Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [50]
“Alexander? I don’t know. I was quite close to him at one stage and saw a spearman get a blow at him—struck him in the thigh. He yelled—not in pain but when he saw his own blood flowing. He couldn’t believe it. For a short time he was an open target as he stared down at his thigh, dabbing at the blood with his finger and inspecting it. Then he shouted something—I didn’t recognize the language—and was in command of himself again. They said the wound healed unnaturally quickly.”
“He claims to be the son of Zeus,” the Corinthian woman said from the shadows, “but many Persians say he’s evil Ahriman’s spawn.”
Simon pursed his lips and fingered his wine-cup. “Perhaps he’s just a mortal,” he suggested, “a mortal of unusual vitality?”
“Perhaps,” the Persian soldier said. “I only know he’s conquered the world.”
“I heard he halted his Indian campaign at the River Indus—why should he do that?” Simon said.
“His Macedonians say they forced him to stop, but I cannot believe that. Even Alexander must tire—that’s my theory. I think he needed to rest and recuperate. Throughout his campaigns he’s hardly slept; must move on continually as if driven to conquer. Who knows what spurred him to conquest—or what made him put a temporary halt to his victories?”
“The Indians have an ancient and mighty religion of which we know little,” said a middle-aged and scrawny trader from Carthage. “Could their gods be stronger than ours? Stronger than Alexander?” He pulled at his grey-streaked beard. His many rings glinted in the ill-lit place.
“Such talk is heresy these days,” cautioned the Persian, but it could be seen that he was contemplating this idea.
“People talk of nothing but the Macedonian,” said the swarthy trader. “From the Bosphorus to the Nile they curse or praise him. But what is he other than a man who has been lucky? Events have shaped him, not he them. He owes much to his foresighted father King Philip, and that warped mother Queen Olympias, both of whom, in their separate ways, prepared the world for his conquests. What reason for instance did he have for his meanderings in Persia some years ago? Why, instead of pressing on, did he embark on a wild goose chase after Darius? He had no reason save that events were not ready for him.”
“I like to think this of great men, also.” Simon smiled. “But I would join his army for my own convenience.”
“So that’s why you’re in Babylon. I wondered about you, my friend. Where are you from?” The Carthaginian poured himself more wine from a skin.
“I was born in Thrace, but I’m Byzantine by adoption. I’ve spent seven years there as Captain of Infantry. But now I’ve the urge to see the East and since Alexander goes east, decided to attach myself to his army. I hear he’s in Babylon now.”
“That’s true. But you might find him hard to meet—obviously he is not personally concerned with the hiring of mercenaries.” The Persian’s tone was friendly.
“I’ve heard this man—or god—spoken of so often that I’ve a mind to meet him if that’s possible.”
“Good luck to you, friend. He’ll either kill you or promote you. He’s a man of extremes.”
“Are not all great conquerors?”
“You’re marvelous learned for a mercenary.” The Carthaginian grinned.
Simon picked up his scabbarded short-sword from the bench.
“And you’re marvelous curious, friend. Know you not that all Arts are encouraged in Byzantium, just as they were in ancient Greece—including the Arts of Reading and Philosophy.”
The Persian laughed. “That’s the story Byzantium tells. I for one do not believe that any city could be so enlightened. All you Westerners yearn for a Greece that never was—your whole philosophy is based on a need for perfection; a perfection you can never attain because it never existed. Believe me, the gutters of Byzantium still stink!”
“Not so strongly as Persian jealousy,” Simon said, and left before he was called upon to take the argument to its conclusion.
But behind him in the tavern the Persian had not been angered. Instead he was laughing, wiping his mouth with his arm stump.
Simon heard the laughter