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Chapter 8: Setbacks and Stratagems

Queen of the Sea, Trinidad, New America

February 11, 319 BCE

Olympias sat at the table, clearly trying not to glare at Marie Easley. She wasn’t doing a good job of it, but she was trying. Over the last month Marie had come to realize that when she laughed at Olympias’ spell casting, she hadn’t just embarrassed the woman. She had done the equivalent of spitting on the Koran or stomping on the cross. Olympias didn’t just use magic to influence others. She believed in it as much as any Bible-thumping pastor or monk in a monastery.

The horror of it for Olympias was that most of the cornerstones and rites of her faith had been lost entirely as other faiths superseded hers. That her god would not survive into the twenty-first century spat on the notion of permanence that was so much a part of almost all faiths.

Marie knew all that, but that didn’t make the other woman’s simmering fury much easier to put up with.

Roxane looked between them and said. “The investigation has hit a standstill. Daniel Lang dusted the carafe for prints and took the prints of anyone that would have had a legitimate reason to touch it. There was one partial that didn’t match up to Aida Pondong who made the cocoamat, Dag, or Travis.”

“And that partial didn’t match any of my fingerprints,” Olympias said. “I know. You told me days after the poisoning, when you made me put ink on my fingers and press the cards. Is Lang still insisting that I simply hired someone to put the poison in the carafe?”

“It’s one theory that he continues to investigate,” Marie said. “But I think even he has mostly given up on it. That leaves just four thousand or so other suspects.”

“And he won’t take everyone’s fingerprints because it would be a violation of their civil rights. Yes, so you’ve said.”

“Diplomatic immunity is even more of an issue,” Roxane said. “Daniel insists that he needs probable cause.”

“So you have said. Meanwhile, the whole ship continues to look upon me as an incompetent poisoner.”

Then Dag Jakobsen came in from the other room with the three-year-old Alexander IV on his shoulder. “Not me. I’m quite sure that you’re an effective poisoner. Snow White would have been dead as a doornail if it had been you.”

Olympias looked at him for a moment then said, with apparent sincerity, “Thank you, Dag.”

Marie looked at Dag, then back to Olympias. In spite of the mutual distaste, she felt a little sympathy for Olympias. She, personally, was convinced that Olympias was innocent, and being condemned in the general perception couldn’t be comfortable. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem likely to change anytime soon. The investigation was stalled and there was simply too much else to do to focus that many resources on it.

Queen of the Sea, Fort Plymouth, Trinidad, New America

February 12, 319 BCE

“Can’t the Reliance do that?” Lars asked. “Understand, Mr. President, I approve of the fueling station on Saint Helena, but can’t Adrian deliver the necessary start-up equipment?”

“The Reliance is already on the way, as you well know,” President Wiley said, frustration quite clear in his voice.

“I meant on the next trip, Mr. President.” Honestly, Lars didn’t like Al Wiley, even if he had grown to respect him. He was a competent politician and showed occasional statesmanlike behavior. He was also a good administrator, something that Lars would not have believed from Al Wiley’s first reaction to The Event. But the man had a tendency to think of the Queen of the Sea as his navy and of Lars as under his command. But she wasn’t, damn it. The Queen of the Sea was her own . . . well, not quite nation, but getting close to it. She wasn’t under the authority of Al Wiley any more than she was under Ptolemy’s.

“That will screw up the Reliance’s schedule, and more than that, several of the materials and components that we wish you to deliver to Saint Helena are most readily produced on the Queen.” Then Wiley narrowed his eyes and asked, “What will it take, Captain?”

And the negotiation was on. Eleanor Kinney, his chief purser and in these circumstances his chief negotiator supported by Marie Easley, took over and fought Amanda Miller, Congressman Lacula, and Al Wiley. There were complaints that to fulfill their desires would cause the raising of taxes on the still very young nation. That it would cause inflation as the unreasonable demands drove up the price of latex.

But three days later, the Queen sailed for Saint Helena and her holds held an abundance of preprocessed and purified latex, the natural precursor to rubber. Rubber products like seals, water bottles, and—most especially—condoms, were bringing a fortune in Alexandria and Athens.

Queen of the Sea, Saint Helena

February 23, 319 BCE

The Reliance was already there when the Queen of the Sea arrived. And a crew of workers were already building a tank farm.

