Writer A. Lias

A Dishonorable War chapter 58-61

2007-05-02T02:44:13Z

I don’t own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (chapter 58/WIP)

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Chief Liar: A. Lias

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Disclaimer: Alternate Universe. Didn't happen here,
but I wish it had. Remember, the story is being told
from various first-person POVs. The narrating
character may or may not know as much as you do
because the information they have may be limited;
there is no omnipotent third-person narrator.
Therefore, the epic is full of lies and mistruths, but
all the clues are given if you watch for them; this is
an experimental story form for me where the readers
(if any) aren't "spoon-fed". A good rule of thumb is
that in a first person POV, anything a character SAYS
be suspect, but usually his inner thoughts are
truthful.

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Warnings: Slashiness. The usual bureaucratic yak yak
yak in progress.

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Pairing: Some rather one-sided Bessus/Hephaestion.

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Rating: R for child-molesting.
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Summary: War is like the mating of elephants: It's
only accomplished with a lot of kicking and screaming;
it's done on a very high level; and it takes two years
to see any results. POV is Porus, who's travelled up
to Persepolis from India, and not happy about things.

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Archive: The usual applies.

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Feedback: The usual applies, please.

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Chapter 58:

Porus:

I’ve never enjoyed councils of war, and this one is
no exception. I hate war. Certainly I’ve spent years
of my life training for it and studying it--I’ve been
called a master at warcraft--but I truly hate it.
Such a waste it is! All the killing, suffering,
destruction, starvation-- and for what? Glory? What
is glory to men like Alexander--but great heaps of
corpses rotting in the sun? Why do we fools call war
a glorious thing? Perhaps it’s because kings do not
have to clean up the battlefield; the king doesn’t
have to dig the graves or build the pyres with his own
hands--or else he would reconsider the “glory” of war.

I believe that the first glory of a King is to
nurture and protect his people.

For this reason alone, I have journeyed to
Persepolis.

My friend and fellow Indian king Taxiles agrees.
“What can we do?” he asks me as we stand assembled
outside the Grand Hall of the Palace of the Great
King, waiting for Bessus to agree to an audience.
“Darius was incompetent and Bessus couldn’t care less
what Alexander does with the rest of us. We should
slip away from Persepolis, find Alexander and ally
ourselves with him.”

“This first war council assembly is probably not the
time,” I say to him under my breath. “The Macedonian
King is showing a very decided predilection for
killing Orientals at the moment. I received a courier
this morning who brought me news that Athens has
fallen. Alexanders vassals Amyntor and Agis have
burned the city. What few of its population still
survive have been shipped off to the Macedonian mines,
there put to hard labor unto death.”

“But--I thought--wasn’ t it said that Alexander came
to Asia to avenge Athens against the spawn of Xerxes?
Why should he say he would revenge that city--even as
he destroys it himself?”

“Because this is a man who will say and do whatever
he pleases, my friend. A true King who does as he
will. Alexander lives for war; he IS war. And Darius
made it even worse by allowing Bessus to get away with
abducting his lover. This throne has taken from this
murderous beast the only being who might soothe his
rage against us, and so we shall all pay for it.”

Taxiles moves closer to me. The firebrands
Spitamenes and Satibarzanes stand near us, along with
the Athenian ambassadors Demonsthenes and Charidemus
(whom I pray haven’t yet been informed of the fate of
their city).

“I don’t want a war with this Macedonian madman!”
Taxiles all but cries in my ear.

“Neither do I, dear friend. But we tread on the edge
of a knife in this court of vipers, so have a care how
loudly you speak.”

“What can we do? All the other vassal kings can’t
wait until they’re on the plains, being wiped out by
Alexander and his thugs!”

“I’ll do the talking, Taxiles--when the timing is
right. Just lend me your support. Nod and smile at
whatever I say, when I choose to say it. It’s our
only chance.”

He squeezes my upper arm with his hand--I’d forgotten
he was so old. His son Omphis--a good boy, as I
recall--is here attending his father. He’ll be King
of Taxila soon, I fear; pray he will strike a balance
between the impetuous of his youth and the timidity of
his father’s old age.

The great cedar doors are finally opened, and we
vassal kings are ushered into a cavernous receiving
hall. I haven’t been here in years, and I’d forgotten
how imposing the room is--after all, it’s meant to be.
Perhaps it seemed less forbidding when Darius was
the High King. Darius, we could reason with. They
say Bessus is insane and unpredictable.

They are right.

King Bessus sits upon the Throne of Darius, the
golden diadem upon his head and the jewelled scepter
at his side. He doesn’t wear the crown with the ease
of Darius, though, and he seems distracted. I suppose
I would be distracted also, if I sat holding across my
lap the lover of the man who will come and kill me.

So . . . this is the lover of King Alexander. I
take in the sight of the unconscious young man, and
count myself grateful that I am not a man for men--for
if I was, I couldn’t control myself any more than
Darius, Bessus, or any of the other Achaemenids. As
I’m fortunately not such a man, I find myself moved to
pity for the boy, lying there armed only with a skin
of polished marble. He’s clearly drugged; his head
lolls over Bessus’ arm which supports his shoulders
and holds him against the breast of his captor; his
breathing is shallow and harsh as the latest Persian
King strokes him like a pet kitten. In the Greek
custom, he appears to have refused to allow his hair
to be cut, so that it spills to the floor beneath the
throne like an glossy auburn river; I know it
signifies something to the Greeks if a man cuts his
hair or grows it long, but I can’t at the moment
remember what it is. I wonder if they drugged him
senseless in order to wrestle him into the flimsy silk
gown which is all but transparent and reveals his body
as though he were nude to all who look upon it. Even
though he sleeps, they fear him enough to fetter his
wrists and ankles with golden chains.

And I wonder why the purloined beauty is displayed
so. Would Bessus show off his prize to the very men
who will die for this effrontery to the Macedonian
king? Does he wish us to envy him the possession of
such treasure--or is this supposed to make us even
more fearful of him? Is it to appease the Athenians
Demosthenes and Charidemus-- who smile like pirates at
the sight of one of their own princes humiliated in
public. I’ve heard that they themselves are the men
who betrayed the son of their own ambassador to
Pella--I would rather ally myself to hyenas than to
Demosthenes and Charidemus! There is more honor among
rabid dogs than in Athens! Alexander is right to
destroy that politicians’ dung pit--and fitting that
he send the father of this abused prince to burn them
out! I only wish Demosthenes and Charidemus were in
Athens now to get their just rewards from Lord Amyntor
and King Agis!

There is Spitamenes, a Royal Cousin and vassal king
known to hate Alexander with every morsel of meat in
his body--he dares be present with his new Macedonian
lover, a comely but flinty young man called Cassander
(whom I understand is the son of Antipater, current
regent of Macedonia in Alexander’s absence); he
certainly must be present to seek support for his
father as legitimate King of that wasteland.

Another Achaemenid cousin, this one a thin man with
eyes like a fox, called Mazeus--brings the assembly to
order. He seems to want to laugh, is fighting himself
to keep from laughing, and his fox eyes keep darting
to the silk-swaddled bundle on Bessus’ lap. Yet
another royal assassination being plotted, no doubt.

Of course I know what became of Darius and his
family. Even worse, through my spies in the Royal
Court, I now know what happened to my brothers, the
Immortals. I remember them so well, how we all of us
ate, drank, rode, whored, and killed together so many
years. We were the honor guard of the Great King, and
each of us kings in our right, kings among soldiers,
men who prided themselves upon their purity as well as
their ferocity. It didn’t matter if the Great King
was a Artaxerxes or a Darius--there was still some
honor associated with the Throne, even in spite of all
the regicides--if a Great King was foolish enough to
allow himself to be poisoned by a better man--well
then, long live the King.

But killing wives, daughters, and infants--even old
women--abducting the lovers of enemy kings who are
also princes of your supposed allies--slaughterin g
noble Spartans sent here in good faith by their
monarch--murdering the most loyal soldiers of one’s
own kingdom, the Immortals?! How can Bessus demand
loyalty of us? I would leap upon him now and cut his
head from his neck, if I didn’t have my people to
consider. If Bessus’ shifty mercenary guards fell
upon me, there would only be be another Achaemenid to
take his place, and my people would have no one to
protect them. I must be wise as a serpent, and bide
my time. The day will come to avenge my brother
Immortals. I will see Bessus pay for this, and all
his filthy cousins with him.

And of course this “war council” is nothing but a
joke. The cousins jabber like seabirds, Bessus is
absorbed in handling his captive. Nothing worthwhile
is said, nothing is decided. The sun goes down--and
we will be at this same impasse’ tomorrow.

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--end of chapter 58--
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all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (chapter 59/WIP)

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Chief Liar: A. Lias

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Disclaimer: Alternate Universe. Didn't happen on
this planet, sigh.

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Warning: Violence and talk of violence, as usual.
Nobody Gets Any in this chapter.
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Rating: PG-13

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Summary: What's Memnon up to these days?

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Pairing: Nobody Gets Any.

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Archive: Wherever you like, just no e-mail links to
me, please.

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Feedback: Much appreciated. I try to reply, but have
so little free time I'd rather keep writing this
thing. This is the first time I've ever attempted
such an experimental story form, so please forgive any
mistakes.
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Chapter 59:

Tarmenes:

“Please, master. I’ll stand this watch for you.”

My lord General Memnon looks down at me from his
vantage point along the Tyrian city wall. Our fall is
imminent. The Macedonian mole is complete--so wide an
entire army can advance between the two massive siege
towers at each side of the causeway--no trace of the
Old City of Tyre remains. Alexander has broken the
Old City to bits and made his road to our destruction
with it. Alexander’s naval allies have obeyed the
call of their High King--we are surrounded by enemy
ships--even Carthage, long thought an ally of
Persia--has thrown its warships into the harbor with
the rest of the Hellenic League (minus Athens, of
course--which I hear is finally broken and destroyed).

“I led the people of Halicarnassus here, Tarmenes,”
he says after a few minutes, his voice low and bitter
with regret. “Better I had let them die there, rather
than bring them to this.”

I can’t think of any answer from my lips that would
make him feel better.

“Is there recourse left to us, sir?” I ask.

My lord scans the sea around the island of Tyre, his
dark eyes darting between the hundreds of warships
that encircle us and protect the mole. “Perhaps there
is a way. If we can hold out on the walls, maybe the
Persian navy can lend us aid, preoccupy the Greek
ships so that we can get our own ships and divers out
there to destroy the Towers.”

