Elric to Rescue Tanelorn - Michael Moorcock [66]
“But he must be stopped,” Simon said. “Have you no means of stopping him?”
“For months we have tried to fight the forces of evil, without success. We have almost given up and wait for the coming of Darkness.”
“I believe I know what can be done,” Simon said, “and it will be a cleaner method than that used by any of you. With your aid I must get to Babylon—and with your aid I will do what I must.”
“Very well, my friend,” Abaris said, “tell me what you need.”
Kettle-drums beat and brazen trumpets sounded. The dust swelled into the heated air before the feet of Alexander’s armies. Coarse soldiers’ voices bellowed orders and the captains rode in military pomp at the head of their armies. Plumes of dyed horse-hair bobbed bright beneath the sun, horses stamped, bedecked in trappings of blue and red and yellow, bronze armour glinted like gold and shields clashed against javelins, lances rose like wheat above the heads of the marching men, their tips bright and shining.
Hard-faced warriors moved in ordered ranks—men from Macedonia, Thrace, Greece, Bactria, Babylon, Persia, Assyria, Arabia, Egypt and the Hebrew nations.
Millions of fighting men. Millions of souls trained for slaying and destruction.
And ordering them, one man—Alexander the Great. Alexander in his hawklike helm of gold, standing on the steps of the Temple of Baal in Babylon and readying his hosts for the final conquest. Alexander in the trappings of a Persian monarch, absolute ruler of the civilized world. In his right hand a gleaming sword, in his left the sceptre of the law-giver. In his body, possessing it, flowing through it, dominating it—black evil. Ahriman, Master of Darkness, soon to commit the absolute crime—the destruction of Law, the birth of the Dark Millennium.
Around Babylon, mighty armies were camped and it was easy for Simon to enter the city, for many mercenaries had flocked to fight beneath Alexander’s banner.
Wrapped around the Thracian was what seemed to be a simple stained black soldier’s cloak, but inside, lining it, was richer stuff marked with curious symbols. The Cloak of the Magi, it served to ward off evil and kept Simon, for the time being, safe from Ahriman’s attentions.
That day he stood in the square surrounding the Temple of Baal and heard Ahriman speak through Alexander. It was dangerous for him to do this, he knew, but he had to see the man again.
Alexander addressed the populace.
“People of Babylon, my warriors, the morrow sees the start of our final conquests. Soon no spot of soil, no drop of ocean shall be independent of our Empire. I, Jupiter-Ammon, have come to Earth to cleanse it of heretics, to destroy unbelievers and bring the new age to the world. Those who murmur against me shall die. Those who oppose me shall suffer torments and will wish to die. Those who would halt my plans—they shall never die but will be sent living to Hades. Now the armies are marshaled. Already we control most of the world, save for a few patches to the north and a few to the east. Within months these, also, will be ours. Worship us, my people, for Zeus has returned from Olympus, born of a woman named Olympias, father of the son, son and father are One. We are Jupiter-Ammon and our will is divine!”
The people screamed their exultation at these words and bowed low before the man-god who stood so proud above them.
Only Simon remained standing, clad in his bagging and dusty cloak, his face thin and his eyes bright. He stared up at Alexander who saw him almost immediately, opened his mouth to order the unbeliever destroyed, and then closed it again.
For long moments the two men stared into one another’s eyes—the one representing total evil, the other representing the forces of Light. In that great, hushed city