“What are you finding, Captain Dahl?” asked Doug Warren over the radio.

“I don’t have a clue, Doug. There are trees, I can tell you that, and birds out the kazoo. But I know very little beyond that, besides the fact that Yolanda Davis’ pet environmentalist, Kai Mumea, is pretty keen on it all. I haven’t seen him since we landed. He’s been wandering the island, taking notes. I do think that this place can produce some good income. Mike Kimball says that the forests are old growth, with some potentially valuable woods. But the big prize is Madagascar.”

Mike was a car salesman who, with his wife and teenage daughter, was vacationing on the Queen when The Event happened. A political adherent of Al Wiley, he was appointed to the post of governor of St. Helena until such time as the colony grew to the point that elections were practicable. He was also the manager of the weather station and his wife was in charge of the shortwave radio station that would connect the island to New America and the Queen of the Sea. In total there were fifteen families and just over a hundred people in the colony, along with twenty-five people who were to stay on St. Helena only until it was determined where the refueling station on the east side of Africa was to be placed. As a matter of policy, New America was trying wherever possible to expand into territory where no one yet lived.

“If Madagascar isn’t inhabited,” Doug pointed out. The great and holy Wiki said that the first evidence of foraging was around 2000 BCE, but there was argument about when colonization started. Anywhere from already there to not for five hundred years. “Anyway I don’t think you’re going to get the skipper to go around the horn to Madagascar this trip.”

“Why not? The Reliance is going to be stuck here for at least another couple of weeks, helping to get the station set up, and you could spend that time giving Madagascar a look-see.”

“Why not? Because Eumenes has crossed the Bosphorus into Thrace and Roxane wants to get back to the Med as soon as she can.”

“Hey, Doug. I grant that Roxanne is hot, but she’s not Helen of Troy to be launching fleets.”

Doug Warren looked up then to see Captain Floden looking at him. “I’ll give you the captain, Captain Dahl.” He handed the phone to the skipper, and went back to his job.

Thrace

February 23, 319 BCE

The arrows were coming in sheets as Lysimachus’ archers fired and fired again, while Seuthes wondered how he had gotten so much of his army here so fast. He had to have abandoned the Bosphorus, and made a forced march up the coast of the Black Sea. The land was rolling hills and Seuthes was on a hill with his men formed up in the Macedonian style. They had the long sarissa, but Lysimachus was hitting him with arrows and Seuthes’ men lacked the experience of Lysimachus’ army.

An arrow thunked into the shield his shield bearer was holding up, but Seuthes barely noticed, he was so focused on trying to find a way out of the trap. This battle never should have happened. He looked east to where his cavalry was engaged with the larger cavalry of Lysimachus and cursed himself for a fool. He should have stayed in Chernomorets, forted up. More arrows and Lysimachus’ infantry was moving up. That was the good news. Lysimachus didn’t have that much infantry. Alexander’s Anvil was smaller than usual. That might . . . yes, that might be a way.

He turned to his flautist and gave orders. Then the flutes screamed.

He watched as he sat his horse. His infantry, under the command of Cotys, his son, turned and, sarissa upraised, marched directly toward the archers. There was a screen of infantry between him and the archers and if his cavalry broke, the hammer of the enemy cavalry would pound him to pieces against Lysimachus’ infantry. But it was better than standing here while his army drowned in a rain of arrows.

* * *

Telos waved his sword in a circle, pointed at the enemy, and his Thracian cavalry charged. He swung and missed, ducked under the Macedonian’s counterthrust and was by, on to the next. He swung again, and hit. But most of the blow was deflected by the armor. The counter was way off, but the horses collided and his bay lost its footing. He leapt as it rolled and landed in the mud that the horse hooves had turned the field into. He struggled to rise and made it to his knees, then had to fling himself aside as one of his own men almost crushed him. A hand reached down and he grasped it.

* * *

Back on his feet, Telos looked around and could see little of the battle, just the fighting that surrounded him. He tried to get out of the melee so that he could see what was going on, but it took time. Time the rest of the army didn’t have.