But he doesn’t have to tell me the divers and seamen
have no strength; our food supplies are exhausted, the
water in the cisterns has turned brackish and bad.
Alexander constantly bombards us with his ballistas
and catapults--heavy stones to weaken the walls, clay
pots filled with vipers and scorpions to sail over the
walls and break upon landing in the city, sending the
venomous things crawling everywhere-- and there is no
escape from them. Several plagues are raging about;
we don’t even have the strength to bury the dead
anymore, so we heave the carcasses over the walls and
into the sea.

“Lord Memnon, I have a messaage from your wife.”

He looks down sharply at me. The women of Tyre
haven’t been seen above ground in some time. They
hide in the cellars because they’re ashamed of their
appearance; there’s been no water for bathing. It’s
also for the best that women surrounded by desperate
men should hide themselves. Most, if not all, of the
children are dead. “She says you must come to the
cellars. King Azemilik has gotten out of his
quarters.”

My lord heaves a sigh. Azemilik went mad several
months ago, and Lord Memnon had him quietly confined
to his apartments, his guards sworn to secrecy so that
the remnant of the Tyrians wouldn’t become alarmed at
the state of their king. “If he’s out showing
himself,” says my master, “there will be no way to
keep order.”

He gives a cough as he climbs down the ladder,
quickly putting his kerchief to his mouth, but not
quickly enough to hide the blood from me. He’s been
coughing up blood for a long time now; it’s bright,
foamy blood--fresh and new--coming up from his lungs.
At night his breath rattles in his chest and he
sounds like an old man, wheezing and gasping for air
like a ragged bellows at the forge. All of this he is
hiding from the few Tyrians left with the strength to
man the walls. I hate bothering him at a time like
this, but no one else can deal with the King of Tyre
now.

We find the King near the entrance of the cellars.
He’s found a long flexible reed, and to it he has tied
several dead, skinned frogs so that the tiny carcasses
suspend from it by string. They hang grotesquely from
the reed by one foot each, and the King is shaking the
reed at the women to torment them.

“This is what your sons and daughters will
look like when Alexander is finished with them--after
he’s raped and killed them! Then he’ll do this to
YOU!” He laughs hysterically, twirling on the balls
of his feet in some mad dance, poking at the terrified
group of women with the reed to make them draw back
from them. Some of the remaining children still with
their mothers are crying. The King laughs and laughs.

My lord Memnon simply walks up behind him, grabs his
face, and slits his throat with one fast, efficient
pass of his dagger. The madman is dead before he
falls upon the ground. Knowing my lord’s wishes
without even being told them, I heft the dead King
under the arms and start dragging him out.

“Ladies.” My lord bows his head, truly sorry the
women had been forced to suffer this, too. “A
thousand pardons. I wish things were not as they are.
You shouldn’t have had to witness this.”

I hear a rustling of dirty robes, and one woman comes
forward. She doesn’t step altogether into the light
so we can’t see her, but she says, “General Memnon,
Alexander is beneath us.”

My lord takes her seriously. “Do you hear
something?”

“Yes. Under the ground. Here.” She withdraws into
the darkness with the other women and my lord follows
her down the stone stairs.

I wait.

Some time later my lord Memnon emerges into the
light. “I’m sure it’s just a few little mice playing
tricks on you,” he says gently to the women. “Fear
not, gentle ladies.” He takes his leave of them, and
I hurry after him in his wake. He’s walking faster
than he has in months.

“Great Zeus save us,” he prays under his breath. I
haven’t heard him pray in a long time.

“Master, what is it?”

“We couldn’t see it, but I should have guessed.”
There is a small dungeon located under the walls on
the other side of the city, and Ephialtes has a couple
of captured Macedonians in it. When my lord
discovered he was holding prisoners, he ordered
Ephialtes flogged, and commanded the prisoners not be
mistreated as such; we were to share what food and
water we have with them, but lately there hasn’t been
very much. My lord ordered their guards to show them
proper respect as fellow soldiers. He hasn’t had time
to call upon the captives in person, but he did say he
would torture to death anyone who harmed them.

Until now, I’ve avoided these Macedonian
soldiers--they’ re two boys only about my own age. I
hear that King Alexander is a boy, too. How, then, is
he able to best my master?

One of the Macedonian boys stands up when he sees us
coming. He spits at us.

“There’s a second mole inside the first, isn’t
there?” my lord asks the boys. “I’m willing to bet
Alexander had a tunnel sunk into the mole as he built
it; likely he’s got a bunch of Macedonian miners
tunnelling under us this very minute. Once our
manpower is stretched thin to breaking along the walls
and harbors, the inner mole will break through the
surface and a horde of Greek murderers will come
pouring into the city.”

“It’s too late for you to do anything about it!”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Hector!”

“You’re the son of General Parmenion?”

“What if I am?” The young man looks like a street
urchin. “You’d make a hostage of me? Just have mercy
and kill me now--we all know how you bastard sons of
prostitutes treat your hostages!”

I ignore him for the moment, and look beyond him to
the second boy, who sits silent and sullen, glaring at
me as though I was a piece of filth.

“Alexander is going to strike when the second
mole is ready,” says my master. “Then he’ll launch
the warships at us, too--take it all in one battle.
Whose idea was this?”

The second boy laughs.

“What’s your name, lad?” my lord asks.

“Ancyros!” he spits.

“That name is familiar . . . “

“It SHOULD be!” the boy comes forward and grabs the
bars, suddenly looking like a young angry bear. “I am
the page of General Hephaestion! I volunteered for
this mission so I could see you all rot in your own
shit!!! Hector and I came with your men because
Alexander wants you to KNOW how lost you are! He
wants you to know there’s not a thing you can do to
stop him!”

My lord takes a step back, startled by the name of
the Macedonian officer he took so many months ago.
The guards come rushing up to us, ready to defend Lord
Memnon, but he waves at them to stand down. “Escort
these young men to the city gates,” he says without
tone. “They are to be released unharmed to the Greek
army.”

“My lord, the Greeks are at our gates--”

“They have no reason to storm us now.” Memnon shakes
his head. “And our guests are quite correct--there
has been too much mistreatment of prisoners in the
course of this war. I will not have Alexander see
Tyre as a city of barbarians-- no matter how he chooses
to deal with us in the near future. It seems that
Alexander is coming across the water, across the land
and underneath it, as well. There is no hope for us.
But come, brothers: We’ve lived as honorable
soldiers, and we’ll die as such, too.”

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--end of chapter 59
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all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (chapter 60/WIP)

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Chief Liar: A. Lias

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Disclaimers: Alternate Universe. If it happened
here, then nobody is telling US.

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Summary: Nobody has any good intentions these days.

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Warning: The usual mentions of violence.

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Rating: PG for talk of conspiracy.

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Pairing: Nobody Gets Any, sorry.

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Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me please.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ****

Feedback: Lots, please. A lot of subplots in the
epic are beginning to come together.

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Chapter 60:

Lyncestis:

The throne of Macedonia and Greece should be mine,
and soon it will. Our assassins are almost ready.

We make an unlikely pair of allies, Callisthenes and
I. He’s the idealist--he harbors a dream of a New
Athens where Democracy will flower, all men will be
equal, and all that nonsense. I’ve even promised I’ll
build him his own School of Philosophy when I restore
the jewel city that has just been destroyed.

I knew all I had to do was lie low and wait, gain the
trust of Alexander and his precious Companions. I
NEVER wanted to be King, I could never be a threat to
you, my bloodline matters not a whit to me, I told the
usurper Alexander, I’ll prove it by following you to
the end of the world, Sire! And so I have, mile after
mile, storm after storm, year after year--waiting for
just the right time. And it’s now: The battle lines
are drawn, we march upon Tyre within hours.

And when we do, Alexander will naturally want to be
in thick of the conflagration; he’s been waiting for
this moment even more eagerly than I have. Arrows
will be flying across the sky, rocks will be hurled,
spears and fires thrown--oh, how “King” Alexander
loves this!

No one will notice our seven young
apprentices- -Dimnus, Sostratus, Hermolaus, and four of
their dear friends--right behind the King with their
slings and clubs, when they free our beloved Greece
from the despot Alexander. Callisthenes and I have
inculcated the heroism of assassinating the tyrant
King into their mushy young skulls with every class
we’ve taught them. Even better, the foolhardy lads
will probably be killed right behind him--along with
any hint of involvement by good Callisthenes and
myself--who will have the good sense to stay in the
rear of the advance force.

Ha! Who DOESN’T want to be King? You show me a man
who doesn’t want to be King, and I’ll show you a
snivelling syncophant like the long-lost Hephaestion.

We have only time for one last lesson. The boys
gather around Callisthenes and myself just before
muster.

“How does one become a great man?” Hermolaus asks.

“By killing a greater man,” is Callisthenes’ answer.

That is our private signal, our cue--it’s time to
assassinate the King.

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--end of chapter 60--
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all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (chapter 61/WIP)

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***

Chief Liar: A. Lias

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***

Disclaimer: This is the A. Liad. It is a slash epic
set on Planet A, where I am sole ruler of everything,
and everything happens as I say. Plot sometimes gets
in the way of the PWP.

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Summary: So how nutty IS Bessus, anyway?

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Warnings: Non-con slash. I'm also using a
second-person POV here (another part of the
experiment, so forgive if it seems jarring.)

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Pairing: Bessus/Hephaestion (high time, huh?)

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Rating: R for non-con slash.

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Archive: Wherever you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***
Feedback: Lots, please, preferably positive.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ****

CHAPTER 61:

King Bessus, Lord of Persia and All Asia:

Like so many of your ancestors, you schemed, lied,
and murdered your way to a throne. And your future
will be full of even more scheming, lying, and
murdering in order to stay on that throne--because you
of all people know exactly how precarious it is. Your
own kin plot against you--Mazaeus, Spitamenes, all of
them--would just as readily poison you as genuflect
before you. Every drop of wine that touches your lips
is suspect, you sleep with your dagger in your hand.
You prepare for a war you don’t even want--you recruit
men you know will never be soldiers, you provision
beasts you know will die in the desert, you parley
with ambassadors you despise.

And all because of the young man lying atop the
narrow table before you. Lately you’ve been
dismissing his eunuch Bagoas in the evenings because
you don’t want a witness to your encounters with the
hostage--not even a pleasure slave--someone might
actually believe him if he informs upon you.
Hephaestion is pretending to be insensate, but you
know he’s perfectly aware--for the moment. You can
always force sleeping draughts on him and take him as
you please--you’ve certainly done so dozens of times
in recent weeks. You drug him into a somnolent
docility in spite of the golden chains. You’ve
ordered that he be kept blindfolded in your
presence--Alexander’ s miserable slut is unworthy to
look upon your glory, or so you’ve said.

