THE GREATER CONQUEROR

CHAPTER ONE

HE FELT HE was much more than one man. Not one god, even, but many…There seemed to be a hundred other entities writhing within him. Writhing to release themselves. Every limb, every projection of bone seemed to be part of another being.

He lay on the fur-strewn bed, sweating, dominated by movements in his mind and body which he was incapable of controlling. Alexander the Great groaned in torment.

         

The buxom Corinthian woman spat into the rushes on the floor of the tavern.

“That for the God-King!”

But the silence around her put a stop to her enlarging the theme. The Thracian known as Simon of Byzantium lifted his bronze cup, the sleeve of his silk-trimmed jerkin falling back down his brown arm, and sucked sweet Persian wine into his throat. He sensed the discomfort the other roisterers felt towards the woman and, because he could be cautious, dropped his arm from her thick waist and pushed her from him.

He looked down his long nose. His scarred face moved and he smiled as he addressed an old Persian soldier.

“You say you were in the army Darius led against Alexander?”

“That’s right—a charioteer. His cavalry ran rings round us.”

“What did you think of him?”

“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 as he crossed the dim Square of the Bazaar, almost deserted of merchants and customers. The sun was still setting. It was nearly curfew. A few merchants baling their goods looked up as he strode, a tall, gaunt, fighting man, in smooth old leather, towards the Street of the Bronzeworkers where he had a friend.

Around him, golden Babylon squatted like an ancient monster, containing all knowledge, all secrets, her stepped houses, palaces and temples soaking the last of the sun into their burnished hides. He walked up the steeply rising street and came at length to a small white house without windows. He knocked.

For a while he waited patiently as darkness came. Eventually bolts were withdrawn on the other side of the door and it was opened. An eye gleamed. The door opened wider.

Wizened Hano smiled welcomingly. “Come in, Simon. So you reached our splendid Babylon!”

Simon stepped into the house. It was very dark, overhot, with the unpleasantly bitter smell of metal. The old Phoenician clutched at his arm and led him down the dark passage.

“Will you be staying in Babylon, my boy?” Hano said, and then, before Simon could answer this question: “How’s the sword?”

“I intend to see Alexander,” Simon said, disliking the old man’s touch though he liked Hano greatly. “And the sword is excellent, has kept its edge in a dozen fights—I intend to hire it to Alexander.”

Hano’s grip tightened as they entered a dark, smoky room, a red brazier gleaming in its centre. Around the smoke-stained walls were weapons—swords, shields, lances—and several couches and small tables were scattered on the floor. The smoke caught in Simon’s lungs and he coughed it out. Hano pointed to a couch. “Sit down, Simon.” He shuffled towards his own couch on the other side of the brazier, stretched himself at full length and scratched his hooked nose.

“Alexander has many swords.”

“I know—but if you granted me a favour it might facilitate my meeting him.”

“I owe you friendship and more,” Hano said, “for you saved me from an unpleasant death that time in Thebes nine years ago. But though I sense what you want of me I am reluctant to agree to it.”

“Why?”

“An old man’s caution, maybe, but the stories I’ve been hearing of late have been disquieting. Alexander claims himself son of Zeus, Jupiter-Ammon. Others say that the Persian evil one Ahriman possesses him. All or none of this may be true—but every oracle from here to Pela is prophesying turmoil and trouble for the world and the king who rules it. Perhaps you would be wiser to join some ordinary caravan traveling east?” Hano pulled back his woolen robe, revealing a pale and unlovely leg. He poised his wrinkled hand and then almost hurled it at a spot on his leg and began to scratch at the place with his talons of nails.

“I’m sick of this prattle of gods and demons. Can no-one be content simply to believe in men and what men could be if they ceased blaming their misfortunes on unseen gods rather than on their own ineffectiveness? Life’s not easy, it is a hard task to live it well and with grace—but, by Hades, let’s not complicate it with deities and water-nymphs!”

Simon spat into the brazier which flared and spluttered.

Hano scratched at his thigh, drawing back more of his robe to do so, revealing a greater expanse of unhealthy flesh.

“I have seen supernatural manifestations of evil, my boy.”

“You have seen what a muddled brain wished you to see.”

“What matter? Now, let’s end this conversation before you yell more heresies and have us both arrested.”

“Heresy and treason combined if Alexander’s chest-puffing claim be true.” Simon looked away from the old man’s thin legs and stared into the brazier.

Hano changed the subject.

“In Utopia,” he said to Simon, “you’d yet be seeking further perfection. You call yourself a realist, Simon—perfection is not a reality.”

“Realities can be created,” said Simon.

“True,” Hano agreed. “But by the same logic, realities can be made unreal—unrealities made real. What if there were supernatural beings? How would you fit them into your theory?”

“The situation will never arise.”

“Let us hope so.”

The Phoenician turned his old twisted face towards Simon. The brazier light stained it a reddish brown, showing the wrinkles of mingled cynicism, fatalism and good nature. Hano said at length: “Very well.”

He got up and moved about the crowded room taking a pot from one shelf, a skin of wine from another.

Soon the smell of herbs came from the pot on the brazier as Hano brewed wine for his guest.

“You’ll help,” Simon said.

“Alexander owes me a favour. But he has strange ways of repaying debts and I’d not normally be foolish enough to remind him of this one.”

“What did you do for him?”

“Set the handle of a star-metal blade with black opals.”

“That was a favour!” Simon laughed.

Hano scowled, but genially. “Know you not what that meant? It meant he could not directly handle iron or anything likely to conduct its force to his body. Black opal is one of the few gems which will serve to negate the flow.”

“So?”

“So Alexander has a weakness. Iron will harm him.”

“If I had such a secret I would kill the man who held it,” Simon said reflectively.

“Not if you were Alexander and the man was dear to Olympias.”

“You know Queen Olympias!”

“Olympias wishes me kept alive so I can feed her with secrets.”

“Dark secrets, I’ll warrant, if the stories of her are half-true.”

“They do not touch the real truth about her.”

“Does she really sport with snakes at these rites?”

“Aye—and black goats are present too.”

Simon swore.

Hano handed him a cup of hot wine. As he drank he said: “I’m impatient to meet the God-King—how will you help?”

“I’ll give you a letter and a token to take to Alexander. But be wary, my boy. Be wary.”

CHAPTER TWO

Though he rarely admitted it, the idea of a supernatural world of gods and spirits disturbed Simon. Had it been practicable he might have become a militant atheist but instead he kept his opinions secret for the most part and did his utmost not to question them or even think of them.

When he reached the great golden palace of Alexander he paused and stared up at it with admiration. It was illuminated by hundreds of torches many of which, on long poles, surrounded the palace. Others flared on its many ramparts.

Two guards came forward. They were Babylonians in high helmets with oiled hair and beards. Their javelins threatened him.

In poor Babylonian Simon said:

“I come to see King Alexander—I have a token and a letter for him.”

They treated him with some respect, though they divested him of his sword and led him to the main gate where, after conversation, he was admitted.

He was made to wait several times, being studied and questioned by a variety of viziers and minions of the king, but at last he was ushered into a large chamber.

Big windows let in the flickering torchlight. A great bed of brass, silver, and gold, heaped with silks and furs, was in the centre of the room.

         

Alexander was sitting up in bed. He had been sweating, Simon could see. His nose told him the same story.

The odour, in fact, was bad. Far worse than ordinary perspiration. Simon couldn’t place the smell.

With a degree of nervousness Simon approached the huge bed.

Suddenly, King Alexander grinned and stuck out a handsome hand.

“You have a letter for me, I hear—and a token?”

