. "So?" he said.
      Sarisse stepped forward. "Barkane, listen to the man." And the rest of the Greeks bit their lips for none of them dared to speak to the Commander that way.
      Barkane sighed. "Very well, Miller, go on."
      The man was deferential and nervous but he managed to spit it out. "It will take a few minutes at least, but I believe I can rear-spool the cables so that, from here, we can get the ferry to the other side of the river." He hesitated and turned his eyes to the ground. "It is just an idea, sir," he said. "Bousardis will be marching down that side."
      "Why, in the name of Hades would I want Bousardis to have the ferry on his side of the river?"
      "So that he would take it, sir." Barkane looked nonplussed.
      "I can rig the mechanism so that it becomes unraveled on the way back over here, sir," the Miller explained. A playful smile slipped over the man's face as he waited for the significance of this notion to sink in. When it did, Barkane broke into a wide grin and Sarisse clapped her

hands.
      "Ha ha!" Barkane said. "I like your head, Miller, I like it very much. Are you sure you know what you are doing?"
      The Miller only shrugged, "I'll need an extra hand."
      "Take Sestus and have to it," Barkane said. "Everyone else come with me."
      Barkane would have preferred to wait for first light to get a more accurate assessment of the Stable's guard but they hadn't time for that. Methena muttered in that unrecognizable tongue of hers until Sarisse shushed her and though the girl was quiet, her glare remained.
      They tip-toed up the gentle grade toward the sleeping barracks and surrounded the building. The better to keep the desert bugs out, the building had no windows and only a single door in front. Nonetheless, Barkane sent two men behind the building in case someone decided to break out the back. When Barkane and the rest had their composites bent, missiles slung and trained upon the door opening, he was satisfied that he had the numbers required no matter how many men lay sleeping inside.
      "Ready the beast," Barkane said and Stefanos stepped forward with the 'surprise', as Barkane had called it. As they had approached the stables they had paddled past

hectares of fenced yards stocked with hogs, goats and sheep. On the river bank there was a rotting corpse of a dead goat picked half clean by carrion and lying in the wet reeds as stinking and foul as a dead thing would be in the height of summer. Barkane had ordered the thing secured to a stick and though the men objected to the gruesome task now they learned why he had issued the odd order. The archers bent to their knees as Barkane crept toward the front door with the disgusting thing on the end of a pole. Sarisse and Methena held their noses.
      Everyone was so silent they could hear only the distant nickering from the horses sleeping in their stone stables and the ever present crickets chirping in the night. The foul creature at the end of the pole was still in one piece, more or less, and Barkane stepped to the doorway, kicked open the peg-locked door and it slammed inward with a bang! He flung the fetid animal into the building and then darted back to position in the center of his row of archers.
      At first they heard only irritated grumblings from the men inside objecting to the interruption of their sleep. Then the smell hit them and great gulping curses began to spew from inside. This quickly blossomed into a great commotion and, outside, in the thin starlight, the Greeks

exchanged grins. Even the stern Methena laughed. She smiled at Markatt and he at her. Another dozen curses were followed by shouts of alarm erupting all at once and then the first man stumbled outside and fell to all fours. He lurched and loudly heaved forth a voluminous flood of vomit onto the ground. As his body convulsed the rest of his comrades spilled out behind him, their hands over their mouths in vain attempts to stem the violent tide of mother nature, that instinctual reaction to the gut-wrenchingly foul. As soon as they stepped outside, each did as the first and the smell of the vomit soon overpowered the odor of the rancid carcass that had started it all.
      And although Barkane's Greeks, too, gagged at the smell, they were just enough removed and forewarned that they did not succumb, rather, they began to laugh at the others' predicament for when had any of the Greeks witnessed such an unworldly sight? Barkane momentarily worried that their humor might take the edge off their warring skills should they need to let fly. He need not have – if anything, the humor of the situation made the Greeks more cock-sure than ever.
      Roused from carefree sleep in such a rude fashion, it was no surprise to Barkane that the stable crew stumbled outside weaponless. When the pathetic men finally got their

wits about them, they could only look about in shock.
      They were surrounded by arrows, the gleaming ferrules pointed their way in a strategic formation from which there was no escape. When the last of the men had stumbled out, the ever-cautious Helyar entered the barracks, rustled around inside, and then quickly emerged and flashed a thumbs-up to Barkane. All clear inside.
      The stunned men were still wiping their mouths. Most were on their knees already but Barkane ordered those still standing to their knees as well. The men complied immediately.
      Barkane had been correct again. There were seven soldiers still in their night tunics and three times that many stable hands in Persian trousers. That was it; a skeleton crew to guard all those horses and why not? Who would dare cross the great Alexander now? One of the men began to mumble something and Barkane strode over and kicked the man so hard the man rolled over twice before coming to rest. Blood flowed from his split cheek. Barkane was not a cruel man but he knew when he needed to deliver a strong message, though Sarisse glared at him. He ignored her.
      "Believe me when I tell you cooperation is your only option, gentlemen," Barkane said and as if to prove his

point one of the men panicked, leapt to his feet and bolted for the river.
      "Stefanos," said Barkane and as the order left Barkane's mouth Stefanos and two of his men were already whirling, their bowstrings twanged and the stillness of the night air was rent by three Persian arrows streaking after the fleeing man. They found him with a sickening fftunk, fftunk, fftunk, and the man cried out and tumbled from his feet with arrows sunk into his back, shoulder, and hamstring.
      None of the other freshly minted prisoners dared move as Barkane dragged the kicking man back to the group and deposited him unceremoniously to the ground. The man groaned. Barkane could see that the wounds, though painful, wouldn't kill him.
      "Bind and gag him. Put him in with the animal."
      The Greeks had the man gagged and hog-tied in seconds and carried into the stinking barracks.
      "Stefanos," said Barkane. "Bind and gag the rest."
      "Yes, sir."
      They went to work while Markatt tended to Methena for the girl was still weak from the journey. He rewound her bandages and gently poured water down her throat. Sarisse noticed how conscientious he was with her and how she

allowed him to do his work with no complaint though she was obviously in pain. When she saw the looks that passed between the two, as a woman, she recognized them immediately for what they were; man had chosen woman and woman, man.
      When the prisoners were secured, Barkane gathered his men about him.
      "Well, then," he said, "here is how we shall proceed."
      There followed many raised eyebrows and questioning looks but by the time he was done delivering his orders, every man and woman knew their duty, though, Barkane would never make his complete intentions clear to anyone.
      Helios and Markatt were to take everyone and as many horses as they could into the heavy wood that lined this side of the river. "Bousardis will be confined to the other side but only until he gets to the sea," Barkane warned them. He told them to follow the river under cover of the forest all the way to where it spilled into the sea at last at the port of Tartus just a day's ride away. "There will be ships docked at the military quay at the southern edge of the port," promised Barkane. "I will catch up to you." Sarisse and Methena were to go with them. Most importantly, he gave them Stefanos and his squad of shooters and whispered to Helios, "They are the most capable and you