But you know--and precious Hephaestion knows--that
you are lying in your teeth. Blindfolding prisoners
is an old method of reinforcing in the captive’s mind
that he is helpless and at your mercy--this is
something you don’t want the Macedonian puppy to
forget for one moment whatsoever-- but the truth is
damning for you in your new position as King of these
idiots: You cannot stand it if Hephaestion looks you
in the eye--which the rebellious little whore makes it
a sacred mission to do at every opportunity. On one
hand, you yearn to drown yourself in those twin pools
of molten sapphire--but on the other, his stare would
turn you to stone like the Medusa of your enemy’s
myth. So those lovely eyes must remain covered and
usually that pretty mouth, too; he must not be allowed
to confuse your royal ear again with his clever,
poisonous speech.

Remember last time you bedded him while allowing him
to keep his wits and his words?

He laughed at you.

The wretched trollop LAUGHED at you.

While you lavished an angry flurry of kisses and
intimate touches upon his lovely body, he appeared to
feel nothing and lay as listless and still as a
child’s doll--not that the chains left him with any
other choice. The shackles around his wrists and
ankles were as cold as his heart--and you’ll never be
able to completely lose yourself in him because he can
and will loop those chains around your neck to
strangle you to death if he smells any sliver of a
chance. He’s been known to throttle other suitors in
your Court, and by now he knows he’ll never be
punished for any of it. Frustrated at being IGNORED,
you threatened him with your secret weapons against
him--things he could never even dream of in his worst
nightmares-- things you have created just for him--for
his pleasure and for his pain.

“Such WASTE, King Bessus,” he tsked, half amused and
half sad. “You could take your people to the stars
with your intelligence. You might even be able to
save them from Alexander--who knows? Yet you squander
your genius on bedevilling one who is only a poor
servant of his King.”

“Your own people should burn you alive. You are an
unspeakable whore.”

“Yes, that I am,” he chuckled. “Which makes the
attention you heap upon the likes of this whore all
the more pitiful, doesn’t it?”

“You seduced Darius.”

“I wanted HIM.”

He waited while your hand lingered at his collarbone,
then slid across his smooth chest. Inevitably, your
hand would slide lower to caress all of him--and again
inevitably, to no response. Desperate, you grabbed
his chained wrist and kissed the white knuckles of his
clenched fist. “I would wash my hands in your
blood!.”

“Then let’s have at it!” he laughed, and you KNEW his
eyes were sparkling like icy blue stars behind his
blindfold. “I KNOW you have a dagger on you, ‘Your
Majesty’. Use it now and slit my throat!” He waited
a few minutes; he was fully aware you’d never be able
to do it. “Or better, ‘King Bessus’--open your own
wrists and go die in your bath--I PROMISE you that my
King Alexander will show you no such mercy! You have
taken a bone from the mouth of a lion and he’s coming
to cut you to collops!”

You silenced him with a kiss that left his poor mouth
bleeding.

Help me, Great Melkart! Help me, Ishtar! Help me,
Bel! You prayed to the pantheon of gods and none of
them bothered to answer while your tormentor laughed,
almost hysterical with his glee at having reduced
you--a Great King--to a slavering fool who lives
onlyto touch another man--and one lower than any
slave, at that. YOU are the one trapped, ensnared,
chained--not he.

Alexander’s creature is irresistible, like a
beautiful, monstrous thing in heat, and he has made
you no better than a blind, rutting bull--pawing
helplessly at him while he mocks you. And you allow
him to drain your wits as well as your testicles,
unable now to imagine a world in which he is not
yours. You THINK because you are the current
possessor of his flesh, you can ignore his heart and
his spirit and make of this incomplete obsession
whatever you can. You idle away hours trying to
envision ways to escape the coming conflagration so
that you might take Hephaestion to one of your country
palaces, where you might experiment in peace with
making love to a supernal being. From time to time
you think about how fascinating it would be to dissect
this creature--strip the flesh from his bones and see
with your own eyes exactly WHAT he is.

You were always a man of intellect until this evil
one came into your grasp. Even the sweetest flesh had
never stirred the interest of your loins, and you’d
considered yourself a eunuch born. Science was all
that could touch your heart and fire your soul, the
quest of more and more knowledge, the seeking of
worlds beyond your own. Then this--boy--was before
you, and your poor spear (which you’d thought dead
from birth) was suddenly rising high at attention,
eager to burst forth within him for sensations you
never imagined could exist. You tried to taunt him
with well-chosen words then, tried to humiliate him
even as your first completed experience with sex came
at an advanced age you dare not reveal to anyone, and
at the cost of rape.

You know full well that you dance with death and far
worse. Even if sex had no part in your fascination
with him, there is much, much more.

Hephaestion is not altogether human. No mortal man
could survive the unnatural fever that constantly
envelopes his body; his flesh is hotter to the touch
than the Gedrosian sands in August. And that luminous
glow of his skin; his only armor is a thin wrapping of
translucent alabaster flesh lit from within by
supernal fires. Further, he doesn’t respond to your
various created potions as a human would; you’ve
certainly killed hundreds of slaves with these elixirs
before allowing so much as a single drop to pass his
dear lips, so you’ve had plenty of experience with
these chemicals--you know what they SHOULD do. But
aphrodisiacs only make him sleepy; while truth serums
cause his nipples to temporarily leak rare, tiny drops
of the sweestest nectar--too clear to be milk, not
poisonous (you HAD to sample it in spite of your fear
at such)--but a heady, unearthly substance you’ve
become fatally addicted to--as if he wasn’t alluring
enough in all his damned beauty.

And if Hephaestion isn’t human,

Then neither is Alexander.

WHAT are these young men?

Most of all, you fear that you will never discover
the truth.

Hephaestion will slip through your fingers

And you will never know.

Never.

Today, you pressed your hand against the fine, high
planes of his facial bones, cupping his chin as you
studied with your fingers what little of his face is
not hidden behind the blindfold. It would take you
less than a minute to shatter all that beauty and make
the face Alexander adores so much into nothing but raw
red pulp.

“You haven’t got the will to do it,” he hissed,
giggling (GIGGLING).

He was right. So you commanded your busy little
hound of a eunuch Dashistas (loyal even to a master he
can’t arouse) to come bind his mouth, and then you
raped him again. Not viciously enough to kill one so
scarred and fragile, but enough to make him bleed.
Enough to keep him from regaining his health and
strenth, because you’d never be a match for him if you
ever once allowed him to become himself once more.
You’ve kept him an invalid by various means all these
months because he would grab your dagger and sever
your neck--as he has so many others during his stay in
Persepolis. He has never given you his life juices by
his own will and consent. And in spite of how he has
humiliated and tortured you, you don’t want die. You
don’t want HIM to die.

All you want is to touch him.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
--end of chapter 61--
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ****
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 54-58

2007-05-02T02:43:09Z

I don’t own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

A Dishonorable War
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Chapter 54 (WIP)
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Scribe: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
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Thanks to those who've provided chicken cyber-soup
during the endless months of no internet access and
kept me from getting discouraged enough to abandon the
story.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***
Disclaimer: AU!!!!!! Happened on Planet A, where I
control the horizontal and the vertical. The basic
notion is that things went wrong early on at the
Granicus, and all else has spun out from it. Please
don't call your lawyers on me.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Summary: If you're new or if your memory is getting
as bad as mine in trying to remember this convoluted
continuity, please refer to the Live Journal archive
for "A Dishonorable War". To summarize the entire
epic as briefly as possible: In this Alternate
Universe (Planet A), Hephaestion was taken captive by
Memnon at the Battle of the Granicus River, and things
have sucked ever since. Alexander is pissed and
taking it out on everything he considers an enemy.
Hephaestion is learning all about Persian Parties in
that Fun City Persepolis. Alexander has to vanquish
all the western port cities before he can safely move
his large army East--only Tyre remains at this point
in the story, and its future doesn't look good. By
now, King Darius has been assassinated, with his
cousin Bessus taking his place on the uneasy throne.
For Chapter 54, Memnon is defending what's left of
Tyre, and his second in command Ephialtes has sent out
a secret mission from the city.
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Warning: Talking about secks and violins
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Rating: PG-13 for talking about secks and violins
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***
Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* **
Feedback: Lots, please.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***
Chapter 54:

Ephialtes:

My stooges return from their mission none the worse
for wear, a little singed around the edges, but either
their assignment was easier than I expected--or they
failed miserably. Memnon mustn’t discover I’ve sent
Tyrian soldiers out onto the mainland; he’d disapprove
and say we need every man we’ve got within the walls:
Alexander will stake everything on one battle; he
won’t get a second chance if his first attacks falls
through.
The cursed enemy's mole is completed; his towers
and war machines rise high in the inland sky like
sentinels of death as far as the eye can see--the
black carrion birds circle the lofty nests they’ve
made in the towertops, wheeling through the thin
scrawny clouds, cawing--waiting. His expeditionary
Army is reinforced by the Greek cities who’ve thrown
in their lot with this young war King--Sparta, Thebes,
Thessaly, Corinth--all of them but Athens, which we
hear is on the brink of utter destruction.
Alexander’s attack is imminent; for once the rhythmic
sawing, nailing, forging, chopping sounds of
construction have stopped--replaced by a sickening
pall of comparative quiet broken only by the
occasional clank and clatter of mustering a huge army.

I look at my men over my table, and ask of these pale
exhausted warriors: “How did it go?”

They take turns elbowing each other, no man wanting
to be first to speak. This is no place for
timidity--I’d as soon cut off my bow arm than wantonly
kill a man who may be the one to finally rid the world
of Alexander!

I shall have to pry the answers out of them.

“I’d hoped you’d seize the chance to find Alexander,
and assassinate him.”

“ . . . he . . . was too well-guarded, sir. The camp
has watchmen and sentries posted in every trench and
hole. There was no way to reach the King.”

“Well, were you able to get to the infernal towers?
Find a little cookfire in the camp, set the towers
ablaze?”

They stare at me for quite some time, trying to
summon their nerve, afraid I’ll set upon them in my
wrath and murder them where they stand. “Fear not, my
brothers,” I sigh. “Even born soldiers such as
yourself can’t accomplish the impossible: Tell me
truthfully and I will believe you. An officer can
always hope for that rare opportunity, but I most
wanted the intelligence you could gather for me. Your
first order from me was to return here
alive--remember?”

“The towers and ballistas are fifty deep in armed
guards; we tried to get close enough to do some
damage, but it would have meant our lives. Alexander
is leaving nothing to chance--particularl y his own
person, for once--he wants us too badly to allow
himself to be injured now. We tried to get nearer the
mole to see if we could find some weakness in it, but
it seems every Greek in that camp is on sentry duty.
We even tried to steal the King’s horse.”