“I have, sire.” Simon gave the letter and the little talisman to Alexander, studying the king’s strange face. In a way it was boyish, in another ancient and sensuous. He had a long nose and thick lips, heavily lidded eyes and brown, curly hair. Simon was taken aback by the king’s lack of ceremony, by his friendly grin. Was this the God-King? The spawn of evil?

Alexander read the letter quickly, nodding to himself.

“Did Hano tell you of my debt to him?”

“No, sire,” Simon said tactfully.

“He has many secrets, Hano—but he’s an old man and, in his generosity, keeps few to himself, I’ve heard.”

“He seems curiously tight-lipped, sire,” Simon replied, anxious for his friend’s life, “and even I who saved his life one time in Thebes can never get a full reply to any question I ask him.”

Alexander looked up sharply, staring Simon in the face with peculiarly wide eyes.

“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 of evil? How could such different qualities exist in one body? Terror clouded his mind.

With a wrench he was free of the king’s grasp and backed panting away from him.

“They said you were Ahriman’s spawn—and I did not believe them,” he gasped.

Alexander grimaced, flung back the bed-clothes and leapt to the ground, advancing towards Simon, with hands outstretched.

“I am Zeus’s son—born of god and mortal to rule the world. Abase yourself, heretic, for I have the power to send you to Hades!”

“All men have that power,” Simon said, turned and ran for the great doors, tugged them open and, before he could be stopped, fled down the shouting corridors, blind to everything but the need to escape from the screaming madman behind him.

He remembered little of the flight, of the two fights, in the first of which he somehow gained a weapon, of his breathless running through the streets of Babylon with hordes of soldiers seeking him out.

He ran.

He had run himself virtually to death when several warriors pinned him in a blind alley and he turned, snarling like an animal to defend himself. Crouching, sword raised, he waited for them as they cautiously advanced.

         

They had not expected such ferocity. He had cut the first soldier down in a trice and sliced the flesh from another’s arm.

In front of him, as if superimposed on the real scene before him, was the great, sensuous head of Alexander still roaring with crazy laughter.

Simon had seen madmen many times. But Alexander had more than madness. He slashed with his sword and missed his target, fell forward, rolled on his back, brought his sword across his face to deflect a blade which had hurtled down through the confused night. He edged back, flung himself sideways, slashing, scrambled up and brought the edge of his sword up to chop a man’s jugular.

Then he was running again, every limb aching, but a terrible fear, a fear of more than death or torture, driving, driving him onward to escape.

When the silent, dark-robed men appeared out of the night and surrounded him he cut at one but his sword seemed to meet metal, his hand went numb and the blade fell to the stones of the streets.

Alexander’s face rose before him, laughing, laughing. The roaring, evil merriment filled his head, then his whole body until it seemed that he, Simon, was Alexander, that he was enjoying the bloody joke, the evil, malignant glee pouring wildly from his shaking body.

Then peace of a kind, and hazy, mysterious dreams where he saw strange shapes moving through the smoke from a million red and glowing braziers.

         

Simon felt a hard, smooth surface beneath his back.

He opened his eyes warily.

A lean, white, thin-lipped face looked kindly down at him.

“I am Abaris,” he said.

“Simon of Byzantium,” said the Thracian.

“You have witnessed darkness?” It was only half a question.

“Yes,” Simon replied, bemused.

“We are men of light. The Magi welcome you. You are safe here.”

“Magi? They are priests in Persia—but you’re not Persian.”

“That is so.”

“Abaris? There is an Abaris of legend—a wizard, was he not—a priest of Apollo who rode on an arrow?”

The Magi made no reply to this, simply smiled.

“You have incurred the wrath of Alexander. How long would you say you had to live?”

“A strange question. I’d say as long as my wits were sharp enough to evade the searchings of his soldiers.”

“You would be wrong.”

Simon pushed himself upright on the wide bench and looked around him. Two other priests sat regarding him from across the bare room. Daylight filtered in from a hole in the ceiling.

“Do I really owe you my life?”

“We think you do—but you are in no debt. We wish we could give such concrete aid to all enemies of Alexander.”

“I am not his enemy—he is mine.”

“You have witnessed what he is—can you still say that?”

Simon nodded. “I am his enemy,” he agreed and then amended this with: “Or at least the enemy of what he represents.”

“You are exact—we also are the enemies of what Alexander represents.”

Simon put his head on one side and smiled slightly. “Ah—let us be careful. He is insane, that is all. He represents material evil, not supernatural.”

Briefly, Abaris looked impatiently away, frowning. Then his features resumed their earlier look.

“It is a bold thing to be an unbeliever in these times.”

“Bold or not—it is what I am.” Simon swung his legs off the bench. He felt incredibly weak.

Abaris said: “We Magi worship Ormuzd. Simply—Alexander represents Ahriman.”

“These are the twin facets of your single deity are they not?” Simon said. He nodded. “I know a little about your cult—it’s cleaner than most. You worship Fire, Sun and Light—with a minimum of ritual.”

“True. A man who is confident in his soul needs little ritual.”

Simon was satisfied by this.

“We would be grateful if you would ally yourself with us, the Magi,” Abaris said quietly. “In return we will protect you from Alexander’s minions as best we can.”

“I told you—and I do not wish to seem ungrateful—my wits will keep me safe from the Macedonian’s warriors.”

“We refer to his supernatural minions.”

Simon shook his head. “I respect your beliefs—but I cannot accept them personally.”

Abaris leaned forward and said urgently, softly:

“Simon, you must aid us. Alexander and his mother are both possessed. For years we have been aware of this. For years we have attempted to fight the forces possessing them—and we are losing. You have seen how Ahriman controls Alexander. You must aid us!”

Simon said: “You have cloaked the simple fact of Alexander’s madness in a shroud of supernatural speculation.”

Abaris shook his head, saying nothing. Simon continued:

“I have seen many men go mad with riches and power—Alexander is another. When he dies his good works will survive but the evil will be eliminated by time.”

“You are naïve, young man. Why, Achilles believed that…” Abaris bit his lip and lapsed into silence.

“Achilles? He died a thousand years ago. How do you know what he believed?”

Abaris turned away. “Of course, I could not know,” he said. His eyes were hooded.

“You give me cause to think you really are the Abaris of legend,” Simon smiled. He was joking. But even to his ears the joke rang true.

Abaris said: “Can a man live for more than a thousand years?”

“No,” Simon said, “no.” He said it almost savagely, for it was what he wished to believe.

Out there, in a palace of Babylon, there was evil, he thought. But it was not, could not be—must not be supernatural.

Abaris now said:

“Alexander has reigned almost thirteen years—a mystic number. Our oracles prophesied that the turning point would come after thirteen years of rule. Now, as we fear, Alexander and the forces which act through him will bring an unchecked reign of evil to the world—or else, and the chance is small, he will be stopped.”

“You wish me to aid you in this. I must dissent. To help you I would have to believe you—that I cannot do.”

Abaris seemed to accept this. When he next spoke it was in a detached, trancelike voice.

“Ahriman—the multiplicity of Ahrimans whom we designate by the one name—selected Olympias many years ago. He needed a vessel through which to work and, at that time, no mortal had been born who would serve Ahriman’s purpose. So he took possession of poor Olympias. Philip, that great and wronged man, went regularly to the Isle of Samothrace on pilgrimage and, one year, Olympias made it her business to be there also. A love potion was all she needed. Philip was enamoured of her. They had a son—Alexander…”

Simon said wearily: “This is mere gossip such as old women make in the markets.”

“Ormuzd protect you if you ever learn the truth,” was all Abaris said.