will need their fighting spirit." Helios nodded nervously.
      "Look to your men, Helios, and be on guard if you'll have them see their homeland again," Barkane said and then he waved his arm at the stable complex surrounding them. "I promised you more horses, Helios. So here you have them."
      But the matter-of-fact smile on Barkane's face and the audacity of the plan mortified Helios. Steal Alexander's horses? Again?! "You'll have the whole damn army after us!" Helios said.
      Barkane put his hand on Helios's shoulder. "The whole damn army is after us already, Helios."
      And for the first time, Barkane's cocky grin gave Helios some comfort. The man was as bold as a dragon, thought Helios, and just as dangerous. But what choice did they have? They were in it now up to their necks.
      Barkane further told Helios that he needed Helyar to stay behind with him. And Argon.
      "Why Argon?" demanded Helios. "I am responsible for that boy. His family will have my very liver if he comes to harm."
      "I need him," is all Barkane would say.
      And he did. For Argon, green as he was, had three talents that Barkane would need on this night: He was their best horseman after Helyar, he was tireless, and he was

willing.
      The Miller and Sestus had arrived and the Miller explained to Barkane what would happen when anyone on the other side tried to work the ferry.
      "I only wish I could stay to see it," the Miller laughed.
      Barkane grinned broadly and slapped the man on the back. "Me, too. You and Sestus go with Helios and the others and quickly, too. Bousardis will be here by sun up. Look to your wits and your guts for the Silvers will be hungry for blood."
      Barkane's final order was to secure horses for everyone, including their new-found prisoners from the barracks, and then scatter the remaining horses and livestock, no small task given the size of the place. But Sarisse and Methena helped as the Greeks fanned out on horseback and opened every gate in the complex. Then they went through the stables proper and slapped every animal from every stall and soon the royal horses were running loose everywhere and Stefanos and Sestus laughed for once again Barkane had scattered Alexander's finest mounts to the wind on the banks of the Asi River.
      Barkane took the two women aside and slid Persian daggers into their palms. "Keep these close," he said. "If

anyone gives you trouble you stick them in their gut as hard as you can." The girls slipped the weapons beneath their robes as the Greeks organized and mounted up. Barkane watched them trot off into the trees and head downriver. The Commander was skilled in many things but Sarisse shot him a parting glance that was as inscrutable to him as if she had spoken in the strange tongue of Methena. Was that look hostile or friendly? he wondered. Good luck or good riddance? Was that the hint of a smile on her lips? One could only hope, he thought.
      Barkane shook the woman and her eyes from his thoughts and turned to the final piece of his puzzle. Twenty eight confused prisoners sat on horseback before him, each man, bound, gagged, and tied to his saddle pad and each horse tied to the next in a long chain and another thirty horses tied to those. Argon and Helyar stood next to a dapple mare, waiting for Barkane. Barkane climbed on the back of the mare, turned to the gagged men, and put his finger to his lips.
      "Sshhh…," he said, and he stifled a laugh as they all started out in the darkness, the confused captives on their horses stringing out behind Barkane and Helyar with Argon bringing up the rear. They trotted away not downriver to the sea like the others - but back upriver. They made good

time in the darkness for the bank was firm on this side and not marshy like the opposite bank. The captives on horseback were surprised when Barkane pulled to a stop in a thick stand of birch as soon as they turned a corner of the river. He left Argon to watch the prisoners while he and Helyar crawled into a river scow and paddled across the black water to the opposite side of the river where they disappeared into a thicket of tall river reeds.
      Barkane was gambling now and like all commanders who make the fateful decision to split their forces, his nerves were on edge. General Bousardis was coming this way fast with hundreds of the fiercest warriors on Zeus's earth. Barkane steeled his chest for the fight. Very well, Bousardis, he thought. Show me your teeth.
     
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      They were a barely perceptible hum at first. Then the medley of cavalry noises began to coalesce in the night air; the high-pitched metal on metal jangling of tack and weaponry swinging along with the horses' gait; the regular clip-clop of hundreds of heavy hooves. The hum grew from a curiosity to a menacing presence and finally Barkane could hear the horses snorting and nickering. He began to hear the familiar tone of griping soldiers on the march as Bousardis's cavalry of Silver Shields finally came into

view. The sound of the night's crickets retreated at their approach. Barkane watched them coming, weapons swinging from every saddle pad.
      Weapons. One could never have enough. But Barkane knew like few others that he was always surrounded by weapons and that he always would be. It had been a difficult lesson for a head-strong young soldier to learn and the lesson, like many others, had nearly cost him his life. It had happened long ago but was forever fresh in his mind for the lesson served to save his life more than once.
      The details of the incident were shrouded by the obfuscation particular to the military and it made no difference to the military council back then that Barkane's squadron had backed him up. The fact remained that Barkane, still a teenager and officer-in-training at the time, had crossed the wrong elder. That elder was furious and proposed execution, which everyone agreed was too severe. Barkane's crime was, after all, in self-defense, and Barkane was a noble, even if an adopted one. The offended elder then offered a compromise: Barkane's life could be spared, but only if he served in the guard at the Stockyards for one year. Barkane's father gasped. "That is a death sentence," he protested, for the 'Yards' were a notoriously dangerous place, where Carthage incarcerated

and put to work mercenaries from all corners of their empire who had committed the worst of crimes. If the prisoners worked hard and behaved, after a year they were granted their freedom and another chance to serve in the army. Few made it, for the Yards were one of the most violent places on earth.
      The guards were there under less than stellar circumstances themselves, run afoul of their superiors in some way and thus ordered to the most dangerous duty in all the army; that of watching over all those criminals and miscreants.
      An old general took the leading elder of Barkane's family aside and promised him he would train their boy hard so that he would have, literally, a fighting chance to survive his term at the Yard. There was nothing left to do. Barkane must serve the sentence and so the general immediately put Barkane into sixteen-hour-a-day hand-to-hand combat training for ninety days where Barkane was taught a thousand ways to stay alive, a thousand ways to kill: With a sword. A blade. An arrow. His bare hands. Anything - and nothing. It was the same grueling regimen the old general put his own bodyguards through and even after choosing the best candidates, only one in ten survived the punishing training.