“Bucephalus?!” I try not to laugh. “Alexander loves
that big ugly nag even more than his pretty bedfellow
Hephaestion!”

This defuses a bit of the fear and tension, and my
poor loyal men share a guffaw amongst themselves.
“The monster horse ran off, General Ephialtes! It and
a red horse with a white mane and tail that was
paddocked with it--off like rocks out of a catapult!
You should have seen them--their necks and tails
stretched out and racing like the desert winds.”

No point in making these loyal men feel as though
they’ve failed; I keep my smile plastered across my
face. “So who gave you that shiner, Pylatias--did
King Alexander come whooping out of his royal tent and
poleax your poor eye?”

Pylatias shrugs, smiling. “If I’d gotten that close
to the Macedonian King, sir, it’d be HIM what’d be
sporting an eye socket like a melon! No, it was that
black devil-horse of his! Reared up on its hind legs
when I tried to take its halter and almost bashed my
skull in for me! The SIZE of that beast! I did
Alexander a favor, chasing off the brute--he’d look
like a little boy-baby perched up on top that giant
nag--we’d have laughed him all the way back to
Greece!”

“I can imagine.” I smile at the mental
picture--Alexander won’t look so funny to us if he
catches that big fleabag and shows up on our doorstep
with him and the rest of his Army in the morning.

“We didn’t come back empty-handed, General Ephialtes,
no, sir. We sneaked up on the horses; the beasts
didn’t even hear us because they were too busy
devouring their fodder, and there was naught to guard
them but two boys and an old man. We heard one of the
boys call the old soldier Erigyius, and he certainly
was holding forth on the lads: To hear HIM tell of
it, he’d done more labors than Hercules and killed
more enemies than Achilles--and that was only in his
spare time when he wasn’t holding up the world on his
shoulders so Atlas could go piss behind the moon! No
baboon ever thumped its chest more than that old
braggart. We got the boys, but the old man fought
like a crazed bull; we had to knock him senseless.”

“You didn’t bring the old man, too?”

“Tried to drag him along, but he started gnawing on
Blagitias’ legbones so we had to cut him loose and
settle for the lads.”

“You have them outside? Bring them to me.”

The two teenagers are happy to tell me their
names--Ancyros and Hector--along with a recitation of
how all Tyrians and Persians were born as a result of
a coupling between a hyena and a pig. I know of
Hector--only a young minor son of Parmenion so he’s
useless as a hostage--the other, Ancyros, tells me
that he is the personal page of General Hephaestion.

“Oh? Which Hephaestion, then? Hephaestion the
Whore?”

The boy stiffens his back and looks quite as if he’d
like to make a fountain out of my neck.

“You’re only a couple years younger than Hephaestion
the Whore. Are you a whore, too? Tell me, Ancyros
the Whore, has Hephaestion the Whore been teaching you
how to serve your betters? Why so silent now,
whore-boy?”

I’m angry, and I have no one to take it out on
but the children of my enemy, but this isn’t even
sport. I shouldn’t even have bothered with whole
thing--risking these good men (and Memnon’s rage upon
me) with nothing to show for their mission but a
couple of worthless brats. “Well? Speak up so we men
of arms can hear you. Or did Hephaestion the Whore
teach you to keep your mouth shut unless a real man
wants to put something interesting into it?”

Both boys refuse to speak now.

Just as well.

“Lock them in the cellars under my house--and keep a
watch on them,” I tell my poor men. “They’ll keep
just fine there for now. And if Alexander breaks
through our city walls--well, then, he can roast these
fine boys right along with us!”

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* **
--end of chapter 54
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all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

Title: "A Dishonorable War"
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Chapter 55 (WIP)
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Chief Liar: A. Lias
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Disclaimer: Alternate Universe Story. Didn't happen
here. It's all excuse to write slash. Please don't
sue me.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Summary: Not everybody at the Persian Court is
thrilled with the way Bessus is running things.
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Warning: Pissy behavior.
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Pairing: I wish.
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Archive: Wherever you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Feedback: Lots and lots.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****

Chapter 55:

Artabazus:

At first I’m astonished by how handsome these Greeks
are. A young Page shows me in to the King’s tent
(after I’ve been searched for weapons, of
course--which is highly unlikely at MY age), and I
find myself facing the seated King and a few of his
most senior officers standing protectively around him,
likely the Royal Bodyguard. I’m well aware I may not
live long enough to leave this tent, but that’s just
as well: I’m not certain I really want to live
anymore, and it’s better to die at the hands of an
enemy than a friend.

So far the Macedonians have been polite to me as
they’ve led me through their camp--more city than
camp, actually. It’s lit by thousands of braziers and
bonfires, and deafeningly loud from the cacaphony of
constructing weapons and war machines,. Every soldier
appears to be a carpenter or smith, but I’m not
allowed to see much. An officer named Coenus
suggested that I be blindfolded when I came to the
edge of the Greek camp and announced myself, but a
sharp old fellow of about my own age (called
Parmenion) perceived that I was no threat. This
meeting was followed by hours of waiting while my
request for audience with King Alexander was
considered.

The King lets me stand at attention for some several
minutes; I wouldn’t expect otherwise of him--every
King must show these formalities. At length he
speaks:

“Tonight some of your putrefying allies in Tyre tried
to steal my horse. I suppose they couldn’t find any
other mischief to work here beyond horse-thieving.
Why should I let you go on living another second,
Parthian?”

I shrug. “There’s no reason you should, actually.
You have your own spies in the Persian Court--you
probably know everything I would confide in you now.
Oh, and my congratulations on retrieving your horse.”
I silently conjure the mental picture of King
Alexander riding into glorious battle astride a
donkey--and it’s all I can do not to smile at the
image--such would mean my life now.

The King seems so young--young enough to be Darius’
child, not his contemporary. Even though
Hephaestion’s age gave me little pause to
consider--handsome young men are always present in the
company of royalty who possess a taste for them--I
wasn’t prepared for the Greek King himself to be
barely more than a teenager.

I catch my breath, feeling it rattle a bit in the
bottom of my lungs. “I would surrender to you, King
Alexander. I would be your ally.”

“What use have I for an old man of enemy blood?” the
King asks. “If I take you along after we finish Tyre,
I’ll just have yet another worthless mouth to feed.”

“I eat very little these days, Great King. You’ll
find me no burden.”

Alexander is quiet for a moment, then says, “Then
tell me what you have to say, and I’ll decide later if
I’ll let you live.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” My chest feels heavy as I
try to find my voice, as though a boulder lay upon it,
crushing my breastbone. “I don’t expect to live much
longer, Sire. But before I die, I would have
vengeance for King Darius--he was my friend. The only
friend I had left to me.”

“My spies tell me the ceiling in the royal apartments
collapsed upon the Royal Family and killed them. Had
I known that, I would have kept the women and children
with me here--at least they’d still be alive.”

“It was a source of great joy to my friend Darius
that Your Grace returned his family. I would say it
was the only comfort of his last months. I would also
tell you that your spies were misinformed: The
official story is the ceiling beams broke and killed
the family, but the truth is a different matter:
Darius was first poisoned so that he couldn’t defend
his person, then he was stabbed over and over by his
own kin. His sons--both the infant boy and the unborn
son still carried by the Queen--were hacked to bits.
His daughters--Stateira and Drypetis--leapt together
off the Palace roof that their purity not be defiled
by the pretenders.”

Alexander’s gaze is withering. His Companions stand
clustered around him, their mouths formed into silent
“o’s” of shock, but the King speaks directly. “What
of General Hephaestion, whom Darius stole from me?”

There is an audible gasp throughout the chamber, as
though the men had grown unaccustomed to hearing the
name of the King’s lost lover.

“My King took no hand in planning that affair, Your
Grace. Your officer’s abduction was planned and
ordered by the current usurper, Bessus--and his
allies. It was done to demoralize you and your
army--as well as to confuse and weaken King Darius.”

“If that is true, then why didn’t Darius return my
aide to me?”

He’s testing me. He wants to determine the extent of
my personal knowledge, to judge if I can be of benefit
to him. “He had made arrangements for Lord
Hephaestion’s safe passage to the West, King
Alexander. He agreed to the pact that Hephaestion and
the Persian Royal Family were to be conducted to
Sparta--there to wait out the war. Unfortunately,
he--along with his Immortals and the Spartan escort
provided by King Agis--were all murdered. The King
was wholly preoccupied planning a war with you, Sire.
He was overwhelmed by conflicting advice. It was not
within King Darius to distrust his own people--nay,
his own blood--and believe they were not acting in the
best interest of the throne and the nation.”

“The more fool, him,” Alexander says darkly. “A King
can trust no one.”

“He trusted your man General Hephaestion. They
became friends of sorts, and did their best for each
other. Darius protected Lord Hephaestion at court
from those who would do him harm; in turn, Lord
Hephaestion tried to save Darius--even at grave risk
to his own life.”

Then Alexander gets around to the question he’s been
dying to ask since I set foot in this camp. “And how
fares General Hephaestion now?”

“He remains locked up, confined within Darius’ old
apartments. No one has beaten him. He is kept
clothed and fed, and he has the run of the late King’s
library and rooftop gardens. Darius gave him a young
eunuch as his body slave.”

The Greek King nods, as if he was simply assimilating
the information, but when his eyes blink, they stay
closed longer. “So I am to understand that no one at
the Persian Court has abused a dear friend who means
more to me than my own existence?”

I take a deep breath. “You play with an old man,
Young King, but I’ll not allow even you to make me say
my own death sentence.” I add a low bow, ere he
strike me dead where I stand. “You are said to be
the most cruel and bloodthirsty King to ever draw
breath into his lungs.”

Alexander laughs, a frightening alchemy of mirth and
scorn ringing throughout the tent. “There isn’t
enough blood on the entire continent to satisfy this
thirst of mine, old man!!!! I will drink blood from
one end of this land to the other, like a pig in a
trough! And when I can drink no more, I will plow up
every last inch of your ground under with salt--that
no creature can ever again call this desolate place
its home! I REJOICE in your misery--and no suffering
of these peoples will EVER be enough!”

He stands, and I suddenly see the full beauty of
Alexander--as well as the terror. His yellow eyes
shine like those of a rabid wolf drunk upon gore.
When he shakes his head, I see the dark curled horns
of whispered legend hidden beneath his wild crown of
thick golden curls. He isn’t a tall man, but there
is strength and power coiled within his compact body
like unto that of a king cobra. He is a dreadful
creature--every bit the worst monster of our
nightmares. Perhaps once he could have become our
King and ruled over all these lands as a just and
noble overlord, but the loss of his treasured one has
twisted him into a ravening lion and relentless
destroyer of nations.