Simon rose shakily. “If there is anything I can do to repay you—some material act, perhaps—I am very willing.”

Abaris thought for a moment. Then he took a scroll from his robe. He unrolled it and glanced over the weird script. It was not Persian, Simon knew, but what it was he could not tell.

Abaris handed the scroll to Simon. “We’ll furnish you with a horse and a disguise. Will you go to Pela for us? Will you deliver a message to our brothers?”

“Willingly,” Simon said, though he was aware that to journey to the capital of Macedonia would be courting danger.

“They live in secret,” Abaris told Simon, “but we will tell you how to find them. Also we will furnish you with weapons.”

“I’d be grateful for that,” Simon smiled.

“We’ll give you a day for resting and allowing the herbs we’ll give you to drink to do their work—then you can start off. You should have little trouble here, for our magic will protect you and we know a secret way out of the city.”

Simon lay back on the bench. “Healing herbs will be very welcome,” he said, “and something to help me take a dreamless sleep…”

CHAPTER THREE

Outside, the courtiers glanced at one another, not daring to enter the room where a man groaned.

A short, clever-looking man in ornate war-gear turned to a calm-faced, sensitive man.

“Why was he so anxious to apprehend the Thracian, I wonder, Anaxarchus?”

The sensitive man shook his head. “I have no idea. I hear he was from my home city, Abdera, before he went to Byzantium. For all my people say that the folk of Abdera are stupid, some very clever men were born there.”

“And you, of course, are one,” the soldier smiled ironically.

“I must be—I am a philosopher attached to Alexander’s train,” Anaxarchus said.

The warrior took several nervous paces up the corridor, wheeled around, cursing. “By the Salamander’s breath, are we never to finish our conquests? What is wrong with Alexander, Anaxarchus? How long has he been like this? Rumours came to Egypt, but I discounted them.”

“He is ill, Ptolemy, that is all,” Anaxarchus said, but he did not believe his own words.

“That is all! Even if I had not heard the Oracle of Libya speak of terrible strifings in this world and the others I would be troubled. Things are happening. Anaxarchus—doom-clouds are covering the world.”

“Gloomy, Ptolemy—he is only sick. He has a fever.”

Another awful groan came from behind the doors, a terrified and terrible groan of awful agony. Neither did it seem to represent physical pain but some deeper agony of spirit.

“An unusual fever,” Ptolemy said savagely. He strode towards the doors, but Anaxarchus blocked his passage.

“No, Ptolemy—you would not emerge with your sanity intact, I warn you.”

Ptolemy looked at the scholar for a moment, then turned and almost ran down the corridor.

         

Inside the locked room, the man—or god—groaned terribly. It was as if the bones of his face were breaking apart to form individual beings. What was he? Even he could not be sure. For years he had been certain of his own power, confident that his greatness was his own. But now, it was obvious to him, poor, tormented Alexander, that he was nothing—nothing but a vessel, an agent through which many forces worked—and even those forces were united under a common name. He knew then, also, that they had entered many others in the past, that, if his strength broke, they would enter many more until their work was done.

Part of him begged for death.

Part of him attempted to fight that which was in him.

Part of him planned—crime.

Simon, cloaked and armed, clamped his knees against his steed’s back and galloped over the sparsely covered plains of Babylon, the folds of his cloak flying behind him like the wings of a stooping hawk.

The horse snorted, its sturdy legs flashing, its eyes big and its heart pounding.

For two hours, Simon had ridden in safety.

But now the cold night air above him was alive with dreadful sounds.

He drew his sword from its scabbard and rode on, telling himself that the noises were the flapping wings of vultures.

Then a shape came swooping in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a pale, human face. But it was not entirely human. Snakes twined on its head, blood dripped from its eyes. The horse came to a sudden halt, reared whinnying.

Simon closed his eyes against the sight.

“The herbs the Magi gave me have induced visions,” he told himself aloud in shaking tones.

But he could not believe it. He had seen them.

The Eumenides—the Furies of legend!

For the face had been that of a woman.

Now the sounds came closer, ominous. Simon urged the frightened horse onwards. Sharp female faces with serpents in place of hair, blood streaming from malevolent eyes, hands like talons, swooped and cackled about him. It was a nightmare.

Then, quite suddenly, there came a dull booming sound from the distance, like the faraway sound of surf. Nearer and nearer it came until the night opened to brightness, a strange golden light which seemed to break through the blackness, splintering it into fragments.

The winged creatures were caught in the glare, wheeled about uncertainly, shrieking and keening.

They were gone.

The light faded.

         

Simon rode on. And still he insisted to himself that what he had witnessed was hallucination. Something done to his weary brain by the potion the Magi had given him.

The rest of the night was full of nauseous sound, glimpses of things which flew or wriggled. But, convinced that he dreamed, horrified yet keeping close hold on sanity, Simon pushed the steed onwards towards Pela.

Horse and man rested for only a few hours at a time. The journey took days until, at length, eyes sunken in his head from tiredness, face grey and gaunt and mind numb he arrived at the Macedonian capital and sought out the Magi in the clay-built slums of the city.

Massiva, head of the secret order in Pela, was a tall, handsome Numidian. He greeted Simon warmly.

“We were informed of your coming and did our best, when you came close enough, to ward off the dangers which Alexander’s minions sent against you.”

Simon did not reply to this. Silently, he handed over the scroll.

Massiva opened it, read it, frowning.

“This we did not know,” he said. “Olympias has sent aid to Alexander in Babylon.”

The priest offered no explanation, so Simon did not ask for one.

Massiva shook his head wearily. “I do not understand how one human can endure so much,” he said, “but then she has other aid than human…”

“What are these stories about her?” Simon asked, thinking that he might at last find some truth where before he had heard nothing but rumour and hints.

“The simple facts concerning her activities are common knowledge here,” Massiva told him. “She is an ardent initiate of a number of mystery cults, all worshipping the dark forces. The usual unpleasant rites, secret initiations, orgiastic celebrations. Three of the main ones, supposedly having no communication with one another, are the cults of Orpheus, Dionysius and Demeter. It’s hinted that Alexander was conceived at one of these rites. In a way that is the truth—for Olympias was selected by the Dark One when she was a girl participating in the rites of a similar cult.”

Simon shook his head impatiently at this. “I asked you for facts—not speculation.”

Massiva looked surprised. “I indulged in no speculation, my friend. Why, the whole city lives in fear of Olympias and her friends and servants. Evil is so thick here that ordinary folk can hardly breathe for its stink.”

Simon said shortly: “Well, I hope the information is useful to you. I’ve paid my debt, at least. Now, can you recommend a tavern where I can stay?”

“I can recommend none well, in this cursed city. You might try the Tower of Cimbri. It’s comfortable, so I’ve heard. But be wary, take iron to bed with you.”

“I’d do that in any event,” Simon grinned, “with Alexander after my blood and me staying in his home city.”

“You’re courageous, Thracian—do not be foolish.”

“Don’t worry, friend.” Simon left the house, remounted his horse and rode it towards the tavern quarter, eventually locating the Tower of Cimbri.

He was about to enter when he heard the sound of running from an alley which ran along the side of the building. Then a girl screamed. Drawing his sword he ran into the alley and, because he had become so hardened to sights of horror, hardly noticed the misshapen creatures menacing a frightened girl, save that they were armed and evidently powerful. The girl’s eyes were round with fear and she was half-fainting. One of the twisted men put out a blunt paw to seize her, but wailed out its pain as Simon’s sword caught it in the shoulder blades.