      Barkane, young as he was, surprised everyone by making it through.
      But one unexpected challenge remained, for the offended elder, still unsatisfied, used his political leverage to add one final punishment before Barkane was sent to the Yards. He was to be put in a cell for a fortnight "to ponder his misdeeds." A sealed granary would do, the elder declared. "I own many," the man said and added that he would "supervise" Barkane's confinement himself.
      Stone granaries were numerous in the hills around Carthage. Carved deep into the hillsides and accessed by stone-lined walkways so that mules could haul the grain in and out, they were tight stone chambers so deep underground that the temperature and water content of the air stayed stable all year round and kept the grain from souring.
      The very next morning, Barkane was thrown into one of them, naked, and then a special door rigged so that his guards could slide food inside his cell without entering. The door was barred from the outside and under guard twenty-four hours a day. He had only a dirty thin blanket with which to keep warm and a wooden bucket in which to relieve himself. Each morning a cup of water and a wooden

bowl with a handful of gruel was slid beneath the iron door to the prisoner.
      Barkane was left there in the dark with only the thinnest slivers of light sneaking in from beneath the door. But after a time, that feeble light allowed Barkane to explore every inch of the granary cellar. Its walls were of finely carved stone with nary a crack and the floor of hard-packed dirt. He ran his hands along every stone and spent several hours bloodying his fingers trying to dig one of them out. It was a fruitless endeavor; the thing was part of the hillside itself. Then he explored the door but the heavy iron thing's hinges were on the outside and he couldn't squeeze a finger in its cracks either for the thing was sealed as tight as a cork in a jar. There was an iron ring attached to the inside of the door and he yanked on it but the door, locked from the other side, didn’t even budge. He briefly considered digging his way out but such an undertaking would take him years. He sat there all day and thought and thought. He watched the sliver of light travel slowly over the floor as the day wore on. He resigned himself to the idea of gutting it out for the fourteen days since he had no better idea and no way to escape. Then, when the sliver of light turned burnt orange with the sunset, escape came to him, though he did not kno

it at the time. The scheming elder had arranged for one more twist.
      Barkane heard the unmistakable noises of soldiers coming down the corridor. There was some hushed discussion and then the door burst open and four soldiers entered the room, each one burlier than the next. A fifth guarded the door. The men were fully armed from the greaves at their shins to their chest-plates and helmets. But instead of swords, they bore clubs. This hill faced west where the setting sun shone brilliantly down the corridor and into the cell so that, so used to the darkness now, the sudden flood of bright light blinded Barkane and as he put his arm up to shield his face from the light the first of the blows took him square to the side of his head and sent him reeling to the hard-packed ground. He groaned and went to get up only to be struck again, hard in the back this time and the pain shot up his spine so hard he thought his head would separate from his shoulders. And then came a blow to his ribs and then all four of them were kicking him and he rolled around helplessly on the floor. A final blow to his head by a club ended the beating. The men picked up his cup and wooden bowl and left without a word. One of them gingerly carried out his waste bucket and another bucket was tossed in and then the door slammed shut for the night.

      Barkane lay rolled in a ball of pain for an hour until the sliver of light went black and Barkane was left in the total blackness of the cell. He slept for a few hours, his dreams not of people and things but of animals and food. When he woke again, he sat up and rubbed his bruised ribs and stared around the utter blackness of the cell.
      No light. No sound. Was he dead?
      No. He got up and wandered the cell again. He ran his hands along the same walls and the same door with the same despairing results. There was no escape from this place. The beating had taken its toll and he fell asleep again and did not wake until he heard the slot in the door open and in slid another bowl of gruel, another cup of water. Barkane wolfed the horrid stuff down.
      He spent the rest of the day roaming his cell again endlessly probing the walls for a weakness, an opening, something! By scraping the hard floor and coming up with handfuls of dirt he tossed the dirt into the air again and again until he discerned the ceiling was conical and ended only a few paces from his head. He tried at great length to climb the stone but that proved useless in the end. Only a lizard could scale these walls.
      He eventually sat again and thought dark thoughts of the offended elder, of his city and his parents, of

everyone. Hours of this did nothing for him and he gave it up at last and sat and stared stupidly at the sliver of light on the floor. It moved relentlessly across the floor until it turned a golden hue and then he heard the soldiers again but there was no conversation outside this time. The door burst open and the room exploded with light and the same four soldiers poured in and the same fifth soldier guarded the door and the men advanced with their clubs and this time Barkane was able to dodge the first of their blows. He ducked and side-stepped and struck one of them in the face but that was the last of his success for he was immediately overwhelmed with a barrage of heavy clubbing and he stumbled away to protect his head and fell back in the darkness just beyond where the door's light ended but the men were on him. He instinctively rolled into a protective ball and they kicked him and beat him with their clubs until they had their fill and then, just as the night before, they suddenly quit without a word. They took his cup and bowl and replaced his bucket and the door slammed shut again leaving Barkane in the dirt gasping in pain for they had beat his ribs, his head, and this time, his legs.
      He lay in pain for hours until sleep took him at last and he did not wake even when his daily ration came sliding in beneath the door. His body was trying to heal itself. He

finally rose and tore into the gruel and drained the water and soon was sitting on the floor again staring at the sliver of light. After a few hours of that, he felt a panic rising in his throat and he had the mad urge to leap up and run his head into the stone walls and even rose to do so but his body was so beaten he rose as slowly as an old man. When he got to his feet he swayed dizzily and marveled at how helpless he had become. For no reason he began to laugh and then he felt his body shudder and tears come and he fought them off only to collapse on the ground again, giggling stupidly to himself. Random thought after random thought fired through his head.
      A fortnight? He would never make it.
      It was when he realized that he stood to lose his mind in here that he steadied his thoughts at last. He found himself staring at the sliver of light and just as it again turned to the golden color of his familiar north African sunset, he noticed that he was sitting at the very edge of the ray of light and that if he moved just a single pace back, the light could not reach him.
      As that thought occurred to him the door burst open again and the same five soldiers entered the room. He knew them now, if just a little. One of them was left-handed and one of them had a forked beard. They wasted no time and lit

into Barkane and he dodged as many blows as he did the night before and landed a few more himself before he was overwhelmed again but this time as he went down he kicked his leg into Forkbeard's Achilles and the man cried out in pain and then Barkane was knocked so hard to the ground that a spark shot across the back of his eyes and then he was a ball on the floor again and this time the beating from the clubs went on longer than before. As Forkbeard left the room he paused and glared at their helpless, dirty victim on the floor. He lifted his foot and stomped hard into Barkane's naked private parts and the howl of pain that roared from Barkane's mouth pierced the doorway to echo across the hills outside.
      And then the men took his utensils, replaced his bucket, and left him in agony on the floor once again. But this time the door stayed open as Barkane's tormentors exiting the cell suddenly shot to attention. Another man entered the cell and hovered over the helpless Barkane.
      The old general.
      He reached down and took Barkane by the throat and his words were not encouraging or kind.
      "I taught you better than this. Where is your advantage, boy?" And the general turned and left and the door slammed shut and Barkane never even saw him. He had

only heard the man's words as if through a fog. The man had taught Barkane better than this. He had taught Barkane where to precisely strike the jaw to render his opponent senseless, dozens of wrestling and hand-to-hand combat maneuvers, and a hundred other tricks that Barkane had been made to practice to exhaustion. "Use every weapon at your disposal," the man had drilled into him, regardless of what it looked like. "Seek advantage," the man had told Barkane again and again for advantage was always there.
      And then the pain took Barkane and he passed into a dreamless sleep.
      He awoke to a sliver of light. He knew that sliver so well by now that he knew it was hours still before noon. His whole world was reduced to that sliver of light. With a great effort he found himself reaching for it for no reason other than to put his fingers in its path. His fingers touched the light at last and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. He rolled over painfully and the memory of Forkbeard's blow came to him immediately. He crawled to his food and found himself eating it slowly for the first time. He thought of the general and the months he had spent with the man's sternest commandos and the lessons he learned there, like always keeping the sun at your back.
      The sun.