“But I do like you, old man--I admire your nerve in
coming here! I will spare your wretched life if you
will perform a small task for me. This is to prove
your sincerity in declaring yourself my ally.”

“Name your price, Great King.”

“You will return to Persepolis and there you will
arrange to see my Lord Hephaestion. You will give him
a message directly from me: Tell him to take heart in
my promise and hold fast to my unwavering love for
him; tell him that I am coming to set him free--and no
devil from Hell can stand in my way.”

I try not to tremble before this man who is a
maelstrom of murderous fury. He need not vocalize the
fact that he will kill all of us thousands of
agonizing times if his Hephaestion dies.

“And you have more to lose than just your own rotten
skin!” He smirks at me. “I know there is another
boon you would beg of My Majesty. Out with it, old
man!”

“As you appear already informed, King Alexander,
there is little point in my speaking further.”

“I want to see your pride broken before you leave my
presence, you Persian swine.”

If he would have me plead on my hands and knees, so
be it. “Your Majesty is aware that my daughter
Barsine is within the walls of Tyre. I beg you spare
her.”

He laughs again, cruel, smiling like a demon, and I
see there is no limit to his boundless hatred of us.
“Not only am I aware that your daughter is in Tyre, I
also know she is the wife of
Memnon--the man I despise most in all the world. But
let it not be said Alexander is incapable of mercy.
Give me your word that you will assure Lord
Hephaestion of my coming approach--and I will spare
your daughter’s life.”

He sees the unspoken question in my eyes and says
flatly. “Come, Artabazus. Give me your answer or
else: Go to Persepolis and comfort Hephaestion so
that you and your daughter may live. Refuse me and I
will kill you now where you stand. I will KNOW if you
don’t carry through on your vow.” Of course he will.
Entire legions of spies earn their keep from men like
Alexander and Bessus.

“Shall I parley on your behalf for your officer’s
release?”

“No. There will be no negotiations. I will march
East when there is nothing at the back of Parthia but
rancor--and I will take back what is mine.”

“Would you have me warn the Court of your intentions,
Sire? Perhaps Bessus and his cousins would give up
your officer if they understood the extent of your
anger.”

“I warn them with every step I take, old man. They
know of me, and I will come for them all when the wind
is at my back and the sun is in their eyes.”

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******
--end of chapter 55
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: "A Dishonorable War"

Chapter 56 (WIP)

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Disclaimer: Alternate Universe. Ditto ditto ditto.
If Alexander isn't rising from the dead to sue me, you
shouldn't consider it, either.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Summary: Meanwhile, back in Persepolis . . .

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Warning: The usual carnage and talk of carnage.

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Pairing: None really, but Hephaestion and Bagoas DO
share a kind moment.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Rating: Probably PG

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Archive: Anywhere you like, but no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******
Feedback: Lots, please, preferably positive.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ****

Chapter 56:

Bagoas:

When Abdalonymus has dragged the corpse of Nabarzanes
outside to dispose of it in the cisterns, my lord
draws me to his breast, encircling my shoulders with
his arm. “Faithful Bagoas,” he says sadly, almost at
a gentle whisper. Then I feel his arm tighten about
me like a band of iron, and I realize with some shock
that he could crush me if he chose. He ratchets up
his grip until I can barely breathe. “Please, Lord,”
I gasp. “Don’t kill your servant.”

He loosens up only a little, until I’m able to draw a
small breath. “You would do well remember your own
words: You are my servant.”

I nod, shaking in spite of the vise he holds me in.
“I meant no displeasure to My Lord. I could only see
Nabarzanes molesting and taunting my master, and could
bear no more of his wickedness. I love you, master.
I would rather die myself than see you hurt.”

The menacing grip around my shoulder suddenly becomes
a hug, and I bury my face in his warm throat, unable
to resist the desire to kiss the tender skin above his
collarbone now that I know he bears me no malice and
will not punish me. Lord Hephaestion is a good judge
of men, and he realizes my sincerity. “I didn’t want
this for you, Bagoas. I’d hoped you’d be able to
return to your own people eventually, but that isn’t
possible now that you’ve done murder for my sake.”

“WHAT people?!” I cry out, my mouth against his
neck. “I have nothing but you, dear Lord!
These--animals- -butchered my family--the one I was
born into as well as the one I’ll never have, thanks
to their gelding me to make a pet for themselves!
Have you ANY idea how much I hate ALL of them?!!
They’ve taken everything from me--even hope!”

“We always have hope, child. As long as Alexander
lives, there’s hope for us.”

“At least YOU are loved!” I hit his chest with my
feeble fists, knowing I can’t hurt him, but so
frustrated and frightened I have to strike out against
SOMETHING. “Your King is coming for you! HE loves
you! You have wives and they love you! A father and
mother who love you! My Drypetis loved you! I’ve
lived all my life that I can remember without love!
YOU have hope, but I have none! How can I bear my
life? If you won’t permit me to serve you, then kill
me according to your pleasure!”

I feel his hand sift through my hair. “Child,” he
whispers.

“I’m NOT a child so stop calling me one! We’re
almost the same age!” I sob forlorn into his breast.
“I’m not a boy anymore--but I’ll never be a MAN! I’ll
never be anything but a--a--FREAK!”

He presses a kiss against my temple and says, so very
gently. “What lies between your legs doesn’t make you
a man, dear friend. It’s what dwells in your
heart--your spirit--it’s the cast of your hands, the
courage in your soul--THESE are the measures of a man.
And I tell you true: You ARE a man, Bagoas. And
now--like me--you are a soldier.”

He takes my hand in his, then notices the bandage and
turns my palm up so he can remove the gauze and look
at the wound he made on my hand the night Drypetis
died. I don’t think he remembers much of that
terrible eve because he was raving mad; he cocks his
head to the side as he examines my palm--even yet
unhealed. “You’ve been burned down to the bone
itself, Bagoas!” He mercifully doesn’t touch the
crater in my palm. “This is the gristle, and those
are the blood vessels that weave together just above
the bones. How did you burn yourself so?”

“I got too close to the fire.” This much is true.
Bel please don’t let him ask me more.

My lord is absorbed in studying the wound. “It’s not
infected,” he says, very clinical and careful of it.
“Odd, I’ve never seen anything like this: The vessels
were cauterized in the process of the flesh being
burned off, so it doesn’t appear to have bled at all.”

“No, master, it didn’t bleed.”

“Does it hurt?” His voice is full of compassion for
me, and makes my heart ache.

I won’t tell him that the nerves were burned away
with the meat; I don’t want him to worry about me.
“No, Lord. Come now, would you like to play a bit at
Hounds and Hares with me?”

“Hounds and Hares? We only recently learned that
game--when we were in Egypt. How did you come to know
it, Bagoas?” Good: He is distracted from my wound.

“There are many ways for a pleasure slave to do his
work, my Lord. Sometimes his masters wish to be
sexed, sometimes comforted and set at ease--at other
times, they wish only to be amused. I am adept at ALL
games of chance, sir.”

“Well, thanks to poisoning a member of the Persian
Court, little Bagoas, you now gamble with your own
life. I’ll do all I can to protect you, but you must
understand utterly that I will always do first that
which is in the best interests of my King
Alexander--even if your life is forfeit because of my
committment to him.”

I kneel and take his hands to kiss. “Let it be with
me as my Lord wills.”

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***
--end of chapter 56
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ***
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: "A Dishonorable War"

************ ********* ********* ********* *****
Chapter 57:

************ ********* ********* ********* ******
Chief Liar: A. Lias

************ ********* ********* ********* ********

Disclaimer: Alternate Universe Story, a play upon
varying the actual historical events to make them more
fun for me, dirty little cow that I am. Took place on
Planet A. I'm really tired of having to type this out
every time.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ****
Warning: Greeks Behaving Badly.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ****
Summary: When we last saw Craterus, he had left the
Macedonian Army and headed West, wishing to redeem
himself for past mean deeds toward Hephaestion
(chapter 19, I THINK); now in Persia, he calls himself
"Cratorius" (nobody ever said Craterus was the most
imaginative geek around). Please see the ADW Live
Journal archive for all preceding chapters. There was
also a nasty dude from Epirus called Chares, whose
intentions toward Hephaestion (if he can finally catch
up with him) are of an entirely different nature.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Pairing: Nobody in this chapter, unfortunately.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ****
Rating: Probably PG-13.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Archive: Wherever you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Feedback: Lots would be appreciated, preferably
positive. Please refer first back to the story itself
for questions, and forgive me if I can't always
remember my own continuity.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****

Chares:

I don’t even remember what we were brawling about.
Thank Dionysus that a man can still find a good
tavern, even in Parthia--but I shouldn’t have been
drinking so much those several months ago. I have a
mission to carry out, and my Queen Olympias would skin
my face if she could see me now. It seems I got into
an argument with some Athenian wretch named Cratorius,
and we ended up in a Persian prison, thrown under the
streets and left to rot together in a dank hole.

Cratorius isn’t fit company, either. He’s a big
morose bastard who just sits in the corner of our cell
and doesn’t speak to me at all. I yell whenever I
hear anyone about in the corridors beyond our locked
door, but nobody ever answers--bowls of scanty,
tasteless gruel slide under the door once a day, and
hours later, someone comes and takes the empty bowls
after we push them back under the door. No one has
bothered to explain to us exactly why we’re locked up
or when we’ll be judged for whatever crime we’ve done.
Apparently, holding reasonable trials for accused men
isn’t a benefit to living in Persepolis.

It’s raining outside--again- -who would have thought a
desert land like Parthia got such constant deluges?
And cold, cold, cold--Dionysus, isn’t this supposed to
be an arid desert land where a man can fry his meat on
the very rocks?

Just to rile him and maybe get some conversation out
of him, I say, “I hear that Apollo has fallen into a
deep pit and no longer drives his chariot across the
sky to bring the sun. It would explain this endless
winter, eh?”

Cratorius doesn’t answer at all--nothing new about
that. He just continues to sit with his arms wrapped
around his knees, staring at the dark stone walls.

Bastard.

Maybe they cut out his tongue when we were arrested.

It’d serve him right.

Bastard.

So I spend a few hours puttering around our cell like
I do every day. Cratorius doesn’t respond when I take
his blanket and use it to sop up some rainwater that’s
seeped into my corner.

Nothing from him.

Bastard.

I pick up his food bowl and piss into it.

Hrumph!

Maybe he’s a simpleton, or an idiot.

I’m seriously considering throwing the bowl of piss
at him, wondering if THAT will rouse him from his
silent watch--but I hear a rusty bolt being thrown at
our door.

Someone has come to see us!

Whether to release us or kill us, I don’t know--but I
crave any sort of human contact so desperately I run
to the door and try to help pull it open.