* * *

Cotys rode at the front of the infantry and reined his prancing horse to keep pace with the slow pace of the army. Arrows fell among his men and several came close to hitting him, but he paid them little attention. His attention was focused on the enemy infantry. The Macedonians were a mix of veterans and stay-at-homes, as were his men. Large numbers of Thracians had gone with Alexander to Asia and many had come home to Thrace and given service to his family. Cotys strove to be worthy of that service.

There. The enemy were bringing their sarissa into position. He looked at Oineus, a veteran of twenty years with Alexander, and Oineus nodded. He lowered his sword and shouted, “Ready the sarissa.”

The sarissa came down, and the armies kept moving.

An arrow came down out of the sky and struck between the breast and back plate of Cotys’ armor, in the gap that was only covered by leather straps. The razor-sharp arrowhead sliced through the toughened leather like it was butter. Sliced through the muscles of his shoulder and into his shoulder blade where it quivered and shook and caused his shoulder to scream in agony with every move. Tears sprang to his eyes, but he sat his horse and stayed with his troops as the army marched forward and the sarissa crossed and interpenetrated. Men started to die on both sides, and he held his place shouting encouragement as the blood flowed.

* * *

Telos reached the edge of the field and looked around. His cavalry was caught in a melee with a good part, the better part, of Lysimachus’ cavalry, but a contingent of the enemy cavalry had broken away. It was even now riding down on the rear of their infantry.

* * *

Seuthes saw the cavalry bearing down on his infantry and his son. But he had no force to send. Only himself and some of his household.

He charged.

* * *

Through the pain, Cotys heard a flute signal. His head swung around and he saw the enemy cavalry coming. A cavalry charge is not an instant thing. He had a minute, maybe two. “Oineus!” he shouted. “Keep them going!” Then he rode for the rear.

He reached the rear of his sixteen-rank-deep phalanx, and shouted orders, the arrow still sticking out of his shoulder like a standard. “Rear rank, lift sarissas!” Time, while the men looked at him. Time, while the men, by main strength, lifted the twenty-foot poles to the vertical.

Cotys tried to lift his arm but it wouldn’t come up. He did manage to shout, “Rear rank, face about!” Time, while they turned in place and saw the oncoming cavalry. Time, while he bled.

He tried to shout for them to lower their sarissas, but blood came out his mouth, not sound.

It didn’t matter. The men in that rank could see the enemy cavalry just as well as he could. They lowered their sarissas without orders.

Almost in time.

Almost.

The cavalry hit the rear rank of his infantry and hammered it. But some of the sarissas had come down in time and the cavalry charge was blunted, if not stopped. Slowed as it rode over the half-prepared rear rank. Slowed long enough for the rest of their force to break Lysimachus’ infantry.

Once the infantry broke, the archers ran.

Then the king and his bodyguard hit Lysimachus’ cavalry from the rear.

The battle was a stalemate. Seuthes’ forces held the field, if barely. But Lysimachus’ men retreated, in good order for the most part.

* * *

Seuthes looked down at the body of his son, Cotys. He cursed himself for a fool. He never should have left Chernomorets. He never should have allied with Eumenes and Eurydice. For he knew that in that other history his son had ruled after him. A diminished Thrace, perhaps, but Cotys lived and fathered sons of his own. Seuthes’ wife was dead these last ten years, and Cotys’ sister Nike was barely fourteen years old.

Thrace

February 25, 319 BCE

Eumenes read the message, then passed it over to Eurydice, who passed it over to Philip.

“It’s good that he’s retreated to Chernomorets,” Eumenes said.

“No, it’s not,” Eurydice said. “As long as he was out there pulling Lysimachus’ forces out of position, we were in a better position to hit Lysimachus. Or, if he refused us battle, to bypass him and go after Cassander.”

“It doesn’t matter. With the rockets, Lysimachus can’t face us in a stand-up battle.”

“But we don’t have the rockets. At least, we don’t have enough of them. We need at least two thousand to break Lysimachus’ army, you said. And even with the load we got yesterday from Lydia, we only have three hundred.”

“But Lysimachus doesn’t know that,” Eumenes said. “That’s why we have the wagon loads of the mockups in the baggage train.” Eumenes looked over at Philip. The co-king of Alexander’s empire was improving. He could stand to be touched and he spent time in his hug box every day. But he still had no real comprehension of deception and his approach to war was as an equation that had specific answers.