The others turned, reaching for their weapons. Simon cut two down before they could draw their swords. The fourth swung at Simon but was too clumsy. He died in a moment, his neck cloven.

Instead of thanking him, the girl stared down at the corpses in terror.

“You fool,” she muttered.

“Fool?” Simon was taken aback.

“You have killed four of Queen Olympias’s retainers—did you not recognize the livery—or their kind?”

“I’m a stranger in Pela.”

“Then leave now—or be doomed.”

“No, I must see that you are safe. Quickly—I have a horse waiting in the street.” He supported her with one arm though she protested and helped her into the saddle.

He got up behind her.

“Where do you live?”

“Near the west wall—but hurry, by Hera, or they’ll find the corpses and give chase.”

Following her directions, Simon guided the horse through the evening half-light.

They came to a pleasant, large house, surrounded by a garden which in turn was enclosed in high walls. They rode through the gates and she dismounted, closing them behind her. An old man appeared in the doorway to the courtyard.

“Camilla? What’s happening?”

“Later, father. Have the servants stable the horse and make sure all the gates are locked—Olympias’s retainers attempted to kidnap me again. This man saved me from them—but four are dead.”

“Dead? Gods!” The old man pursed his lips. He was dressed in a loose toga and had a stern, patrician face. He was evidently a nobleman, though his black-haired daughter was most unlike him.

Quickly, Simon was ushered into the house. Servants were summoned bringing bread, cheese and fruit. He ate gratefully. As he ate he told as much of his personal story as he wished to divulge. The patrician, Merates, listened without commenting.

When Simon had finished, Merates made no direct remark but instead said, half to himself:

“If King Philip had not continued his line, there would be peace and achievement in this war-wrecked world. I curse the name of Alexander—and the she-snake who bore him. If Alexander had been left to his father’s teaching, he might well have carried on the great plan of Philip. But his warped mother put different ideas into his head—turned him against his father. Now there is evil on every wind, it blows east and west, south and north—and the hounds of darkness rend, slaver and howl in Alexander’s bloody wake.”

Camilla shuddered. She had changed her street robe into a loose, diaphanous gown of blue silk. Her long, black, unbound hair fell down her back, gleaming like dark wine.

She said: “Now, though Alexander’s off on his conquests, Olympias terrorizes Pela more than ever before. All comely youths and girls are sought out to take part in her ghastly rituals. For ten or more months she has tried to encourage me to join until, at last, her patience failed and she attempted to kidnap me. She will know that someone killed the servitors—but she need not know it was you, Simon.”

Simon nodded mutely. He found it difficult to speak as he breathed in the girl’s dark beauty, intoxicated by it as he had never before been.

         

They were troubled times. Times of high deeds and feats of learning; times of obscene evil and wild daring. Alexander mirrored his times. With one breath he would order a massacre, with another honour a conquered city for its courage in withstanding him. His great horse Bucephalus bore his bright-armoured master across the known world. Fire destroyed ancient seats of civilization, wise men were slain and innocents drowned in the flood tide of his conquests. Yet he caused new cities to be raised and libraries to be built. Men of learning followed in his train—this pupil of Aristotle—and he was an enigma to all. Greece, Persia, Babylonia, Assyria, Egypt, all fell to him. Four mighty races, four ancient civilizations bore Alexander’s yoke. People had speculated on whether he was a force for darkness or enlightenment—whether he would rend the world to fragments or unite it in lasting peace. An enigma.

But now the year was 323 BC and Alexander was aged thirty-two. He had ruled over twelve years—soon he would have reigned thirteen…

In the dark caverns of creation, existing within a multiplicity of dimensions, vital evil thrived, chuckling and plotting—crime.

For thirteen years had the forces of Light and Darkness warred in poor Alexander’s soul and body, unbeknownst to the proud, grandiose and arrogant world-conqueror. But now the stars proclaimed that a certain time had come.

And Alexander suffered…

         

Riders galloped towards the corners of the world. Bright banners whipped in the wind as armies sped across the lands around the Mediterranean. Ships groaned with the weight of armoured soldiers. Blood flowed like wine and wine like water. Corpses roasted in guttering castles and the earth shook to the coming of Alexander’s cavalry.

And now messengers rode to the camps of his captains, recalling them. They were needed. The final conquest was to be made. But it would not be Alexander’s triumph. The triumph would belong to a greater conqueror. Some called him Ahriman.

Hastily now Alexander’s captains mounted their chariots and headed towards Babylon. Many had to cross oceans, continents.

Every oracle prophesied doom—some said for Alexander, some said for the world. Never, they said, had evil clouded the world as much as now.

Ahriman had prepared the world through Alexander.

Soon the powers of Light would be destroyed for ever and, though it might take many more centuries of completion, Ahriman could begin his plans of conquest and, finally, destruction.

There were more vehicles for his plans.

CHAPTER FOUR

Simon lazed back on a bench and ran his hand over Camilla’s warm shoulders.

“Do not the heroes of legend always claim such reward from the maidens they rescue?” he asked mockingly.

She smiled at him affectionately.

“The Camilla of legend, if you remember, had nought to do with men. I’ve a mind to emulate her.”

“A sad waste.”

“For you, perhaps, but not for me…”

Simon pretended to sigh. “Very well,” he said, “I can see I shall have to wait until you eventually succumb to my undoubted attraction.”

Again she smiled. “You have been here a week and I have not fallen yet.”

“It was good of your father to give me the position of Captain of his Bodyguard, particularly since he is risking arrest if Olympias should ever discover that I slew her servants.”

“Merates is a good and wise man,” Camilla said seriously, “one of the few left in Pela, these days. He was close to Philip and admired him greatly. But Philip’s son would have nothing to do with his father’s councilors so now Merates lives in quiet retirement.”

Simon had already learned that Camilla was the foster daughter of Merates, that she had been born to a loved and trusted Paeonian slave who had died when she was a child.

He had grown to respect the old nobleman and planned, though it was dangerous for him, to stay in Pela and probably settle there. He had already fallen in love with Camilla.

And so he courted her and although she gave him no reason to cease this courtship, on the other hand she did not encourage him overmuch. She knew him for a soldier-of-fortune and a wanderer. Perhaps she wanted to be certain of him.

But they were dark times and Simon, rationalist though he was, could not be unaware of them. He sensed the gathering storm and was restless.

One day as he was instructing a group of slaves in the art of using the shield, Merates came hurrying into the courtyard.

“Simon—a word with you.”

The Thracian propped a sword against the wall and went with Merates into the house.

There were tears in Merates’s eyes when he spoke.

“Camilla is gone. She had to go on an errand in the market—a regular monthly visit to settle our score with the merchants with whom we trade. She has been gone four hours—she is normally gone one…”

Simon’s body grew taut. “Olympias? Do you think…?”

Merates nodded.

Simon turned, went swiftly to his quarters where he buckled on his leather belt bearing the scabbarded sword the Magi had given him.

He flung a blanket over his horse’s back, rode it from the stable, ducking his head beneath the door beam, through the gates of the house and down the streets of Pela to the city centre.

He enquired in the market for her. She had not been seen there for well over two hours. Thinking swiftly, he headed for the slums of the city, dismounted outside a certain door and knocked.

Massiva, the black Numidian priest, answered the door himself. He was dressed like a slave—evidently disguised.

“Come in, Simon. It is good to see you.”

“I wish aid, Massiva. And in return I may be able to help you.”

Massiva ushered him inside.

“What is it?”

“I am certain that Queen Olympias has kidnapped Camilla, Lord Merates’s daughter.”

