Axios had prepared himself for death.
A single glance at the old soldier, a veteran of the wars of Philip of Macedon and now his son after him, would testify that had seen and survived circumstances much worse than waiting in a tent. To see him perched on a stool in the hand-burnished armor and musky rags that passed as his dress uniform, comfortably shaded inside the largest structure in the camp, unthreatened by the two guards stationed at the outer tent flap that led to the desert heat, one would expect only relaxation on that scarred countenance. Here there were no arrows flying, no screams of men, no thunder of cavalry hooves and strokes of iron on iron. The only noise was the muffled bustle of the camp outside and the quiet murmuring of two men behind the inner flap of the tent, next to which Axios waited.
And yet, to see the lines in his forehead and the grim set of his jaw, one would think this quiet pavilion more terrible than the bloodiest melee.
No one had ever heard of someone in Axios’s station even coming close to the Emperor. Even to see his face up close would be an incredible honor. So when the hulking officer of His Majesty’s personal guard had found him in the barracks and hissed to prepare for a private audience with the boy conqueror, his heart nearly stopped. There was no pleasure in it—it was too far beyond the imaginable to portend anything good. He assumed that he was going to be killed for performing some terrible crime against his emperor, and had no idea what it was, or how he had gotten into this position.
Loyal to the throne for twenty-six years, Axios thought. After all my service to his father, to be hauled in like a deserter or a common thief… his only consolation was that his decorated service might warrant him a quick death from the imperial torturers.
The tent flap folded open and Axios leapt to his feet. A hard-faced man in the red of the personal guard gestured him through the portal into the Emperor’s chambers beyond. With halting steps and a face as impassive as he could manage, Axios obeyed. His sandals stirred the dust as he stumbled into the inner sanctum.
A pair of guards flanked the long oaken table that dominated the room. In front of the table stood two men, one of whom was the hulking officer Axios had had the pleasure of meeting a day earlier. The huge, gleaming man narrowed his eyes in unmistakable disdain for Axios’s shabby, war-beaten appearance. The soldier met the hostile glance without quailing, only giving the guardsman the satisfaction of a curt nod.
“Will you not kneel before your emperor?” The officer asked, as one might to a wayward child. Axios cursed inwardly and fell to his knees, head bowed. What did he know of courtly etiquette? It was a miracle he could remember how to put one foot in front of the other, cowed as he was. He wished he were standing, however. Better to die like a proud soldier than a sniveling cur.
The other man half-turned to look at the new arrival, his fingertip still resting on a map spread across the table.
“Leave us,” the man said, absently.
The guards stirred, sending uneasy glances first at the slight figure tracing a line across his map, then the towering officer beside him. The officer swallowed almost imperceptibly. With a quick wave to the other guards, he pivoted towards the door and, with the furious energy of a man biting his tongue, strode out of the room. His eyes studiously avoided the kneeling figure of Axios, whose breathing was growing heavy despite his best efforts. He was alone with the Emperor.
The other man did not look up from his map. “You may stand, and have no fear,” he said.
Axios looked up at the disinterested figure before him. The first I can manage, but not the second, he thought as he raised himself to attention. The noon-day sunlight filtering through the red tent caught his face as he drew himself up, bringing his craggy features and scars into sharp relief. His eyes narrowed against the bloody light as it played across his frame. This was the warlike figure Alexander the Great saw when he finally left his map and turned his attention to his loyal subject.
Alexander smiled inwardly. This Axios was a short man, shorter than his Emperor, but with enormous upper body strength. His curly beard and hair were streaked with gray, and his dark brown eyes were clear and saw everything. The long and jagged scar from his shoulder to his left wrist told that he had been in battle, and lived. His discipline serves him well, Alexander thought; his terror is just barely visible. Axios, in turn, marveled at the slight youth in front of him, well-muscled and dressed in light armor, but with thin features and a frail dusting of beard he would be ashamed to show in the daylight. His eyes were bright black, and shone with intelligence. Each man took the measure of the other for a long moment, with only the distant sounds of the camp to disturb the air.
“You served my father, Philip of Macedon,” Alexander said finally. “Your officers commend you.”
Axios bowed his head. He was afraid to speak, lest the words come out as thick and crude as the tongue that issued them.
“You have served me honorably as well. You were injured in our marches these past months?”
“Ay, lord, at the edge of Macedon,” Axios muttered.
The young conqueror nodded, hands clasped behind his back, black eyes searching the red warrior’s face. His voice was even quieter when he spoke again. “My father Philip was nearly betrayed once. Do you remember those days?”
Axios’s throat was dry. He nodded.
“Information, Axios,” The Emperor whispered. “Information saved my father’s life.”