      He finished his food, wiping the wooden bowl clean with his fingers. He played with the bowl in his hands, pressing its weight against his fingers. The bowl was solid and unbreakable. Oak. He leaned back and put his palms against the earth beneath him and recalled the spark of pain when his head had hit that hard floor. He looked around in the darkness, no longer black to him, so accustomed had his eyes become to the dark. He looked at the walls and their unforgiving stone. The heavy iron door. The sliver of light that extended only just so far into the room. A clear-headedness had come to him.
      He decided he would not survive fourteen days in here and that that had been the vindictive elder's intention all along. Barkane knew his strength was diminishing with every day and that if he was to have any chance at all, it would have to be soon.
      He crept to the door and silently worked on the iron ring there. It took some time but he was buoyed when he was able to free the iron ring from its clasp. He put the thing around his fist and bent it against the stone until it wrapped tightly around his knuckles. He paced the cell backward and forward until the distances from wall to wall in every direction were burned into his brain.

      Then he went to work with the bowl and his labors lasted all afternoon and when all was ready he curled up like a dog on the ground and rested. Three days of blood and grime and dirt and beatings had left him none too clean. Panting and perspiring from his labors, sweat dripped from his body into the earth until he lay in his own muddy pool. Silent and still, Barkane lay in that mud chuckling to himself in the darkness like a wicked animal lying in wait. They would come. But now it was he who held every advantage and soon he would be surrounded by as many weapons as he could carry.
      Theirs.
      Like before, just before the sun went down, they burst in with a blaze of light and the first thing they saw and the last thing they saw was Barkane wrapped in his blanket, lying still in the middle of the floor. Or so they thought, for that was in actuality a blanket draped over a mound of earth shaped to look like a man. Barkane lurked behind the door, his eyes clenched shut so that the sudden light would not disturb his vision. He waited for the last of them to enter and when the fifth took his usual position at the door suddenly the big iron door swung and slammed one of the soldiers inside off his feet. The fifth guard outside felt someone seize him by the arm and he was pulled into

the door opening and then the door closed into his forearm with such force his bones inside broke with a loud 'snap' and before the pain even hit him he was kneed hard in the nose, knocked senseless, and thrown into the corner of the cell as the door slammed shut behind them all.
      Darkness enveloped the soldiers like the blackest of hoods.
      One of them was smart enough to begin swinging his club but thanks to that sliver of light, Barkane could see where that man could not and Barkane cold-cocked the man precisely in the hinge of the jaw with his iron-wrapped knuckles and the man fell to the ground out cold. The next was just a pace from Barkane and Barkane threw all his weight into the man and drove the much bigger man's skull directly into the stone wall with a 'crack' and that man, too, fell to the ground unconscious.
      Both of the others started shouting to each other now, struggling for their bearings in the dark. The left-hander felt a tug on his right shoulder and he turned that way only to be spun from the other side, his left hand seized, and his arm bent back so unnaturally he cried out and then his club was gone and in Barkane's hand. Barkane struck the man with his own club so hard on the back of his neck the man's breath was lost and when he was pushed to the ground

his head smacked the hard-packed floor so smartly the sparks flew for him as they had for Barkane and the man went still.
      One man left. Forkbeard.
      The man could see no better than a blind man and had also taken to swinging his club wildly in front of him as his only protection. Barkane advanced silently with his club and when he got close he snarled a beast-like snarl at the man, sending Forkbeard stepping back – and into the deep trench Barkane had spent the afternoon digging with his sturdy oaken bowl. The unseen trench sent the man off his footing and he fell backward and as he did he felt a kick to his gentleman's parts so vicious it made vomit roar up his throat and then Barkane's club found the man's ear and the strike sent a shower of pain through Forkbeard's head and then the man was on his back, as unconscious and inert as the others.
      Outside, the old general and a group of soldiers stood in the rays of the waning sun staring down the long corridor that cut straight into the hill to the granary. They had seen only the last soldier jerked inside and then the door slammed shut. Only the general had narrowed his eyes.

      Now they saw the big iron door swing open again and a lone man emerge, naked and filthy. The man closed the door behind him and put the stays back in place, sealing the door shut from the outside. The filthy wretch had nothing but a club in his hand and they watched as he limped his way up the corridor. Bruised, bleeding, and stinking, the shameless naked creature walked right up to the general and handed him the bloody club. Then he limped off without a word, knowing a trip to the Yards waited for him the next day.
      The general had slapped the club against his hand and smiled to himself. He would see Barkane's time at the Yards reduced for the general was a wise man. He was in line to be the next High General himself and he was always looking for the best of the best. A man like Barkane was better deployed elsewhere.
      Many years had passed and now Barkane found himself lying in wait yet again, this time in Persian lowlands. He brushed the night's bugs from his eyes.
      It takes time for some two hundred and sixty men on horseback to pass, and, ever the soldier, Barkane bided his time by counting them. For every ten that passed, he clawed a mark in the mud. As for hiding places, Barkane never needed much and though he would have preferred different

company he could not have chosen better. With the river road between him and the river, he lay flat in the mud surrounded by dozens of royal hogs.
      He had left Helyar with the scow in the reeds and in the darkness scaled a rise above the road near where they had first found the rotting carcass. He had dug himself a depression behind the fencing along the road and herded as many of the rough-smelling creatures around him as time allowed. It never occurred to Bousardis's passing soldiers why so many swine were huddled in one place and why would it? None was a pig farmer. Still, had anyone even known to look for Barkane, they would have had a difficult time spotting him for he had coated himself in mud and dust so that he looked like the very dirt all around. He tied a leather band around his head and stuffed river grass in it so he could lie with his head propped up and look no different than any other clump of grass.
      The pigs were long since used to him now and bade their time by rooting in the dirt like they always did. Five of Bousardis's skilled scouts had trotted by long before the rest of the army but Barkane lay unworried in the inky darkness. Not even the most sensitive nose would pick up his scent tonight!
      As far as this section of fencing, it, too, was not as

it appeared for Barkane had uprooted the posts nearest him and then merely tilted them in place so that the entire section of fence would topple to the ground with a mere yank on the rope Barkane had tied to it.
      Barkane was wary of unexpected moves by the advance scouts but he had only seen two come riding back so he figured, correctly, that they were only reporting on the status of the Royal Stables ahead. That was to be expected and standard operating procedure for Greek cavalry on the move. Bousardis was true to his training; competent, able, and conservative of tactic. All of which Barkane was counting on.
      From his vantage point on the rise overlooking the road, Barkane not only could count every horseman on the road, he could see over the river's reed beds clear back across the river to the other side. Barkane hadn't chosen this location by accident. The riverbank here was lined with reeds so tall that not only would the passing soldiers' view of the opposite river bank be obscured, the thick reeds themselves made for a thousand hiding places in which to disappear. So Barkane lay patiently in the mud counting cavalry and suffering the stench of the pigs. He watched an aphid crawl down his arm in the moonlight and clawed another mark in the mud.

