Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [53]
“So you wish to join my army. Hano recommends you as a fighting man—suggests you join my staff. I choose my officers with care, Simon of Byzantium.”
“I wish only a trial, sire.”
“You shall have it.”
Alexander studied the letter again.
“You’re from Byzantium, I note. My father Philip was repulsed by that city some years ago—but that does not mean I can have no love for the city—perhaps the contrary. It’s well known I disliked him and can admire a city which withstood his attack.” Alexander smiled again. “Though she did not hold out for long against Philip’s son, did she?”
“No, sire.”
Alexander had an almost tangible vitality, but he was evidently unwell. This ailment was not solely confined to his body, either, Simon felt.
Alexander mused, caressing the little amulet.
“I have need of a herald—a man who can travel between wherever I am campaigning and the capital of Macedonia.”
“I thought Persia was your base these days, sire.”
“You’ve been listening to Greek and Macedonian criticism, no doubt. They say I’ve forsaken my own lands for the fleshpots and honours of the East. That’s a lie. It is too far to travel back always to Pela. Persia offers a better base for my operations. There are still a few acres of the world left for me to conquer, Simon—and they all lie eastwards.”
Alexander sank back into his silks, eyeing the Thracian.
“You’ll serve my mother and myself as a messenger.”
Simon put his hand to his lips and said courteously: “I had rather hoped to go with the army, sire.”
Alexander frowned slightly. “And so you will, of course. No doubt there’ll be fighting for you—and new knowledge. I’m pleased that you’re literate. Most of my captains are chosen for several qualities—courage, loyalty—and learning. You appear to have courage and learning—but I must find out about your loyalty, you understand.”
Simon nodded. “That is logical, sire.”
“Good, then—” Alexander broke off as the doors of the chamber opened behind Simon. The Thracian turned to stare at the door.
A vizier, in long cloth-of-gold robes, hurried into the room.
He prostrated himself before the king’s bed.
“Son of Zeus,” he mumbled, “a message.”
“Is it secret?”
“No, sire—they say it is already common knowledge.”
“Then speak—what is it?” Alexander propped himself into a sitting position again.
“A massacre, sire—in Lonarten—a troop of your Macedonian horse went berserk, killed many hundreds of women and children. There are rumours of cannibalism and unhealthy rites…” The vizier stopped as a smile crossed Alexander’s sensuous lips. “The people are asking for your interference—for compensation.”
Alexander smiled again. Simon was sickened by the sight. The king could be seen to grip hold of the bed-clothes as if attempting to control himself. He groaned once, slightly.
With effort he said: “We must call a halt to—we must stop…” Then he flung back his handsome head and bellowed with laughter. It was a laughter totally evil, a horrible, malicious joy which seethed around the room, echoing and roaring in Simon’s horrified ears.
“Seize the complainers,” Alexander shouted, “we’ll sell them as eunuchs to the harems of Turkey. Teach them that the ways of a god are not the ways of a mere king—teach them not to question the word or actions of the Son of Zeus!”
Hurriedly, the vizier backed out of the room.
Simon, forgetful for his own safety, leaned forward and shouted into Alexander’s twisted face:
“You are mad—for your own sake do not let this massacre continue. Your unruly troops will cause a revolution—you will lose your empire.”
Alexander’s eyes opened even wider. A hand leapt from the silks and furs and seized Simon’s ear. The mouth curled and even teeth moved as Alexander snarled:
“For you I will invent a death!”
Simon grasped the wrist, attempting to wrest himself from Alexander’s grip. He was sickened, trembling and shaken by the strength in one so evidently ill. He felt the presence of something more than common insanity. What had changed the pleasant, practical soldier into this manifestation