Alexander’s thoughts swirled back to his teenage years. He was in the throne room, in sullen attendance on his father and the ever-present council of bewhiskered bureaucrats who weighed in on each imperial decision with pompous solemnity. Alexander had been caught by the palace guard out in the town, in street clothes, mingling with the lowest sort of commoners. His father was furious, and the palace guard whose job it was to always protect his son and heir, literally despaired of their lives. In the middle of his father's tirade, Alexander apologized for his thoughtless behavior, and admitted that it was entirely his sport to remove himself from the close watch of his body guards. His leonine father cooled visibly, and the guards knew that while their careers were forfeit, they would likely keep their lives.
“Your taste for mischief brings shame to the throne,” Philip rumbled, the full force of his displeasure now on his son.
“Your highness,” Alexander said with bowed head, “while I do admit to a certain rashness of behavior, my travels have not been altogether without meaning. I have learned things that I can reveal to you, and to no other.”
His father looked at his son. He ordered his guards to withdraw with a sharp wave of the hand, leaving only his inner circle of advisors and his son in earshot. “What is this information?”
Alexander looked slowly at the men surrounding them. The council, to a man, watched him with the wary contempt generally reserved for a rabid hound, not a royal scion. Alexander then quietly said, “This information is for your ears only, your majesty.”
Philip’s anger began to rise immediately. “All these men are my trusted advisors,” he said. “By your statement, you are impugning the loyalty of my council.”
Alexander, though paling a little, looked at his father and without a quaver in his voice, said “Yes. That is exactly what I mean. I beg a son’s privilege to speak to you and you alone.”
Philip was astonished. The urgency in his son’s eyes, at odds with his calm voice and deportment, gave him pause. He nodded to his son, and with a gentler wave, bade his advisors to withdraw. A handful of indignant, whispered protests were silenced by a look from the powerful emperor. The councilmen scurried away, narrow eyes darting at Alexander in their retreat. Father and son regarded each other in the massive hall.
“Speak, then,” Philip said, leaning his body towards his son.
Alexander looked at Axios with measured eyes. “The council’s revolt was anticipated and quietly suppressed. My father realized that his court was not always interested in providing him support and loyalty, regardless of what they said. My information saved my father’s life, and our empire.”
“You are very wise, your Highness,” Axios croaked. Why did his voice rebel against him?
“My wisdom is no greater than any man’s,” Alexander said sharply. “And my patience for flattery is certainly less.” Axios bowed in apology, but his shoulders were straight and he did not shrink at his master’s words. Alexander softened. How refreshing, not to be utterly feared. He let his hands fall to his sides and took a step towards the soldier.
“The one pearl I did learn in my youth, which drives me to this day, was this: certain types of people know some things, and other types of people know other things. No one knows everything, and those in the court often know the least of all. When I was suspicious of treachery surrounding my father, who could I turn to for expert information on the topic? Thieves and mercenaries and murderers, slinking in the back alleys of his great city. Through them I learned what I myself could never know of betrayal and assassination. It was not my wisdom that saved the throne, but the aggregate wisdom of a hundred criminal minds.”
He raised a hand and locked eyes with Axios. “Information, no matter of the source, is the most precious commodity of all, and the only treasure a great man should hoard. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Axios murmured, looking intently at his emperor. Indeed, to his great surprise, he was following every word.
Alexander continued, an edge of weariness in his young voice. “My freedom is not what it was as a boy, and it is folly to think I can adopt a disguise and move unnoticed as I once did. However, my need to know what goes on beyond these walls—” this, with a subtle brush of the hand to dismiss the tent—“has only increased as fate has smiled on my conquests. Here in the delta of the mighty Nile, I require information beyond that which my generals and scholars can provide. How is your wound, Axios?”
The warrior was taken aback by the non sequiter. “I am ready to die for your Highness’ pleasure.”
“Come, Axios, I wish an answer, not a pleasantry.”
Axios took a breath. “It pains me but little here in camp, but I dread our next march,” he admitted with great reluctance.
Alexander nodded. “Your officers told me so much. In the next campaign our pace will likely kill you quicker than our enemies ever could.”
The tent was silent save the stirring of the wind outside. Axios was astonished to see a tinge of—concern? regret?—in the young conqueror’s black eyes. Alexander turned on his heels and walked back to the table, distant once more from his soldier. “To die on the march is an honorable end for a loyal veteran like yourself. But that is not to be your fate.”
“No, your highness?” Axios’s throat went dry again, and his mind went wild. Would he be executed now? Was this the reason for the talk of the traitors in Philip’s time? Would he meet their same fate? A thousand arguments and protests died inside him, while terror kept his face frozen.
“No, Axios,” said Alexander the Great, hands clasped behind him. “I have work for you.”
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