      Barkane didn’t see Bousardis in the first one hundred horses that passed so he assumed he had missed the man in the dim light. But then as he clawed his tenth mark in the mud the general appeared, helmet tied to his fine sheepskin and linen saddle pad so that the night air might cool his head. The man's hair was cropped neatly, befitting a general, thought Barkane, and his bare face bore the same scars of a lifetime of soldiering as Barkane's did. He looked no more alert than anyone else but Barkane knew that was a front for the man would be more aware than anyone around him if only because Cleon and Zeno spent the night trotting up and down the line reporting to him frequently so that the general knew everything that could be known along their path. It was a prudent marching practice that would prove insufficient tonight.
      Barkane pressed himself even closer to the ground and watched the general pass. Bousardis's armor was light and of top quality, his cuirass intricately engraved. His sword was sheathed but the sculpted bone handle betrayed its expensive pedigree. Though he had marched all night the man looked as fresh as if he had just had a full night's sleep. Time for him later, thought Barkane. All his thoughts were on the immediate task as yet another pig stepped idly on his leg. Barkane only flinched and chanced another glance

across the river. The line of birch on the hills there was so thick Barkane could not see Argon there with the captured stable crew but they would make themselves known when the time came, as Barkane had ordered. And that time was coming for as Barkane clawed his twentieth mark in the mud, the man he had been waiting for finally came riding casually around the bend.
      Captain Sajan.
      Wisely not trusting the man, Bousardis had him surrounded by four guards though he allowed the captain to ride unbound. Sajan had hurriedly spilled everything he knew about Barkane to Bousardis and every moment with the general's determined Silver Shields convinced him all the more that Barkane was as good as dead. So Sajan didn't object to the guards. He had been eager to do whatever he could to get in the famous general's good graces. And now, as far as Sajan was concerned, he was forever free of Barkane and lolled along like he hadn’t a care in the world.
      That was about to change.
      Barkane's left hand reached into his belt and pulled out a whip he had lifted from the Royal Stables, an awful weapon though a familiar one to Barkane. His other hand tightened its grip on the line he had rigged to the false

fence-posts. Barkane took a deep breath and readied himself. Let surprise work her magic, he thought and just as Sajan passed below, Barkane yanked the fence line hard and the posts slumped over without a sound and the rails between them rolled to the ground. Not a man in the cavalry noticed. They rode numbly in the darkness as the changeless scenery rolled by. They ignored the pigs as they had ignored all the other livestock along the river. When they bothered to look at anything at all they looked at the river, so none noticed a single clump of grass suddenly duck down and begin moving on its own. Time for the pigs, Barkane thought, and he clenched his nostrils against the stench and scrambled through the mud on his hands and knees and began frantically ushering his platoon of hogs through the gap in the fence the fallen posts had just created. The snorting things were reluctant at first until he poked one of them hard in its hind end with his dagger. Barkane's victim shrieked in surprise and in another moment the rowdy brutes exploded in panic and stormed through the fence gap en masse. The quiet night was shattered by their squealing as they poured down the rise to the river path below like surging floodwater.
      Barkane waited for the event to have its desired effect. As a rule, a horse heeds not a pig. But a howlin

herd of them bursting out of the darkness and underfoot everywhere at once? The calm of night was destroyed and the horses panicked all at once, bolting and rearing and everywhere men were tossed from their startled mount's backs. Their ears full of the cries of the pigs and their noses overwhelmed with their pungent odor, the frightened horses dashed off in every direction at once and Bousardis's orderly march was no more.
      Barkane had planned on his porcine platoon to be a distraction just long enough for him to reach his target but they proved too much. The accursed things caused so much loud confusion that Bousardis's soldiers grew alarmed just as Barkane scrambled down the hillside amongst the squealing things, struggling to keep his feet amongst the jostling animals.
      Blasted beasts, thought Barkane. Control thyselves!
      But it was too late. Barkane had set beast upon beast and the ensuing chaos was more than anyone could contain. The guards around Sajan corralled him and started backing back up river the way they had came. Barkane cursed as he heard someone shout, "Alarrrm!"
      Over his shoulder he saw that a couple of dozen Silvers downriver who had already passed had wheeled their horses around and were galloping back. Barkane cursed again

as he fought his way through rearing horses, shouting men, and excited pigs.
      "You!"
      A Silver was shouting at him and – wham! Another Silver cuffed Barkane behind the ear and was screaming at him from atop his horse, threatening Barkane with the butt of a spear. The Silver had seen who he assumed to be a pig-herdsman tumble down the hill with his out-of-control herd.
      "Pig-man!" the man shouted. "Get your swine from here, hare-brained lout! Get them from here or we'll have you all for dinner!"
      Two more Silvers appeared on the other side of Barkane looking equally unfriendly.
      Barkane replied to the man as a poor Persian farmer would; in broken Greek. "Sorry, big soldier, sir, sorry…" beyond the man Barkane could see Sajan's four guards getting organized and start to canter away! Then Barkane heard a snap and felt a sharp sting on his shoulder that spun him around. One of the other Silvers had lashed him with his riding whip.
      "Are your ears full of pig shit, boy?" the man said. "Move! Do as the man says, boy!"
      Barkane bit his lip against the pain and bowed his head in apologetic submission, muttering, "Sorry, sir,

sorry…" and the man swung his whip to strike again but the lowly pig-farmer suddenly lunged forward and seized the horseman by the foot and pulled on the Silver's leg with all his strength. The soldier couldn't believe it!
      The man instinctively leaned his weight the other way to correct his balance and when he did, Barkane, employing his favorite footman-versus-horseman tactic, reversed his move and pushed the man's leg up as hard as he could and the horseman flew from his saddle pad. Barkane was in his place on the back of the horse before the de-horsed Silver even hit the ground.
      The man's companions were so surprised they were slow to react as Barkane gave the horse its head and kicked his heels into the big animal's ribs.
      "Hai! Hai!" Barkane screamed in the horse's ear and the well-bred horse did what its kind does best: It bolted back up the road and he and Barkane were at full speed in seconds, Barkane's tormentors left staring slack-jawed at each other in a cloud of dust.
      "After him!" the man on the ground finally managed and as he tried to get up a passing pig took his legs out from under him and he dropped to the dirt once more cursing swine and pig-farmers and all of Persia. His two companions put heel to steed and sped off in pursuit.