Massiva’s expression did not change. “It is likely—Camilla is reputed beautiful and a virgin. Olympias seeks such qualities. Either she will corrupt Camilla and force her to take an active part in the rites—or else she will make her take a passive part.”

“Passive? What do you mean?”

“The blood of virgins is needed in several spells.”

Simon shuddered.

“Can you help me? Tell me where I may find her!”

“The Rites of Cottyttia begin tonight. That is where to look.”

“Where do they take place?”

“Come, I will draw you a map. You will most likely perish in this, Simon. But you will be convinced that we have spoken the truth in the past.”

Simon looked at the negro sharply. Massiva’s face was expressionless.

         

They called her Cotys and she was worshipped as a goddess in Thrace, Macedonia, Athens and Corinth. For centuries her name had been connected with licentious revelry—but never had she prospered so well than in Pela where Queen Olympias danced with snakes in her honour. Though only part of a greater Evil One, she flourished and grew on the tormented souls of her acolytes and their victims.

         

The house stood on its own on a hill.

Simon recognized it from Massiva’s description. It was night, silver with rime and moonlight, but there were movements in the shadows and shapes of evil portent. His breath steaming white against the darkness, Simon pressed on up the hill towards the house.

A slave greeted him as he reached the door.

“Welcome—be you Baptae or heretic?”

Baptae, Simon had learned from Massiva, was the name that the worshippers of Cotys called themselves.

“I come to take part in tonight’s Cottyttia, that’s true,” Simon said and slew the slave.

Inside the house, lighted by a single oil-lamp, Simon located the door which opened on reeking blackness. He bent and entered it and soon was creeping downwards, down into the bowels of the hill. The walls of the tunnel were slippery with clammy moss and the air was thick and difficult to breathe. The sharp sound of his sword coming from its scabbard was comforting to Simon.

His sandaled feet slipped on the moss-covered stones of the passage and, as he drew nearer to his goal, his heart thudded in his rib-cage and his throat was tight for he now had something of the emotion he had felt when confronted by Alexander’s insanity.

Now he heard a low chanting, half ecstatic moaning, half triumphant incantation. The sound grew louder, insinuating itself into his ears until he was caught for a moment in the terrible evil ecstasy which the Cottyttian celebrants were feeling. He controlled himself against an urge to flee, the even stronger urge to join them, and continued to advance, the rare steel sword gleaming in his fist. The iron was a comfort, at least, though he still refused to believe that there was any supernatural agency at work.

Almost tangibly the evil swirled about him as he pressed on and here his rational, doubting nature was to his advantage. Without it, he might easily have succumbed.

The chanting swelled into a great roar of evil joy and through it he heard a name being repeated over and over:

“Cotys. Cotys. Cotys. Cotys.”

He was half hypnotized by the sound, stumbled towards a curtain and wrenched it back.

He retreated a pace at what he saw.

The air was thick with incense. Golden light flared from tall black candles on an altar. From the altar rose a pillar and tied to the pillar was Camilla. She had fainted.

But it was not this that sickened him so much as the sight of the things which swarmed about the altar. They were neither men nor women but neuter. Perhaps they had once been men. They were young and good-looking, their hair long and their faces thin, the bones prominent and the eyes flickering with malignant glee. Naked, to one side of the altar, Simon saw an old woman. Her face was that of a woman of sixty, but her body seemed younger. Around it twined great serpents, caressing her. She crooned to them and led the chanting. Young women danced with the neuters, posturing and prancing.

“Cotys. Cotys. Cotys.”

The candles spurted seething light and sent shadows leaping around the walls of the caverns. Then a peculiar golden orange brightness appeared at the top of the column to which Camilla was tied and seemed to twine and coil down the pillar.

Other shapes joined the dancing humans. Twisted shapes with great horns on their heads and the faces of beasts, the hoofs of goats.

         

Simon moved forward, his sword held before him in instinctive protection against the evil in the cavern.

“Cease!” A name came to his lips and he shouted it out: “In the name of Ormuzd—cease!”

A huge swelling of unhuman laughter came from the boiling brightness on the pillar and Simon saw figures form in it. Figures that were man-shaped and seemed to be at the same time part of the structure of a huge face, lined and pouched with a toothless, gaping mouth and closed eyes.

Then the eyes opened and seemed to fix themselves on Simon. The smaller figures writhed about it and it laughed again. Bile was in his throat, his head throbbed, but he gripped the sword and pushed his way through the sweating bodies of the worshippers. They grinned at him maliciously but did not attempt to stop him.

He was lost in the pull of those malicious eyes.

“Ormuzd is too weak to protect thee, mortal,” the mouth said. “Ahriman rules here—and will soon rule the world through his vessel, Alexander.”

Still Simon pushed his way towards the pillar, towards Camilla and the leering face above her.

“Ormuzd will not aid thee, mortal. We are many and stronger. Behold me! What do you see?”

Simon made no reply. He gripped the steel blade tighter and advanced closer.

“Do you see us all? Do you see the one these revelers call Cotys? Do you see the Evil One?”

Simon staggered forwards, the last few paces between him and the entity coiling about the pillar. Olympias now pushed her face forward, the snakes hissing, their forked tongues flickering.

“Go to her, Thracian—my son knows thee—go to her and we’ll have a double sacrifice this night.”

With his free hand, Simon pushed against the scaly bodies of the snakes and sent the woman staggering back.

With trancelike deliberation he cut the bonds that held Camilla to the pillar. But many hands, orange-gold hands, shot out from the column and gripped him in a shuddering, yet ecstatic embrace. He howled and smote at the hands and, at the touch of steel they flickered back again into their scintillating parent body.

Then he felt the clammy hands of the acolytes upon his body. Sensing that he had some advantage, Simon dragged a bunch of herbs from his shirt—herbs which Massiva had given him—and plunged them into the candle flames. A pungent aroma began to come from the flaring herbs and the naked worshippers dropped back. The apparition itself seemed to fade slightly, its light less bright.

Simon sprang at the shape, his sword flashing like silver and passing through the hazy face which snarled and laughed alternately. The sword clanged on the stone of the column. Desperately, he drew back his arm to strike another blow, his whole body weakened. He felt like an old, worn man.

“Ormuzd!” he shouted as he struck again.

Again the face snarled at him; again the golden hands shot out to embrace him so that his body thrilled with terrible weakening joy.

Then Simon felt that he was all his ancestors and a knowledge came to him, the knowledge of darkness and chaos which his forebears had possessed.

And this knowledge, though terrifying, contained within it a further knowledge—the awareness that the Forces of Darkness had been vanquished in the past and could be vanquished again.

This gave him strength. Ahriman-Cotys realized that from somewhere Simon had gained renewed energy and its shape drew in on itself, began to slide down the pillar towards Camilla.

But Simon reached her, tugged her away from the column and onto the ground. Then he drew back his arm and flung the flaming herbs into the face of the apparition.

A horrid growling sound filled the air, and, for a moment, the face faded entirely.

Simon grasped Camilla and fell back through the crowd, slashing at their naked bodies with his bright sword. Blood flowed and faces reappeared, bellowing with laughter.

Many little faces joined in the merriment, piping their mirth and detaching themselves from the greater entity to fall upon the blood of the slain.

Simon observed, with a degree of relief, that the beings could not pass through the smoke from the herbs and, by this time, the whole room was full of the pungent odour.

“Nothing can destroy us, mortal!” Ahriman-Cotys bellowed. “Slay more—give me more! You may escape now—but I will sport with you both soon. The huntsmen of my servitor, Olympias, will hound you across the earth. You cannot escape. And when you are ours—you will both become the most willing of my slaves…”

Simon reached the doorway of the cavern, turned, bearing the insensible Camilla and ran up the slippery tunnel.