Oh, shit. It’s some silly eunuch with a bunch of
guards. Is THIS the best I can get for company?! A
mutilated freak that’s not even a man or a woman?

Oh, but he’s a pretty thing, all decked out in his
fancy silk robes. He wrinkles his little nose as
though we stink. Good--I hope we do! Get a good
whiff of what a real man smells like, you abomination!

The eununch straightens his robes and glances around
to make sure his guard is still with him. They don’t
look any happier to be in his presence than we are.
Then he stands to his full height (not easy when the
ceiling is so low!) and says all pompously to
Cratorius and me: “I am Dashistas, chief eunuch of
Great King Bessus, Lord of All Asia . . . “

And so forth. The poor mite is almost out of breath
by the time he finishes reciting all his master’s
titles. Then he goes on to remind us that as Greek
mercenaries gone over to the Achaemenids, we are
marked for death by Alexander and we must be loyal to
Good King Bessus down to our very last breath or else
we’ll be tossed to the Macedonians for carving
practice. I wish the little cunt would tell us
something we DIDN’T know.

Finally (finally!), he gets around to the purpose of
his visit. It seems that Cratorius and I have been
chosen for some light duty. Dashistas tells us some
high-born denizen of the Persian Court (yet another
Royal Cousin) called Nabarzanes has turned up missing
and is feared dead--likely at the hands of an
important Macedonian hostage being kept in the Palace.
No, no search parties have been organized (apparently
this Nabarzanes isn’t THAT important to King Bessus)
and no retribution is being planned, but they’ve
decided to replace all the mercenaries assigned to
guard the trophy. Cratorius and I are elected to lead
this merry band--there are to be TWO commanders of the
detail so that one can watch the other.

Dionysus has answered my prayers!

I know very well who this hostage is, and a better
opportunity couldn’t have been dropped in my lap by
the god himself. It is a sign from him that he still
desires the completion of my sacred mission to finish
the task begun so many years ago by my Queen Olympias!

For Dionysus!

************ ********* ********* ********* **
--end of chapter 57--
************ ********* ********* ********* **
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 52-53

2006-12-15T16:46:01Z

I don’t own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"

Chapter 52
************ ********* ********* ********* *********
Writer (Chief Liar): A. Lias

Summary: While the Macedonian army continues its
siege of Tyre, how is Hephaestion faring 'way off in
Persepolis?

Warning: None much for this chapter. Just the usual
violence and yak-yak-yak.

Pairings: Nobody

Rating: R for Violence and Conspiracy

Disclaimer: This is all AU, happening on Planet A
where I am goddess of everything, so history happens
according to my whim. Please don't sue me.

Archive: Wherever you wish, just no e-mail links to
me, please.

Feedback: As much as possible, on or off list. The
life of a fan writer is very lonely.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****

Chapter 52:

Abdalonymus:

There is a window in the King’s apartment which looks
out over the rooftop garden, and I often look in on
the royal hostage to see how he’s doing. I pity the
poor boy--and his eunuch slave with him. At least in
my own captivity, there are no chains and gaolers; I
have employment and a small house in the servants’
section of Persepolis. As my kinship to Cyrus himself
was more direct than that of the late King Darius, I
was taken from my home city of Sidon and put to work
in the lush flower beds of the private gardens of the
palace. Darius seemed to enjoy the idea of my being a
gardener, and I’m grateful to have kept my life and a
modium of personal liberty; after all, I have done
nothing to the current regime except choose a bit more
august lineage, and I have no will to make myself a
King. I don’t really mind spending my days tending
the lush plantlife of the King’s garden; it is an
existence free of intrigue and enemies.

The Macedonian prisoner is my opposite; he is
suffocated by the boredom and oppression of his days
and nights; he is watched and tormented without
respite. He seems far too young for this sort of
misery, but I hear that his master, the bloody King
Alexander, is only about his own age. Children grow
up too quickly nowadays. They die too quickly, as
well--the magnificent rooftop garden seems empty
without Darius’ daughters and son running around and
playing in it: The girls took their own lives leaping
over the parapet there. Of course I must not ever
repeat such if I value my head’s attachment to my
neck; we peasants have been told that King Darius and
his family died when a faulty ceiling collapsed in
their private areas.

It is in the course of my watching that I have seen
these things--

And that I see the lord Nabarzanes collapse to the
floor within the hostage’s chambers.

I’ve seen enough young people murdered lately that I
can stand no more of it--especially on account of
vermin like Nabarzanes.

My neck isn’t THAT valuable.

So I hurry unannounced into the luxurious prison,
past its two occupants, and ensure that the heavy door
is still bolted firmly. Bagoas the eunuch is
attempting to push the chains between his master’s
wrists out of the grasp of a big metal hook in the
floor, but he hasn’t the strength. “Look to your
master, boy!” I warn him with a finger to my lips
while I pull at the chains. The metal links are too
thick for the anchor hook, so it takes a great deal of
tugging to pull them free. I take a second to catch my
breath, then help the eunuch assist his lord to sit
down on the edge of his bed.

“What of Nabarzanes?” I ask in a hushed voice.

“He is dead.” Bagoas answers me haphazardly, more
intent on removing the cloth tied around his master’s
mouth.

“You poisoned him then?” asks the Macedonian when he
can speak again.

“Yes.” Bagoas looks away. “I put it in the wine. I
can bear no more of this.”

The Macedonian grabs the boy’s face in both his
shackled hands and forces his head up to look him in
the eye. He suddenly seems much older than I know him
to be, and abruptly his pretty face is hard and stern
and baleful. “You will bear whatever you must,
Bagoas. Any killing in these rooms is to be at MY
discretion-- is that understood?”

The eunuch is on the brink of profuse weeping. “I
did it for YOU, Master!”

“You forget yourself. Did it ever occur to you that
I might have plans of my own for Nabarzanes?”

“He is swine!” sobs the boy. “I couldn’t stand
seeing his smarmy hands on my lord another minute.
Forgive me, lord, but I can only take so much!”

The anger dissolves from the Greek’s eyes, and he
relents, putting his hands over the boy’s head and
drawing him against his throat. “Poor Bagoas,” he
sighs. “I’m afraid you’re past the point of no return
now.” He looks up at me. “And you also,
Abdalonymus- -that you are witness to this.”

“You know my name, lord?”

The Greek nods. “Abdalonymus of Sidon, direct
descendent of Cyrus the Great. I am very aware of who
you are. I’ve been hoping to find a chance to have a
word with you, but these aren’t the circumstances I
would have chosen.” He shivers, then pulls the
sleeping furs over his torn, disheveled robes,
ignoring the fact that Bagoas and I are both standing
there with our mouth agape.

“Do the cisterns for the Garden link to the palace
water supply?” he sharply asks of me.

“Not all, my lord. There are a few of them to store
wastewater, and those drain into the pipes that
eventually go to the river.”

“Good. We don’t want to poison our own drinking
water.” Lord Hephaestion narrows his eyes until they
are mere slits of cold blue. “Sir Abdalonymus, please
dump the corpse into the deepest of them all. Don’t
let yourself be seen doing it. For better or worse,
you’ve both now cast your lots with me.”

“Mine has always been with you, my master,” whispers
the boy, tearful and grateful to apparently be
escaping punishment. At least for now.

The Greek hugs the eunuch more tightly and says to
him, “We’ll talk more about this later.” at which the
boy cringes again. To me he says, “Do it now--before
the sun rises any more, and while we are still alone.
If anyone asks either of you if you have seen
Nabarzanes, tell them he came here--then went, and he
didn’t tell you where he planned to go.”

“What about the guards outside?” I ask.

“They’re so drunk they’re pissing their pants out
there,” is Lord Hephaestion’s assessment of the
situation. “But they’ll be changed for this. We’ll
have to learn a new herd.”

I don’t know what this man is--with his inhumanly
luminous skin and eyes, and a body temperature so high
I can feel it from several feet away, but he is no
child and there is a lot more to him than meets the
eye. He is right; I am his man now, and have no other
choice.

I kneel before this strange and ferocious creature
that I have never glimpsed before. “Grace be to you,
my lord--I am your servant.”

He nods, and gestures for me to rise. “Your days of
genuflecting are almost at an end, Sir Abdalonymus.
Go now and dispose of the--carcass. From this time
on, you will report everything you see and hear to
me.”

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
--end of chapter 52--
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Chapter 53
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******
Summary: Brief musings of the Indian King Porous, who
has just arrived in Persepolis.

Warning: Just for too much cogitating in the interest
of plot advancement.

Disclaimer: AU, I don't own it in this reality.
Please don't send lawyers, guns, and money.

Rating: G

Pairing: Nobody

Archive: Wherever you please, just no e-mail links to
me please.

Feedback: Lots, please. And do be kind to a lonely
person who yearns to spin stories and gets nothing
from this except the hope of her own and your
pleasure.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******

Chapter 53:

Porous:

At least Bessus is smart enough not to give command
of the army to Charidemus, no matter how profusely the
Athenian general and his dear friend Demosthenes bruit
about for it. Charidemus has the gall to refer to
himself as another Memnon. What a buffoon. There is
only one Memnon; I fear his like will never again be
seen by this world. As far as I know, he still
survives--as does Tyre--but it won’t be for long. I
just hope they can hold out long enough for me to
train some scant military discipline into this rabble
of farmers before Alexander can make his way east
across the desert. The supreme command is apparently
to be shared between Spitamenes (a man who boils with
almost as much hatred for Macedonia as Demosthenes)
and myself.

As a sworn vassal King, I’ve made the journey up from
India to Persepolis at the command of the new Great
King of Persia. Bessus, yet another of the royal
Achaemenid cousins. I wasn’t surprised to hear that
Darius and his entire family had perished when the
ceiling of their dining hall fell in upon them; the
pack of royal cousins has ever been rather
accident-prone- -particularly when one of them ascends
the throne. I wouldn’t be shocked in the least to be
told by one of the courtiers that Bessus has choked to
death upon some pomegranate seeds and Mithradates is
the new King of Kings. I AM shocked, though, to learn
that several score of my fellow Immortals are
mysteriously dead--and replaced by hordes of Greek
mercenaries. Those Immortals who guarded Darius and
his household were the finest warriors in the Empire,
they were my brothers in many hardfought battles,
noble warriors all--how could they have been wiped out
to a man, and so quietly?

I hear rumors of blood, murder, and madness within
these gilded walls of Persepolis. Meanwhile the
war-maker Alexander sets ablaze every crumb of Eastern
land he sets foot upon, bent on vengeance and pillage,
and the new mountains of Parthia are formed of heaps
of corpses. This Greek mass-murderer must be stopped
in Persia before he can march upon my India.