      Ahead of them Barkane was galloping headlong back up the column, his mount dodging horse and man and pig alike so athletically Barkane had trouble hanging on. Sajan's guards saw only that a horseman was galloping their way and their training took over and the four of them surrounded Sajan as a precaution.
      Barkane glanced over his shoulder to see not only the two horsemen in vigorous pursuit but over their shoulders came another dozen Silvers – the closest of the forward guard who had headed back at the first sign of trouble! Barkane cursed his stupidity. He was to have swept down and spirited Sajan away before anyone had a chance to react and instead had stirred up a hornet's nest with half of Bousardis's army up in arms. He stole a glance across the river knowing he couldn't see anything anyway in those thick trees from the back of a bouncing horse. What would the waiting Argon make of all the commotion?
      Stay put, Argon!
      Barkane was focused on one man now: Sajan. The captain's well-trained guards had formed a protective diamond pattern around the captain and began moving away from trouble but they were slow to find urgency and their formation hampered their speed.
      Not so, the unfettered Barkane. Bored from hours on

the march, his horse took to its new-found freedom with zeal. The beast's hooves chewed up the soil and flung red chunks of clay in their wake as it hurled along the riverbank, wind whistling in its ears. Barkane marveled that horses loved to run more than any animal on earth. Run, run, let the beast run, thought Barkane. In a few more breathless paces they were on Sajan's men so close Barkane was finally recognized despite the mud and soil of the pig pen.
      "It's him!" shouted Sajan and now six horsemen, Sajan, his four guards, and Barkane, pounded together back up the river path as the trailing elements of Bousardis's cavalry scattered in their path.
      The two guards closest to Barkane went for their swords. But what soldier has been trained to level one's sword over one's shoulder while being chased on horseback? None, and it showed, for they were only able to stab blindly and ineffectively at Barkane and he laughed their efforts away, nudged his horse between them, and as the man on his right decided to abandon his sword in favor of a longer javelin, Barkane one-upped him; suddenly Barkane's sword which had been bouncing in its scabbard just a moment before was in his hand and with a flick of his wrist Barkane cut the man's bridle and the Silver's suddenly

unresponsive horse drifted away at speed, the man vainly trying to control it as the severed bridle bounced uselessly on the ground.
      Now there were five.
      Another guard abandoned the hopelessness of swordplay on the run and instead simply took a swing at Barkane. Barkane saw it coming and well he did for the man was a big one. His meaty fist missed Barkane's chin by a whisker. But the man wasn't easily discouraged. He resolved to simply throw Barkane off. The big man leaned over and latched on to Barkane's neck with an iron grip that landed as solidly as any blow but the man would have to do better than that. In a move Barkane had executed a thousand times, he reached over his shoulder and seized the man not by his arm or wrist but by his thumb-joint and squeezed hard. Barkane jerked the digit away from the rest of the man's hand and as Barkane felt the sinews in the man's thumb stretch and then snap he felt as much as heard the howl of pain that broke from the man's throat. The man disappeared with a wail off the back of his horse and his now rider-less horse veered off the chase.
      Now there were four but the two remaining guards opted to outrun Barkane and kicked their mounts for more speed. Just as they blazed by the very last of Bousardis's

surprised troops and Sajan was thinking he would kill Barkane himself he heard a whir and felt a pressure at his throat followed by a snap and a wicked sting. Then he was no longer on the back of his horse but floating in mid-air, the waning night's stars tilting crazily in the sky above his head.
      Whooompf. He hit the ground at speed and a groan of pain whooshed from his lungs at the shock of it before he rolled to a stop in the dirt. Sajan clutched at his throat and looked up to see Barkane on his horse skid to a stop. The Carthaginian's royal whip had yanked Sajan from his horse and Barkane had the handle in his hand with the business end still wrapped around Sajan's throat.
      Sajan clawed madly at the whip as the guards wheeled to a halt ahead of them. Barkane saw that the other dozen horsemen in pursuit were breathing down their necks, only seconds away; he could see the white's of the lead horseman's eyes.
      But instead of bolting with his horse to freedom Barkane leapt from the animal's back to the ground and pulled Sajan rudely to his feet and hissed in the big captain's face.
      "Into the water, sailor," he said, and he dragged the dazed captain off the dusty road and into those tall reeds

and the two men vanished from view.
      That didn't discourage Bousardis's horsemen. The Silvers boldly rode into the tall reeds as if they were riding into knee-high grass. A mistake. The lanky reeds grew from a base of thick river-mud and the horses stumbled to a stop so suddenly that the horsemen were flung off their mounts and into the mud, surrounded by the impenetrable invisibility of the river reeds while only paces away, Barkane had pulled the flailing Sajan through the reed bed and into the open water of the Asi River.
      "Swim," said Barkane and Sajan had little choice for Barkane, with yet another trick to subdue the unwilling, had fashioned the whip handle and its length into a garrote and the slightest objection now by the captain garnered an instant tightening of the whip around the big man's throat so that the captain complied, compelled once again to choose captivity over death at the hands of the relentless Carthaginian. Thus humiliated, and unable to utter a word so tight was the garrote, the captain swore to himself and damned the incompetent Macedonians who had let this come to pass. Were they not the famed Silver Shields? He damned them and their sons to a thousand lifetimes of servitude to Hades. Surely there was a place in the netherworld for such negligence. Boil-brained dogs! Now I am netted like a fish

in the river!
      The royal whip stayed wrapped around Sajan's neck and in no time their pursuers and their shouting were lost to the reeds behind them and the current was carrying them downstream. Soon they were in the middle of the river and came into full view again of Bousardis's frustrated men who had been beating the shore for them and the cavalry's helpless shouts grew anew.
      And then quieted as soon as they had begun as they saw a slim river scow suddenly appear in the middle of the river. It was everything Helyar could do to get the boat there in the first place; he had been hiding in the tall reeds near Barkane's pig fence and when the commander did not appear as planned he slid the boat from the weeds and began paddling madly upstream, following the commotion. His eyes conditioned to the darkness after so many minutes lying in wait, he spotted the two men swimming far upstream and rowed the scow as fast as he could to head them off in the current.
      But there would be one more hitch, one that would infuriate his commander. As Barkane pushed Sajan to the boat Helyar went for the prisoner first only to have Barkane chastise him. "Me first!" Barkane growled. So Helyar pulled Barkane in the boat and then went for Sajan

but Sajan still had some fight in him and feigned coming into the boat only to pull a child-like, if effective, trick; he yanked Helyar into the water with him and started swimming away as fast as he could go. The dripping-wet Barkane calmly lifted a bow and notched arrow to string. Bone and wood and fiber twisted taut as the compound bow coiled to strike.
      I should have done this long ago, Barkane thought and he let the string snap from his fingers and the arrow shot away and found its watery target. Sajan cried out an unholy cry and spun in the water like the speared fish he was. Barkane stowed the bow and lifted Helyar into the boat with a glare.
      "I'm sorry, Commander," Helyar said and he went immediately to the oars. Barkane pursed his lips and let his glare linger. Helyar had almost cost him his prisoner again after all that work.
      "Let's retrieve that arrow," Barkane said and soon he was dragging a kicking and growling Sajan into the boat.
      "My leg, damn you, my leg!" Sajan sputtered, gasping in pain. "You bastard, as the gods are my witness I'll see you spin."
      It was easy for Barkane to ignore the man's reference to the hangman's noose. Barkane was forever being