Now he knew. Now he could no longer rationalize. He had seen too much.

Now he knew that reason had passed from the world and that the ancient gods had returned to rule once more.

CHAPTER FIVE

The body was strong enough. Ahriman had tested it to his satisfaction. He had given the vessel superhuman strength and vitality which it had used for what it thought were its own purposes.

Alexander, though he possessed little of his own personality now, was ready. Soon entire populations would be the slaves of Ahriman, their bodies bent to him. Darkness such as the world had never known would come. Ormuzd and the Forces of Light would be vanquished for ever.

Ahriman had many facets—many names. Shaitan was another.

         

Now Alexander’s captains gathered. They were loyal to him, would do his bidding—would become Ahriman’s agents in bringing Hell to the surface of the Earth.

323 BC. A time of omens of evil. A turning point in history.

Alexander rose from his bed. He walked like an automaton and called for his slaves. They washed him, dressed him and clad him in his golden armour.

“Hail, Jupiter-Ammon!” they intoned as he strode from the room and walked steadily to the chamber where his generals and advisors awaited him.

Ptolemy stood up as Alexander entered. His master seemed no different, yet there was a strange, detached air about him.

“Greetings, Jupiter-Ammon,” he said bowing low. Normally he refused to designate Alexander by the name of the god—but this time he was wary, remembering perhaps how Alexander had killed his close friend Clitus in Bactria.

Anaxarchus also bowed. The remaining ten did the same.

Alexander seated himself in the middle of the long table. The leather joints of the golden armour groaned as he bent. There was food and maps on the table. He stuffed a bit of bread into his mouth and unrolled a map, chewing. The twelve men waited nervously for him to speak.

Studying the map, Alexander held out his goblet. Ptolemy filled it with wine from a long-necked bottle of brass. Alexander drank it in a single gulp. Ptolemy replenished the cup.

         

Simon and Camilla had fled from Pela. The night was like a clammy cloak about them and lightning split the sky, rain hurling itself like tiny spears against their faces.

Camilla rode slightly behind Simon, following him in a terror-filled flight towards the east.

There was no other direction they might go and Simon needed to find Abaris the Magi and get his help, though Alexander still dwelled in Babylon.

Behind them now they heard the Huntsmen of Olympias—great dogs baying, horns sounding and wild shouts urging the hounds on. And these huntsmen were not mortal—but loaned to Olympias by Ahriman that they both might sport with the fleeing humans.

They caught glimpses of their pursuers—things of legend. Offspring of Cerberus, the three-headed dog which guarded the gates of Hades—dogs with the tails of serpents and with snakes twining round their necks, great, flat, hideous-eyed heads and huge teeth.

The huntsmen rode on the progeny of Pegasus, winged horses which skimmed over the ground, white and beautiful, fast as the North Wind.

And on the backs of the horses—the huntsmen. The grinning shades of dead villains, spewed from Hades to do Ahriman’s work. Beside them loped the leopard-women, the Maenades, worshippers of Bacchus.

Behind all these came a screaming multitude of ghouls, demons and were-beasts, released from the depths of Hell.

For two weeks they had been thus pursued and Simon and Camilla were well aware that they could have been caught many times. Ahriman—as he had threatened—was sporting with them.

But still they pushed their horses onwards until they had reached the Bosphorus, hired a boat and were on the open sea.

         

Then came the new phantoms to haunt them. Sea-shapes, rearing reptilian monsters, things with blazing eyes which swam just beneath the surface and occasionally put clawed hands on the sides of the boat.

Simon realized at last that all this was calculated to torment them and drive them mad, to give in to Ahriman’s evil will.

Camilla, Simon could see, was already beginning to weaken. But he kept tight hold of sanity—and his purpose. Whether the Fates wished it or not, he knew what he must do, had taken upon himself a mission. He refused to attend to anything but that—and his strength aided Camilla.

Soon, Simon knew, the Evil One would realize that he could not break his spirit—then they would be doomed for Ahriman had the power to snuff them out. He prayed to Ormuzd, in whom he now believed with a fervour stemming from his deep need of something to which he could cling, and prayed that he might have a little more time—time to get to Babylon and do what he had taken upon himself to do.

         

Over the barren plains of Asia Minor they rode and all the nights of their journey the wild huntsmen screamed in their wake until Simon at least could turn sometimes and laugh at them, taunting them with words which were half-mad ravings.

He had little time, he knew.

One night, while great clouds loomed across the sky, they lost their way.

Simon had planned to follow the Euphrates on the banks of which was built Babylon, but in the confusion of the shrieking night he lost his way and it was not until the following morning that they sighted a river.

With relief, they rode towards it. The days were theirs—no phantoms came to torment them in the sunlight. Soon, Simon knew with a feeling of elation, they would be in Babylon with Abaris and the Magi to aid them against the hordes of Ahriman.

All day they rode, keeping to the cracked bed of the river, dried in the heat of the searing sun. When dusk came, Simon calculated, they should reach the outskirts of Babylon. Which was well, for their horses were by now gaunt skeletons, plodding and tripping in the river bed, and Camilla was swaying, pale and fainting, in the saddle.

The sun began to go down lividly on the horizon as they urged the weary horses forward and already in their ears they heard the faint howling of the Maenades, the insane howlings of Cerberus’s spawn. The nightmare of the nights was soon to begin again.

“Pray to Ormuzd that we reach the city in time,” Simon said wearily.

“Another such night and I fear my sanity will give way,” Camilla replied.

The howling, insensate cries of the Bacchae grew louder in their ears and, turning in the saddle, Simon saw behind him the dim shapes of their pursuers—shapes which grew stronger with the deepening darkness.

They turned the bend in the river and the shape of a city loomed ahead.

But then, as they drew closer, Simon’s heart fell.

This desolate, jagged ruin, this vast and deserted place was not Babylon! This city was dead—a place where a man, also, might die.

Now the armies of Alexander gathered. And they gathered, unbeknownst to them, not for material conquest but for a greater conquest—to destroy the powers of Light and ensure the powers of Darkness of lasting rule.

Great armies gathered, all metal and leather and disciplined flesh.

323 BC and a sick man, drawing vitality from a supernatural source—a man possessed—ruled the known world, ordered its fighting men, controlled its inhabitants.

Alexander of Macedonia. Alexander the Great. Son of Zeus, Jupiter-Ammon. He had united the world under a single monarch—himself. And, united, it would fall…

In Babylon, oldest city of the ancient world, Alexander gave his orders to his captains. One hundred and forty-four miles square was Babylon, flanking each side of the great River Euphrates, embanked with walls of brick, closed by gates of bronze. Dominating the city was the Temple of Baal, rising upwards and consisting of eight storeys gradually diminishing in width, ascended by a flight of steps winding around the whole building on the outside. Standing on its topmost tower, Alexander surveyed the mighty city which he had chosen as the base for his military operations. From here he could see the fabulous hanging gardens built by Nebuchadnezzar, laid out upon terraces which were raised one above the other on arches. The streets of the city were straight, intersecting one another at right angles.

         

Babylon, which had brooded for centuries, producing scientists, scholars, artists, great kings and great priests, splendid warriors and powerful conquerors. Babylon, whose rulers, the Chaldaeans, worshipped the heavenly bodies and let them guide their law-making.

Babylon, city of secrets and enlightenment. Babylon, soon to be abased by the most terrible blight of evil the world had known. The forces of Light were scattered, broken by Alexander’s conquerings, and Alexander himself had become the focus for the forces of evil. Soon the world would sink into darkness.