But war was an art, a thing of perceptions and impressions. Bravery, the rightness of a cause, or at least its perceived rightness, all affected the outcome, not just of wars, but of battles. Right now, today, if Lysimachus’ army was forced into combat, they would probably break with the first salvo of rockets.

Probably.

It wasn’t a chance that Eumenes was willing to take, and conniving bastard that he was, Lysimachus wasn’t stupid. Eumenes doubted the man had spent more than a waking hour without thinking about how to defeat an army equipped with rockets. Eumenes had done the same exercise. But it was unlikely that they had come to exactly the same answers.

For Eumenes, the answer was basically the same as the answer for bow or catapult. Get in amongst the bowmen or the catapulters and kill them. Wreck the catapults. He was also familiar with the notion of artillery duels from the ship people books, and from his own experience. But Eumenes’ experience suggested that they were less decisive than the ship people seemed to think they were. Eumenes suspected that that was because artillery itself was less effective. He wished that he had been able to talk the ship people out of some cannons. Absent the powerful but tiny industrial base of the Queen of the Sea, this was a handcrafted world and handcrafting took a very long time compared to the ship people’s magical machines.

So, for now, the rockets represented almost as much of a vulnerability as they did an advantage. A cavalry raid that got in amongst them and started fires would destroy his advantage, and at the same time be a crushing blow to his army’s morale.

Cassander had to know that.

Pella, Macedonia

February 25, 319 BCE

Cassander did know that. He’d spent the months since he got home not just building his alliances, but thinking about how he would fight the new tools of the Queen of the Sea and the ship people. For the most part, Cassander thought the changes that the ship people wrought would help him more than hurt him. It didn’t take strong arms or strong hands to wield a pistol. He knew that because he had paid Malcolm Tanada a small fortune. Not for his pistol, but to be allowed to fire it.

It turned out that Cassander was not a bad shot for a novice. And he had a smithy working on a copy of the six-shot revolver caplock that had been made on the Queen after The Event. He would have bought one from the Queen, but they were not selling them. Only ship people got the pistols.

A servant came in and Cassander waved him over. “Have the guests arrived?”

The servant ran through a list of nobles who had arrived and another group who hadn’t. Cassander listened with care, taking note of who was early, who was late, and who wasn’t coming at all.

He would remember.

If Lysimachus could keep Eumenes occupied long enough for Cassander to build his army, Cassander thought he could win. He had his father’s alliances, and there was a strong core of Macedonian noble families who had hated Alexander the Great. That was the core of his army. And soldiers, some infantry but mostly cavalry, were joining his army in small contingents. Money was coming in now, hesitantly, but coming in. He would be able to hire infantry soon. But it all depended on local Macedonian politics and family alliances. Thessalonike would help with that.

Cassander, king of Macedonia, would today be married into the family of Philip II, and thereby bolster his claim.

“The queen?”

“She is in her rooms, preparing.”

* * *

Thessalonike paced in her rooms. There were beautiful rugs on the floor and wall hangings that kept the chill mostly out, but not entirely. The shutters were open for the light, but they also let in the moist, chill air. Thessalonike rubbed her hands together and adjusted her cloak, then paced back to the brazier. She was going to get married, and while not exactly thrilled with marrying Cassander, an old man to her thinking, and not a particularly fit or handsome one, that wasn’t her major concern. Olympias, according to radio messages, was opposed to the marriage. And Thessalonike loved her foster mother, even if she was a bit terrified of her. She didn’t want to be caught in the middle between Cassander and Olympias, but she could see no way out. If she refused to marry Cassander, this comfortable palace could become a very uncomfortable prison quickly.

A maid came in. Thessalonike spun and the maid made a hasty retreat. She took a deep breath. She was one of Olympias’ favorites. She knew that. She had even been included in some of the rites of the Cabeiri. But politics were politics, and she was in Cassander’s hands, not those of Olympias. She took another deep breath and used some of the techniques that she was taught among the cult of the Cabeiri for use when the holy drugs didn’t work the way they were supposed to and the dreams became nightmares. She took another deep breath and visualized Axiocersus, god of death, of peace, and the quiet grave, and took into herself some of his quietude. She let Cadmilus and his excitable youth flow out with her exhalation.

Then she called in her slaves to dress her for the wedding. She would apologize to Olympias later.


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