There is apparently some hope of Carthage joining us
as allies, but if she’s only as fit to war as
Athens--well, then we are in dire trouble. Athens is
beset by Macedon, Thebes, Sparta, Corinth, Ephesus,
Egypt--even Rhodes--at present and is expected to fall
at any time.

But Athens deserves whatever it gets. It’s up to me
to make certain that my India is spared the fate
awaiting both Athens and Persepolis when Alexander is
finally victorious.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
--end of chapter 53--
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War Chapter 50-51

2006-11-15T02:59:58Z

I don’t own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"

Chapter 50

Writer: A. Lias (doesn't have the guts to call
herself an "author"; Chief Liar is more like it)

Summary: In this long long long epic, Hephaestion was
captured by the Persians at the Battle of the Granicus
River, and has been imprisoned for quite some time in
Persepolis. He has seen a few changes since then:
The Persian capital has moved to Persepolis and
Babylon abandoned (to put more distance between the
Persian Court and Alexander). Currently, Alexander is
laying seige to Tyre, which is commanded by the
mercenary Memnon. King Darius of Persia has been
assassinated, along with his entire family, and has
been replaced by his cousin Bessus. There's a LOT
more detail than that, but I'm hurrying to finish new
material, and the recent list member can always look
up previous chapters if they're interested.

Warning: Attempted rape, non-con, references to
underaged sex, violence, mind games, you know, the
usual fun.

Rating: R for smut.

Pairing: Nabarzanes/Hephaest ion

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, and if I do, it
didn't happen on THIS planet. Please don't sue me.

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

Feedback: Yes, I would like some, on or off list.
It's been a LONG time.
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******

Chapter 50:

Nabarzanes:

I always look forward to my visits with the
Macedonian hostage; I find them so entertaining. Of
course I’ve sent orders that he be prepared in
advance: I would be an utter fool to approach him if
he’s not chained tightly before I even cross the
threshold of his chambers.

The Greek mercenaries snap to at my approach (or at
least, they pretend to); I’ve taught them the woes of
showing disrespect: Last week I had one of them sent
to the dark prisons below the palace for being
impertinent to me--that big fellow from
Athens--Cratorius, I think his name was--had the gall
to say I had no right to come question the prisoner.
Of course all the jackals know that when we royal
cousins say we are here to interrogate the prisoner,
it really means we wish to sex him. Most of the
mercenaries would happily join in--but a King’s own
whore is reserved only for those of the noblest blood.
It wouldn’t do for common hirelings (and foreigners,
at that!) to fuck the concubine of even an enemy king.

Upon entering, I bid the eunuch Bagoas to prepare a
tray of cheese, olives, and wine for me. The
insolent little slave glares daggers at me, but does
as he’s told. I hear he’s become devoted to his
master, and frankly, it surprises me that the King
hasn’t seen fit to remove this comfort from the
Macedonian.

I find the hostage sitting on a thick pallet on the
floor, bundled into several layers of fur in spite of
the cheerful fire near him. His wrists are secure in
their golden shackles, tethered to a ring in the floor
that allows him no slack in case he should get ideas
about trying to get our necks beneath his chains (he’s
done it before). Even his broken arm is cuffed.
Strange stuff that King Bessus put on the arm--a
semisolid white substance that dried and became hard
and rigid--an invention of the King he calls plaster
casting. The King is seldom seen these days; he
spends most of his time in that area of the dungeons
he calls a “laboratory”. Before he encased the
hostage’s broken arm in the “plaster”, he appears to
have invented a machine of sorts that allowed him to
see through the skin and muscle of the arm down to the
bones, and set them correctly into place before
splinting the arm in “plaster”. This captive is very
precious to His Majesty, and must be cared for
properly.

“Good evening, Lord Hephaestion.” I sit down on the
comfortable chair facing him--close enough to look
upon him, but well out of his reach. “It constantly
amazes me that you remain so beautiful in spite of
being locked away from the world--how long?--has it
really been an entire year we’ve had the pleasure of
your company?”

He’s very well aware of this anniversary. I don’t
expect him to speak to me (I’d probably faint if he
ever actually acknowledges my presence), and he
doesn’t disappoint there--but he does frown. From
what I hear, he’s counted every last minute of his
captivity. But he lifts his head, shaking back a wild
cascade of bronze hair that gathers light from the
lamps and casts it about the room like glowing knives,
and glares sullenly at me.

“Dear one, I hate to see you chained like an animal.”

His _expression doesn’t change.

“I saved you, you know,” I remind him again. “Had I
not gotten you safely away from that banquet and
commanded you be taken back to your apartments, you
would probably have died with the rest of Darius’
family. You COULD show me a little more gratitude.”

A tiny light flickers in his icy blue eyes, and I
fancy I see the formation of a tear. But it’s gone in
an instant, before I can be certain I’ve seen it.

It’s enough to pounce on. “They say you loved the
little princess Drypetis. How can that be--a King’s
catamite in love with a woman? Oh, I forgot--Greeks
will fuck anything on legs, won’t they?” I lean a
little closer, confident that he can’t get his hands
on me. “Whatever will King Alexander say to THAT now,
I wonder? Will he be jealous of a dead woman?”

The mention of the late Princess is always a sore
subject with him, no matter how he tries to hide it.
“Do you really imagine that she would have--could
have--loved you if she’d known EXACTLY what you are?”

His teeth clench together a bit harder as he bites
back on the retort he probably had waiting for me.
Good. He’s angry now, and that didn’t take any time
at all.

“I know I’m not supposed to divulge any intelligence
of the war to you, but I feel you SHOULD be informed
of one thing, my Lord Hephaestion. Your King
Alexander still dallies about at Tyre while you rot in
this place. Every day he delays, you become just a
bit more pale, a shade thinner. He probably won’t
even want you by then--IF he ever gets around to
dragging his beloved army all the way across the
murderous desert--you look sickly, my young lord--and
weak. I hear Alexander hates anything weak and
sickly.”

The handsome head drops, but barely enough to
perceive.

I stand up and circle him, still careful to remain
out of his reach. “You are a man of war, my lord.
You know how to rid yourself and your company of a man
you loathe, or have grown tired of, don’t you? You
simply put him in the front of the battle line, then
isolate him from protection so that he will be quickly
killed in the advance. Haven’t you asked yourself
this question, over and over again in your mind? You
have always ridden at the left of King Alexander--as
closely guarded as he himself in battle--I’ve heard
that your fellow Companion cavalry members would--if
they had to make a choice--defend you even before they
would look to their King, because they feared
Alexander’s rage should anything untoward happen to
you--his favorite.”

I tighten my circle, as much as is safe for me.
“Yet, at the Granicus River, ‘King’ Alexander sent you
from his side--to command the Sacred Band of Thebes.
Fine warriors, yes, but foot soldiers, and
unaccustomed to going into battle on horseback.
Alexander would have known they couldn’t serve as
appropriate protection for you. Has it ever occurred
to you that your beloved Alexander might have grown
bored with you, frail Hephaestion, and exposed you at
the Granicus?”

I hear the sharp intake of his breath.

“This was not a spontaneous decision on the part of
your King, my dear one. Our spies knew about his
plan--and informed us--WEEKS before he announced you
were being reassigned from the Royal Guard to the
Sacred Band. We KNEW where we could find you.”

His shoulders shudder--involuntar ily, but it’s still
there.

I kneel behind him, clamping my arm around his chest
and holding him against my chest while my other hand
finds it way into his fur wraps. “Alexander wanted
you to die, sweet child. WE saved your life,” I
whisper, the delicate skin below his ear is hot and
feverish beneath my lips. “What allegiance do you owe
the Macedonian warlord NOW?”

He speaks to me for the first time ever, his voice
choked and dry. “It’s not a soldier’s place to
question the will of his King.”

My questing hand finds his tender flesh, and I begin
to fondle his uninterested genitals. “You could be so
much more than just a soldier here, my Lord
Hephaestion.” I kiss an ear lobe. “King Bessus would
give you command of all our armies and navies if you
would but accept it. And more. If you would give
yourself to him, he would lift you up above all others
in the world. Honor and glory would fall at your feet
like ripe grapes; you would be crowned with gold
instead of chained by it.”

He tries to pull himself away from me, but I have a
good hold on him. I let him see my hand emerge from
his sleeping furs, my fingers dip into the golden
vessel of olive oil which has been left for this exact
purpose--then I quickly slide one of them into his
body, adoring the heat and tightness of him while he
stills at my touch.

“No wonder you’re so fragile, my dear one.” I work my
finger in gently, unwiling to hurt him no matter how
much he hates me. “You’ve been raped by someone
vicious and cruel. These hard, unforgiving inner
scars had to have been made when you were quite young.
Tell me, lord Hephaestion- -did Alexander do this
to you?”

He screams and bolts out of my grasp, but the chains
bring him up short and he pitches forward--fortuntely
for him, his pretty face lands on the pallet. I
scramble after him, lying prone upon his back so that
I can pin him beneath me and push his furs up to his
waist. My free hand is uncontrollable now as it
roves over his smooth young rump, greedy to claim his
entrace again. “Tell me who did this, Hephaestion!
Tell me who raped you when you were a little child!”

It’s as though I’ve hacked open all his nerves and
laid them bare. He’s fighting like a lion cub now;
even chained and ill, he comes close to throwing me
off.

“Bring the guards!” I snarl at the horrified Bagoas.

The mercenaries rush in, but then stop and stand
guffawing at the sight we make. “Stop laughing and
hold him down!” I bellow, trying to scissor his legs
with my own. I backhand the exposed side of his face,
regretting the action even as I do it. Bessus would
torture me to death if I scarred him!

The hired soldiers only snicker. “My money’s on the
boy!” chortles one of them.

I decide to ignore them.

I find my engorged member and try to guide it into
the hostage.

But it seems that his childhood rapist has done him a
favor--at least, in this moment. Try as I might, I
can’t breach him. He’s snarling, twisting, spitting,
clawing, striking out, kicking at me--I can’t even
hold him any longer.

I pull loose and hurl myself away--out of his furious
reach, then hurriedly staighten to my full height and
(attempt to nonchalantly) adjust my garments.
Hephaestion continues to try to lunge at me like a
rabid tiger in his chains, provoking no small modicum
of glee from his guards.

“You would be wise to reconsider your behavior,
stupid Macedonian piglet!” I aim a kick in his
direction, but miss connecting-- oh, well, I was never
meant to be a soldier. “King Bessus won’t tolerate
this! HE’LL make you regret it!”

It seems that the prisoner knows more of our language
than he’s let on to me before: He lets loose with a
string of filthy epithets, calling me every foul name
he knows--which add up to quite a few.