Desperately the adherents of Light strove to find a way to stop him, but they were weakened, outlawed. Little pockets of them, chief of these being the Magi of Persia, strove to stand against him—but it was almost futile. Slowly, surely, implacably, evil Ahriman and his minions were gaining ascendancy.

And Simon of Byzantium had failed to reach Babylon and contact the Magi.

         

Simon and Camilla had never seen such a vast city. The crumbling walls encompassed a fantastic area…Where they were still intact three chariots might have passed each other on them and they were over 100 feet high. Broken towers rose everywhere, hundreds of them, twice as high as the walls.

But the wind moaned in the towers and great owls with wide, terrible eyes hooted and glided about them, seeming the city’s only occupants.

Camilla reached over and found Simon’s hand. He gripped it to give her a comfort he did not himself feel.

Behind them they still heard the hunters. Wearied, they could go no further and their tired brains told them that here, among ruins, they would find no hiding place.

The slow clopping of their horses’ hoofs echoed in the empty city as they followed a broad, overgrown avenue through jagged shadows thrown by the broken buildings. Now Simon could see that the city had been destroyed by fire. But it was cold, chillingly cold in the light of the huge moon which hung overhead like an omen of despair.

The cries of the huntsmen joined the hoots of the owls, a horrid cacophony of fearful, foreboding sound.

But now they could no longer run before their hunters. Fatalistically they must wait—to be caught.

         

Then suddenly, ahead of them, Simon saw a dark shape framed against the moonlight. He drew his sword and halted his horse. He was too tired to attack, waited for the figure to approach.

When it came closer it flung back the cowl of its cloak and Simon gasped in relief and astonishment.

“Abaris! I was going to seek you in Babylon. What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you, Simon.” The priest smiled gently and sympathetically. He, also, looked dreadfully worn. His long un-Persian face was pale and there were lines about his mouth.

“Waiting for me? How could you have known that I should lose my way and come here?”

“It was ordained by the Fates that you should do so. Do not question that.”

“Where are we?”

“In the ruins of forgotten Nineveh. This was a great city once, larger than Babylon and almost as powerful. The Medes and Babylonians razed it three hundred years ago.”

“Nineveh,” Camilla breathed, “there are legends about it.”

“Forget those you have heard and remember this—you are safe here, but not for long. The remnants of Ormuzd’s supporters fled here and form a strong company—but not so strong that we can last for ever against Ahriman’s dreadful minions.”

“Now I realize what happened,” Simon said. “We followed the Tigris river instead of the Euphrates.”

“That is so.”

Behind them the wild baying came closer. Abaris signed to them to follow him.

         

Abaris led them into a dark sidestreet and then into a maze of alleys choked with fallen masonry, weed-grown and dank. By a small two-storeyed house which was still virtually intact, he stopped, withdrew a bolt and motioned them inside. They took their horses with them.

The house was much larger inside than it seemed and Simon guessed that it consisted of several houses now. There were about two hundred people in the large room behind the one they had entered. They sat, squatted and stood in positions of acute weariness. Many were priests. Simon recognized several cults.

Here were Chaldaeans, the ruling caste of Babylon, proud and arrogant-seeming still, Egyptian priests of Osiris, a Hebrew rabbi. Others Simon did not recognize and Abaris whispered answers to his questions. There were Brahmin from India, Pythagoreans from Samos and Crotona in Etrusca, Parsees from the deserts of Kerman and Hindustan, Druids from the far North, from the bleak islands on the world’s edge, blind priests of the Cimmerians who, history told, were the ancestors of the Thracians and Macedonians.

Alexander had destroyed their temples, scattered them. Only in the far North and the far East were the priests of Light still organized and they had sent deputations to Nineveh to aid their brothers.

And Alexander’s wrath had been mainly turned on the Zoroastrians, the Persian and Chaldaean Magi, strongest of the sects who worshipped the powers of Law and Light.

Here they all were, weary men, tired by a battle which required no material weapons yet sapped their vitality as they strove to hold Ahriman at bay.

Abaris introduced Simon and Camilla to the gathering, and he appeared to know the best part of their story, how they had been present at the Cottyttia, how they had fled from Pela, hounded by the infernal hordes, crossed the Bosphorus and came, at length, to fallen Nineveh.

Outside, Nineveh’s streets were filled with a hideous throng, weird beasts of all kinds, dead souls and malevolent denizens of Hell. Three-headed, snake-tailed dogs, winged horses, chimerae, basilisks, sphinx, centaurs and griffins, fire-spewing salamanders. All roamed the broken streets hunting for Ahriman’s prey. But there was an area where they could not pass—an area which gave out emanations which meant death for them, so they avoided this area.

For the meantime, Simon and Camilla were safe. But it was stalemate, for while they were in Nineveh, secure against the forces of evil, Alexander strode the golden towers of Babylon and readied the world for the final conquest.

CHAPTER SIX

Abaris told Simon: “Alexander slew your friend Hano the Phoenician a week ago.”

Simon cursed: “May the Harpies pluck his eyes from his skull!”

Camilla said: “Do not evoke the Harpies, also. We have enough to contend with.”

Abaris half smiled, waved his hand towards a small table in a corner of the room. “You had better eat now. You must be very tired.”

Gratefully the pair began to eat, drinking the spiced wine of the Magi—a wine which was unnaturally invigorating. Abaris said, while they ate:

“Ahriman dwells constantly, now, in Alexander’s body. He intends to make a final campaign, north and east, to subdue the barbarian tribes of Gaul and the Dark Island, crush the Indian kings and rule the entire world. And, it seems, he will be able to do all this through his vessel, Alexander—for the whole world already responds to Alexander’s whims; he commands the fighting men and a host of subject kings and princes. It will be an easy matter…”

“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 nothing seemed to stir and the air carried only faint sounds of military preparation from behind the city walls.

There was a peculiar communication between them. Simon felt as if he were looking into the Abyss of Hell and yet sensed something else lurking in the eyes—something cleaner that had long since been subdued and almost erased.

Then he was in motion, running for the steps that wound upwards around the Temple of Baal.

He bounded up the steps, twenty, fifty, a hundred and he had still not reached Alexander who stood like a statue awaiting him.

The God-Emperor turned as Simon finally reached the upper level. As if Simon were not there he strode back through the shaded pillars and into the building. That was where Simon confronted him.

Sunlight lanced through the pillars and criss-crossed the place in a network of shadow and light. Alexander now sat on a huge golden throne, his chin resting in one hand, his back bent as if in meditation. Steps led up to the dais on which the throne was placed. Simon stopped at the first step and looked up at the conqueror of the world.

         

Alexander leaned back in his throne and clasped his hands in front of him. He smiled slowly, at first a smile of irony which twisted into a grin of malice and hatred.

“There is a sacred bull in Memphis,” Alexander said slowly, “which is called Apis. It is an oracle. Seven years ago I went to Memphis to hear the sacred bull and to ascertain whether it had, indeed, oracular powers. When it saw me it spoke a rhyme. I have remembered that rhyme for seven years.”

Simon drew the Cloak of the Magi closer about him. “What did it say?” he asked in a strained half-whisper.

Alexander shook his head. “I did not understand it until recently. It went:

The City that thy father lost shall fall to thee,

The City that gives birth to fools shall bear a sword.

The City that thy father lost shall be its home.

The City that thou mak’st thy home shall feel its edge.”

Simon brooded over this for a moment and then he nodded, understanding.

“Byzantium, Abdera, Byzantium—Babylon,” he said.

“How sharp is the sword?” Alexander asked and changed shape.