threatened with that. He turned to Helyar. "No more carelessness," Barkane said and the words stung Helyar for Barkane rarely criticized his men in front of others, especially in front of someone like Sajan. Helyar held his tongue and pulled hard to the opposite shore.
      The missile had lodged at a steep angle in the back of the captain's thigh and Barkane could see the man's muscles convulsing around it. Barkane shoved a knee into Sajan's back and gripped the man's thigh with one hand and the arrow with the other before Sajan could react.
      "This won't hurt a bit," Barkane lied and yanked the arrow out in a geyser of blood. A howl roared from the captain's throat so loudly it shook the boat and echoed over the river. Helyar turned his eyes from the sight and clenched his teeth. Soon the howl exhausted itself and Sajan lay there gasping and swearing under his breath every foul oath in his repertoire. In his cursing fantasies the wrath of the entire world was brought down on Commander Barkane's head.
      Barkane wrapped the captain's wound so tight the bleeding ceased and Barkane prayed the wound wouldn't kill the man before he was done with him though he could see the injury was far from life-threatening. Helyar was making good way now and pulling smoothly toward the friendly bank

where Argon and the prisoners from the stables waited hiding in the trees. Barkane looked back over at the opposite shore where up and down the river Bousardis's men thrashed about in the muck and tall reeds and re-grouped on the river road, pointing and gesturing at the escaping boat with urgent shouts barely audible at this distance. Through breaks in the reeds Barkane could see flashes of horses racing by on the road but he could see they were not pursued into the water and they wouldn't be. The river here was too deep. Barkane could make out the shape of a few fat pigs making their way back up the embankment, anxious to return to their comfortable pens where there were no horses to kick them and no men hollering in their middle-of-the-night frenzies.
      The swim to the boat had cleansed the muck from Barkane and he turned his attention back to matters at hand. Sajan lay on the floor of the boat wincing and rubbing his leg - glaring for all he was worth at Barkane. Helyar pulled harder on the oars as the boat approached the friendly bank at last. Barkane shook his head. What a near disaster! This mission is getting to me, he thought.
      He needed to get to the seacoast and quickly.
      As Helyar muscled the last few strokes to the beach Barkane leapt over the side and dragged the scow to a

grating stop in the sand, thinking it had already been a long day when the first rays of the rising sun peered over the eastern horizon. My day has just begun, he thought.
      Argon emerged from the trees and helped Sajan limp out of the boat, though none too kindly. "Nice to see you again, Captain," Argon said. Sajan seethed and stuck his face in the young Argon's.
      "I'll see that arrogant head of yours removed from your shoulders, you whelp!"
      Barkane watched proudly as Argon merely grinned back at the man.
      "After you," Argon said and he meant it.
      As for Argon, he could hardly believe it. He had thought Barkane completely off his head for going over there alone. But now here he was returned with the captain re-captured and cowed as well.
      They entered the trees where their stable-prisoners sat in the sourest of moods, still gagged and bound and looking thoroughly uncomfortable. One of the prisoners was bleeding and on the ground in obvious pain.
      "What happened to this one?" said Barkane.
      "He wouldn't stop mumbling," Argon said.
      "How many warnings did you give him?"
      "One, sir."

      "One too many," Barkane said. "Still, good work."
      "Thank you, sir."
      Helyar, Argon, and Barkane put all the prisoners back on horseback and the wounded Sajan, too. Barkane gave Helyar and Argon their orders. Then he trotted off with Sajan into the woods and out of sight of the river before high-tailing it due west to the coast. They would run parallel to the river but under cover of the forest growth all along the banks so as to escape detection from Bousardis's men on the other side.
      Meanwhile, Helyar and Argon led the stable-prisoners on horseback out of their hiding place in the woods and down to the bank of the river in conspicuous view of Bousardis's Silvers on the other side. Argon broke into a trot and turned the whole group directly up river. At this distance and in this light, Bousardis's men saw only dozens of men and horses break from the birch trees and head up river. They were left with only one conclusion; the upstarts were heading back to the fort at Tahtani! Argon kept his group at the river's edge for nearly a league to draw as many of Bousardis's troops as he could back toward Tahtani. Then he ducked back into the cover of the woods again where he and Helyar dismounted and tied the bound stable prisoners together in circles around some trees.

They set the prisoners' horses free and abandoned the men without a word, turning and hoofing it off to the coast as fast as they could. They would catch up with Barkane and Sajan by day's end.
      Barkane had Sajan back and his 'command' such as it was, was separated, but all enroute to the same destination where the river met the sea at Tartus. Sajan gave Barkane little trouble. He was in too much pain and seeing no escape from Barkane once again he let his thoughts return to Barkane's designs on the mint at Sidon and the rooms full of gems there. As long as he was headed toward the mint he felt all was not lost. Sajan still had that ruby and dreamt of more.
      Barkane kept a fast pace but stayed in the shade of the thick cedars to ward off the scorching sun. Behind him he had left a scene sure to confuse Bousardis and his thugs, Cleon and Zeno: The Royal Stables at Madig were evacuated of man and beast. The sprawling paddocks would all be found empty. A hundred gates swung freely in the evening breeze and the easy gnawing of leather hinges on wood in the wind only emphasized the silence of that landscape which should have been noisy with the workings of horses and men. Bousardis would find the stables as still as the stone they were made of.

      The ferry's wheel-houses were quiet and their oxen run off. Barkane chuckled when he thought of what Bousardis would make of a dozen horses the Miller had left stranded on the ferry in the middle of the river.
      When Argon and Helyar caught up to them they located them via a series of shrill Carthaginian bird calls. At nightfall they made camp at last for a short rest, then set out again just hours after midnight when the Two Sisters were high above the moon again and those reliable stars guided them straight west with ease. By morning they should make the sea and Tartus to join the others. But Barkane was concerned. He couldn't help thinking, what has Bousardis done? That was a critical question for Bousardis was as savvy as any general in Alexander's army.
      And Barkane had reason to worry, for Bousardis was about to draw his first blood at last.
     
