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doors were closed and pumps forced water up to a new level.
    The mules didn’t seem to give a shit one way or the other. Theramenes was on the shore with their drivers, leading them as they threaded their way through the maze of freight-canals that led for miles inland, into the heart of central Athens. Matthias and Lugorix stood near Barsine, but she didn’t seem to want company right now. A fact that naturally made Matthias all the more importunate.
    “So who is this guy?” he asked.
    “Someone who’s going to help us,” replies Barsine.
    “A friend?”
    “No.”
    “Then why do you think he’s going to help us?”
    “He works for a friend. Now please, be quiet.”
    “Of course. It’s just that—”
    “What?”
    “—you told us our job was to keep you safe.”
    “So?”
    “So I’m just trying to make sure we’re doing that.”
    “You might want to think about ducking”—this as she did so herself.
    “What?”—but Lugorix was already pushing Matthias down to make sure that the low roof that was sweeping in toward them didn’t brain his friend. Barsine looked at them like they were a pair of clowns—then climbed below deck, leaving Matthias more than a little nonplussed.
    “That little minx—”
    “Never mind that,” said Lugorix, “what the hell is this place?”
    They were in a cavernous cellar, the roof sloping up to a vaulted ceiling. Wooden gates slid into place behind them. Torches slotted into grooves on the wall cast a flickering light on a stone jetty in one corner—and on the iron staircase that rose from it, into the room’s ceiling. The boat slowed, nudging up against the jetty. Theramenes unhitched the mules and climbed up onto the deck.
    “So you’re the hired help,” he said.
    “Sounds like you are too,” said Matthias.
    But Theramenes just smiled. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”
    “Where are we?”
    “A private residence.”
    “Not one of Athens’ fortresses?”
    “Come with me,” said the man.
     

Chapter Four
    W earily, Eumenes climbed the stairs to the top of the battlements. It was just before morning, and the wind off the Mediterranean seemed to cut right through his cloak. Strange how chilly it could be along the coast, even in the midst of summer. Back on the trek to Siwah, Eumenes had thought he’d never mind being cold again. Now, standing on the battlements of Tyre once more, the wind tearing at him like a living thing, he could scarcely recollect the heat of the desert.
    But he’d never forget that oasis.
    He looked around. Battlements and towers stretched all around him, encasing acre upon acre of ruins and wrecked buildings. Tyre was a city-fortress that had stood on an island just off the coast of Syria. Though it wasn’t much of a city anymore. And now it wasn’t an island either. Before striking east into Persia, Alexander’s army had built an artificial promontory across the narrow channel that separated it from the mainland—had dumped tons upon tons of rocks and silt into that channel so as to drag their war-machines across and batter down the walls. It had been one of the most epic sieges ever—and the slaughter that followed had been even more thorough than that which had taken place at Alcibiadia. Eumenes remembered well the lines of wooden crosses stretching down the shoreline, a captured defender of Tyre nailed to each one, the stench and screams stretching off to the horizon…
    “All because he wanted to sacrifice at that accursed temple,” said a voice.
    Eumenes turned to see Harpalus stepping from the shadow of a ruined tower. The treasurer looked exhausted, his beard unkempt, dark circles under his eyes. Small wonder, as his work had doubled since the sack of Egypt. And Eumenes knew just how hard Harpalus had already been laboring under the weight of sifting through the Persian finances. When the Macedonian expeditionary force had first crossed into Asia, Harpalus’ job was reasonably simple: ensure what little money