A dazzling orange-golden haze burst upwards and a black and scarlet figure stood framed in the centre. It vaguely resembled Alexander but was twice as high, twice as broad, and bore a weirdly wrought staff in its hand.

“So!” Simon cried. “At last you show your true shape. You bear the Wand of Ahriman, I see!”

“Aye, mortal—and that only Ahriman may bear.”

From beneath the Cloak of the Magi, Simon produced a short javelin and a small shield of about ten inches in diameter. He held the shield in front of his face and through it could see unnerving and alien shapes where the figure of Ahriman stood. He was seeing the true shape of Ahriman, not the warped and metamorphosed body of Alexander.

He drew back his arm and hurled the javelin at a certain spot in the intricate supernatural pattern.

         

There came an unearthly groaning and muttering from the figure. It threw up its arms and the wand flickered and sent a bolt of black lightning at Simon who put up his shield again and repelled it, though he was hurled back against a far column. He leaped to his feet, drawing his sword and saw that, as Abaris had told him, Alexander had resumed his usual shape.

The God-King staggered and frowned. He turned and saw Simon standing there, sword in hand.

“What’s this?” he said.

“Prepare to fight me, Alexander!” Simon cried.

“But why?”

“You must never know why.”

And Simon leapt forward.

Alexander drew his own lovely blade, a slim thing of strong tempering, of glowing star-metal with a handle of black onyx.

The iron clashed with a musical note, so fine were both blades and the two men feinted, parried and stabbed, fighting in the Greek manner, using the points of their swords rather than the edges.

Alexander came in swiftly, grasped Simon’s wrist and pushed his sword back, bringing his own sword in, but Simon side-stepped just in time and the blade grazed his thigh. Alexander cursed a very human curse and grinned briefly at Simon in the old, earlier manner.

“You are swift, my friend.”

Simon disliked this. It was harder to fight such a light-hearted and likable warrior than the thing which Alexander had earlier been. It was almost unjust—yet the action had to be made.

         

In and out of the network of light and shadow the two men danced, skipping away, coming in close, swords flashing and the music of their meeting echoing about the Temple of Baal.

Then Alexander’s soldiers came running into the place but Alexander cried:

“Stand back—I do not know why this man attacked me, but I have never fought such a swordsman before and would not miss the privilege. If he wins—free him.”

Bewildered, the guards retreated.

For hours the fight continued, the men evenly matched. Dusk came, sunset flooding the temple with blood-red rays. Like two archetypal gods they fought on, thrusting, parrying, employing every tactic at their command.

Then Alexander, whose earlier sickness had wearied him, stumbled and Simon saw his opportunity, paused, deliberating the act, then rushed upon his opponent and struck him a terrible thrust in the lung.

“Go—be Charon’s guest!” he cried.

Alexander went hurtling back to land with a crash, sprawled on the steps of the dais. Again the watching warriors rushed forward, but Alexander waved them back.

“Do not tell the people how I met my end,” he gasped. “I have united the world—let it stay united in the confidence that a—a—god created that unity. Perhaps that will serve to ensure peace…”

Dismissed, the guards returned, wondering, down the steps of the temple and Simon and the dying Alexander were left alone in the half-light while a wind blew up and sent a cold chill through the silent columns.

“I remember you now,” Alexander said, blood beginning to trickle from his mouth. “You are the Thracian. What happened—I remember interviewing you and then the rest is hazed in blackness and chaos—what happened then?”

Simon shook his head.

“Call it madness,” he said. “A madness which came upon you.”

In the shadows behind the throne he saw a black mist begin to form. Hurriedly he shouted: “Abaris—quickly!”

The priest appeared then. He had slipped up the steps and had been standing behind a column. Others followed him. He motioned them in. They began a weird and beautiful chanting, advancing towards the hazy form behind the throne, making peculiar passes in the air.

After them, Camilla appeared and stood framed in a gap between two columns, the wind ruffling her hair.

Alexander grasped Simon’s arm. “I remember a prophecy—one made by the Oracle of Memphis. How did it go?”

Simon quoted it.

“Yes,” Alexander gasped. “So you are the sword which the City of Fools, Abdera, bore…”

“What shall we remember of you, Alexander?” Simon asked quietly as there came a commotion behind the throne which was now surrounded by chanting Magi. He looked up. The priests seemed to be straining to hold back some horrible force which whimpered and moaned at them, yet was still very strong.

“Remember? Will not the world always remember me? My dream was to unite the world and bring peace. But a nightmare interrupted that dream, I think…”

“Your father’s dream and yours,” Simon said.

“My father—I hated him—yet he was a good and wise king, and moulded me for a purpose. Aristotle was my teacher, you know. But I had other indoctrination. My mother Olympias, taught me peculiar things which I cannot remember now.”

“Let us hope no-one shall ever know them again,” Simon breathed.

“What has happened?” Alexander asked again. Then his eyes closed. “What did I do?”

“You did nothing that was not for the good of the world,” Simon told him. Alexander was dead. “But,” the Thracian added quietly as the emperor’s grip loosened and the limp hand fell to the marble of the step, “that which possessed you wrought harm. You could not help it. You were born to perish…”

He rose and called: “Abaris. Abaris—he is dead.”

The chanting ceased. The black shape still hovered there, veins of orange-gold, black and scarlet throbbing in it like blood-vessels. Simon and the priests fell back.

The shape shot towards Alexander’s corpse, sank down over it. The corpse jerked but then was still again. For an instant a face—the face Simon had seen at the Rites of Cotys in Pela—appeared.

“There will be others, never fear!” Ahriman said and vanished.

Abaris went over to Alexander’s corpse and made a pass over the wound. When Simon looked there was no sign of a wound.

“We’ll say he died of a fever,” Abaris said softly. “It was well known that he was ill. They will believe us—we will let the Chaldaeans speak in Babylon for they long ruled the people before Alexander’s coming.”

Simon said: “I knew that clean steel could end this matter for us.”

Abaris looked at him a trifle cynically.

“Without our magic to drive Ahriman out of Alexander’s body for the time you needed, you would never have succeeded.”

“That’s true, I suppose.”

Abaris continued:

“That was the solution. Ahriman works through many people—but he needs a single human vessel if he is to carry out his Great Plan. Several have been born in the past—others will be born again. Fanatical conquerors who will set out to rule the world. Men with superhuman vitality, the power of dominating great masses of people and driving them to do that one man’s will. Yes, Ahriman—under whatever name he takes—will try again. That is certain.”

“Meanwhile,” Simon said as Camilla came up to him, “we have succeeded in halting Ahriman this time.”

“Who knows?” Abaris said. “History will show if we were in time or not.”

Simon said gravely: “I am not sure what Alexander, himself, was. He could have been a force for good or evil. He was something of both. But the evil gained ascendancy towards the end. Was I right to kill him? Could not his course have been turned so that the good in him could have continued his plan to unite the world in peace?”

“That may have been possible,” the priest said thoughtfully, “but we men set limits to our endeavours—it is easier that way. Perhaps, in time, we will not stop short but will learn to choose the harder paths and so achieve more positive results. As it is we strive merely to keep a balance. One day Alexander’s dream may be realized and the world united. Let us hope that the unity will be inspired by Ormuzd. Then it may be possible to build.”

Simon sighed and made his body relax.

“Meanwhile, as you say, we’ll strive for balance alone. Pray to Ormuzd, priest, and pray that men will one day cease to need their gods.”

“That day may come and, if I am right, the gods themselves will welcome it.”

Abaris bowed and left Simon and Camilla staring at one another. For a long time they remained so before embracing.