                                                    ____________
     
     
      When he had reached the abandoned wheel-house on his side of the river, Bousardis gathered his officers. Everyone stared with trepidation across the river at the Royal Stables, eerily empty and obviously compromised. What threats lay hidden here? Some campfires still smoldered so they reasoned the renegades could not be far. And what was this? The ferry was stopped in the middle of the river, its

only passengers twenty horses casually munching hay. The whole affair stank strongly of a trap. They had been kept guessing since they first came upon the renegades' camp days ago. Then they were foiled back at the Asi River by Barkane's stunt with the phony horse 'escape', forcing them on an exhausting wild-goose chase through foreign Persian hills. Only to be followed by the further humiliation at the fort where they learned they had been impersonated by the shameless runaways who then seemed to so easily slip away by trickery once more through the old mine!
      It was no wonder they were wary. Barkane had the Silver Shields so turned around they didn't know what to think.
      Bousardis had to concede that he could no longer say for certain exactly what Barkane was up to, though he was convinced the man was headed for the sea. As much as he wanted to corral the man here and now he called over his first officers Zeno and Cleon and ordered them to take one hundred men to Tartus at once. After all, Tartus lay at the mouth of the river and was the nearest port.
      "But, sir," Cleon said, "We would be splitting our force." That was anathema to the standard Greek fighting tradition.
      Bousardis knew the danger and sought to minimize it.

"If you see any of them, engage and withdraw. And only if you have superior numbers. Understood?"
      "Understood, sir," and Cleon delivered the orders and minutes later he and one hundred Silver Shields were galloping down river at all speed toward the coast.
      Next, Bousardis had to consider the commotion that had occurred behind him along their march. By the time everything had been sorted out, hours had passed and Bousardis was left fuming; the sea-captain Sajan had been recaptured it seemed, though Bousardis considered it just as likely the slippery captain had jumped ship. Finally, his men had watched helplessly as yet another unknown contingent of horsemen emerged from the trees on the other side of the river and galloped off back to the fort at Tahtani. Why?
      Captain Sajan had been convinced Barkane was heading for the mint at Sidon, but was it true?
      Bousardis ordered the stranded ferry hauled over and the thing was pulled in slowly, everyone expecting another booby-trap of some kind. But the unattended horses were led off the ferry without incident. The ferry was then inspected so thoroughly Bousardis even had swimmers dive below and inspect its underside before ordering a dozen cavalry aboard with orders to track the renegades from the

opposite bank.
      Bousardis's men in the wheelhouse lamented the absence of the oxen and heaved their own shoulders into the machinery instead. The ferry pulled away and it slipped from the docks and began a slow glide across the river with its restless cargo of horsemen and their mounts ready for the bit. Bousardis's men had seen the dozens of horsemen headed back to Tahtani and that fact had Bousardis wondering if maybe Barkane's men had had enough and the Carthaginian had a mutiny on his hands. Or maybe this Captain Sajan fellow was up to something.
      "Very well," Bousardis said at length. "Send twenty four men back to Tahtani. Find them, whoever they are."
      Zeno objected.
      "Sir, surely the Carthaginian is headed for Tartus. Why would he go back to Tahtani? It is a feint. Our forces are split up dangerously already…"
      "Thank you for stating the obvious, Lieutenant," interrupted Bousardis. Like Barkane, he was rarely short with his officers but Zeno had hit a nerve. They were dangerously split up and it worried Bousardis. They had all learned Barkane was hardly short on guile. But Bousardis decided he would let his strength in numbers do some of his

work for him though he could see why Zeno was concerned. They had originally started down the coast with three hundred cavalry. Now one hundred of them were enroute to Tartus. A dozen were ferrying across the river, a dozen were left back at the fort of Tahtani and now two dozen more moving that way. With his losses from the original wild horse chase Barkane had sent them on, he was down to less than one hundred fifty men in his main body. It wasn't a worry, he told himself. He still had more than enough men to overpower whatever threat the renegades posed.
      Still, there was no denying the devil Barkane had succeeded in reducing and spreading out Bousardis's force. The Silvers were being outplayed.
      Just then there was a shout from the wheelhouse and answering shouts from the men on the ferry, now dead center in the middle of the river. Bousardis looked up to see what everyone else could see – the ferry cabling gone slack and fallen into the water, the big raft unexpectedly off its tethers and spinning lazily downstream. The soldiers manning the wheelhouse burst out with frustrated faces. Their leader looked at his general with dread and pointed across the river.
      "The other side has come unspooled, Sir."
      The cable on this end still held but the connection on

the other side had been sabotaged; re-spooled so that when the ferry reached the center of the river the cable on the other side rolled off its big wheel and slipped uselessly into the water.
      Bousardis's sarcastic response did nothing to reassure his men. "Well done, gentlemen." He spat in the dirt and watched the ferry swing downriver in a wide arc. The current would push the thing back to the bank eventually but another hour's delay was unavoidable and Bousardis in his temper spewed nonstop invective and generally made his men miserable the entire time. His men had been hoping for camp and roasted pork for dinner but that was not to be. As soon as the ferry horsemen were collected from the runaway ferry Bousardis and his remaining one hundred and fifty men were trotting under a hot sun at all pace downriver to Tartus.
      None paused to look over their shoulders at the sprawling Royal Stables. The compound's ferry, the ghostly rows of empty stall after empty stall, the long lines of rolling paddock fencing; the whole place now utterly abandoned except for one man. He finally emerged from the barracks after a long struggle with his bonds. Exhausted and hungry, he saw only an army of horsemen in the distance riding off on the opposite side of the river. The royal

pigs and goats roamed will-nilly from their stockyards on both sides of the river. It would be all day before he located his barrack-mates trudging back through the woods and weeks before they had finished gathering up what few horses they could find. The men drew lots as to who would report the incident to their superior officers stationed down at Tyre.
     
                                                                 _________________
     
     
      The Tyrians eyed all that timber that made up Alexander's defensive causeway towers and hatched a bold plan. They took an old cattle barge and raised its bulwarks up all around so that they could fill the old boat impossibly high with brushwood and every available scrap of dry timber. Then they loaded vats of flammable pitch aboard and weighted the boat's aft with ballast so that the boat's prow angled up in the water. They waited for a moonless night and, using two triremes on either side of the cattle boat, towed the thing at flank speed to the bank of the causeway. The cattle boat was put ablaze and flung onto the edge of the causeway at the very foot of the towers. In only moments both towers were consumed in a fiery inferno and no Macedonians could

fight the fires for the two Tyrian triremes lay off nearby and peppered the area with arrows so that no one could come near. Both hated towers burned to the ground that night and it seemed a great victory for Tyre.
      But it was short-lived.
      While both causeway towers were still a smoldering pile of ash the Tyrians awoke to the sounds of construction once again; except this time the end of the causeway was being made even wider so that new towers would not have to be pressed so vulnerably close to the banks.
      The Macedonians built more towers on their own ships and anchored them close to Tyre's walls where they lobbed artillery upon the city. Tyre sent swimmers underwater to cut the Greeks' anchor lines. The simple tactic was a success until one night the swimmers discovered the Macedonians had swapped out the ships' anchor ropes for chain.
      And so it went, move after countermove as the causeway came closer and closer.
      Eight months of building had brought the causeway so close now that multiple siege towers on both land and sea loomed before the terrified citizens of Tyre. They could hear insults shouted from the highest reaches of the dark towers. The towers gave Alexander the capability to fire upon the city with near impunity.
      Alexander's noose tightened around Tyre's throat.