“Will you be needing us any more, ‘Lord’ Nabarzanes?
You appear safe now,” one of the mercenaries snorts.

“Get out!” I scream, and my voice seems oddly
high-pitched.

Shaking, I draw a hand across my beard and lean
against a table for support.

Bagoas stands across from me and his foaming master,
his face impassive as always. “Don’t just STAND there,
you worthless freak! Gag him so I can hear myself
think for a second--then pour me some wine!”

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******
--end of chapter 50--
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: A Dishonorable War
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****
Chapter 51 (More chapters have been written and are
awaiting polishing before posting).
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****

Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)

Summary: Let's see how the war with Athens is going.
They're in deep doo-doo with Alexander, remember?

Disclaimer: If I own any of this, it's in my skull
and hopefully in your hearts. Please don't sue me.

Warning: Referrals of violence

Thank You: To my beta and shoulder to cry on--Denise!
And to my dear Myr (you are the best!). Also thanks
and blessing wished for Northern Light and Angstman,
who have stuck with me while I've been in Computerless
Limboland.

Rating: PG-13 for talk of violence

Pairings: Nobody gets any in this chapter, you greedy
fooks. Go back to Chapter 50.

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

Feedback: It's been so long, I've forgotten what it
felt like.

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *****

Chapter 51:

From Isocrates:

To Lord General Amyntor:

Greetings, old friend. First, let me thank you
warmly for your kind offer of asylum. It would be a
joy to see you again, and talk about old times over a
skin of good Mareotis wine. I would also love to meet
your companions-- Admiral Nearachus, General Antigonus,
General Coroneus, and the wise young King Agis. Two
of King Alexander’s finest officers, the commander of
the Sacred Band of Thebes, and the King of Sparta--not
to mention your own prowess on the field of
battle--Athens is done for. I would that I could make
shift to take your offer, drag my old bones up onto a
donkey’s back, and leave this beautiful city as it
crumbles and burns--but my heart still beats for the
glory days of Athens, and I fear it would finally
break in two should I leave it now.

Of course you know we have no defenses left--most of
our young men have died and all that remains are
prattling old fools like myself, a few women and
children, any animal or fowl fast enough to keep
itself from being caught and eaten. My assistant
Mathius tells me some of the women have resorted to
eating their own young, but I put my hands over my
ears before he can tell me much more of such horror.

How great Pericles would weep if he could see his
jewel city now! Even the dead Macedonian King Phillip
would weep at the sight of the pitiful ruin Athens has
become. Soon, it will be nothing but ashes.

Understand I have no love lost for the loathesome
thing Athens has become. Pericles tried his best to
prevent the rise of the career politician; he foresaw
the unspeakable evil that oozes from the soul of a
greedy man who sucks too long at the public teat.
Poor Pericles would tear his robes and roll in the
mud, overcome by shame at us--at the beauty of his
vision twisted by such atrocities as making allies
with the Persians instead of uniting behind our lawful
King as free men ought, stealing our princes and
giving them over to barbarians, shedding the blood of
our own countrymen-- can cannibalism indeed be far off?
I, too, weep, dear old friend--we are lost because of
Demosthenes, and our weakness for yielding to his
honeyed propaganda. We were like sheep who closed our
eyes and pretended that the wolves could not see us
merely because we couldn’t see ourselves.

For that, I deserve the wrath of Alexander as much as
any man yet left alive in Athens. We few wait for
you, old friend--please do be merciful and put us to
death quickly, one and all. I beg you: Do not let
your younger compatriots sell the last of Athens into
slavery. I couldn’t bear it.

I pray to Zeus for the return of your child to you,
and to King Alexander. My old eyes will never again
look upon a united Greece, but may your Hephaestion
live to see it flourish once more in this poor ravaged
land. And if the golden ages can be aspired to once
more, I shall look toward King Alexander to bring
them--for we have no other hope left.

--Isocrates

************ ********* ********* ********* ********* ******
--end of chapter 51--
************ ********* ********* ********* ********* *******
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 49

2006-08-25T09:23:28Z

I don’t own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"
Chapter 49/WIP
*****************************************************
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)

Summary: Philotas does some investigating.

Warning: No slash, although everyone is still
thinking about it.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. I wish I did.
Alexander won't sue me, so why should you?

Pairing: Nobody, but it's on their minds, trust me.

Rating: PG-13 for Wars and Rumors of Wars

Feedback: The more you give me, the more jazzed and
less lazy I am.

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
****************************************************

Chapter 49:

Philotas:

How I love my Antigone! A jewel among women!
Beautiful, intelligent--AND full of good sense! She
has become my eyes and ears since we men have been
most preoccupied with building the mole to Tyre. She
can’t break rock, but she can break a man’s balls! By
Zeus, I love her! Bless my dear father for finding
her!

Father and I are charged with flushing out the plot
against Alexander, and thanks to Antigone, I think
we’re close. Eumenes had acomplices, we suspect the
King’s biographer Callisthenes, and our quasi-prisoner
Alexandros of Lyncestis. There’s not enough evidence
yet to accuse them before the King, but I’ve been
tightening my noose an inch at a time for awhile now.

Brilliant Antigone has been attending some lessons
for the Royal Pages. She said that young men are
stupid and impressionable, and has taken it upon
herself to plead for reading lessons--even though she
can read and write perfectly well. She also pretends
to be partially deaf, claiming a rockslide in
childhood cost her most of her hearing, but she has
ears like a cat. Her noble blood and standing as my
mistress are enough to allow her into circles of
officers, and her kindness and bearing make her
beloved among the rankers. She performs daily duties
as a nurse, and her conduct is always exemplary.

I am going to ask her to marry me.

At the moment, I’m trooping the camp with the young
Page called Cebalinus. There has been trouble among
the Pages; a few days ago Hephaestion’s page, a fine
boy called Ancyros from a good Eordaen family, killed
young Dimnus’ lover, a surly lad like Dimnus whose
name escapes me at the moment. I was called to settle
things: It seemed that Ancyros was enraged over some
remarks made by Dimnus’ boyfriend, among other
accusations that Ancyros was having sex with his
master before his capture by the Parthians. Ancyros
denied this vehemently, and when the other young man
continued to goad him, took up one of Hephaestion’s
spare swords and ran the boy through. Dimnus’
caterwaulling was enough to wake the dead. After
hearing it all out, I informed the lads that if they
were going to fight like men, then they should be
prepared for the consequences as men are; in the
meantime, I will delay their promotions to officers
until they demonstrate they can keep some order in
their own ranks.

Cebalinus came to me after the debacle and asked to
speak with me alone. I don’t have time for long
private conversations, but did allow the boy to come
with me before I take my turn on the rock detail.
Antigone tells me to pay him heed; she has a feeling
about these things.

The endless cacaphony of hammering and grinding never
stops, and I’ve quite come to like the sound of it.
Every stone we shove into the harbor makes the
causeway grow another bit longer, and soon we’ll be at
the gates of New Tyre. Most of Old Tyre is in the
water between here and the little island of New Tyre;
it’s all but dismantled and torn down now. The siege
towers are already standing over a hundred feet tall
each, and we’re finishing plating their sides with
iron and making the ropes for the giant tackles that
will move them along when the time comes. Even the
camp followers and their children have taken to
carrying buckets of sand to the beach to dump onto the
rockway; they weave their own hair into ropes thicker
than a tree trunk. This is not only an army; it is a
creature with one cause--to obey the will of King
Alexander and drag the very stars out of the heavens
if it be his desire.

Cebalinus is a short lad, and has to run to keep up
with my gait. I sense that he is trying to dredge up
the nerve to confide in me, so I talk as we go to try
to set him at ease. The upcoming battle will be truly
great, and we’re all eager for it as yowling tom cats.
“THAT is a mark of a good military man, Cebalinus,” I
tell him. “He’d rather lop of heads than fuck--making
a fountain out of an enemy’s neck is even better than
a skin of the finest wine!”

The boy nods and hurries along, trying to keep pace
with me. We go down to the beach to inspect the fire
ships, and Cebalinus asks about the giant bronze casks
being rolled aboard.

“We call those Hephaestion’s Answer.”

“What does that mean?”

I laugh, rather enjoying the lad’s company. “A few
months ago, the commander of those poor dumb bastards
holed up in New Tyre--a mercenary named Memnon--wrote
to our King and tried to cajole him into sparing the
city.”

“What did King Alexander say?”

“Nothing!” I hoot. “Do you think he’s going to waste
HIS time dignifying such a thing by making reply to
it?! No, Cebalinus, the King said he would not reply,
but he would let Hephaestion answer them instead.”

The boy cocks his head. “How can my lord Hephaestion
answer a letter? They say he’s in Persepolis, still
imprisoned--if he even yet lives.”

“He’s alive. The Parthians aren’t THAT suicidal,
trust me--but they’re idiots to piss off the likes of
an Alexander in any way, trust me. He hates them more
with every hour that passes. More allies are coming
over to his side, too. The only friends the Persians
have left are in Athens--which is going to be nothing
but a smoking ruin before long--and maybe Carthage,
but Carthage can turn either way and I think they’ll
see sense soon.”

A gnat has bit my scalp, I believe, so I stop to
scratch my head. “As for the Answer of
Hephaestion--nearly everything you see here represents
what our lost General thinks of the Parthians. The
siege engines are his design--the ballistas and bolt
shooters, too. He discovered that monkshood powder
makes the desert scorpions shrivel up and sleep while
the slaves gather them for the bomb pots; then when
we’re ready to catapult them at New Tyre, we’ll just
sprinkle some white hellebore into the pots to revive
them. General Hephaestion even engineered the mole
itself before we ever left Macedonia--that’s how we
were able to get started on it right away. The man is
a master at building bridges--but that’s just the
start of it.”

Cebalinus brings his head up sharply. “The mole was
engineered BEFORE the expeditionary army set out?!”

“Oh, certainly it was, boy. Do you think for one
instant that the King didn’t plot out every last crumb
of this campaign? He’s been planning this war since
the day he was born!”

“Callisthenes says the King wants genocide.”

Ah, the name of our scribe comes up again! How
interesting! I must observe some of these “lessons”
for myself. “What do YOU know about genocide, dear
Cebalinus? What do you think the soft likes of a
Callisthenes knows about genocide?”

“I--I don’t know, Sir.”

I grab his chin to to make him look up at me. “Let
me tell you something, boy: All these millions of
Persian dogs put together aren’t worth one drop of the
precious Greek blood shed so treacherously at
Thermopylae. Not one of them--King or slave--is fit
to unlace the sandals of the murdered Spartan King
Leonidas. Cyrus, Xerxes--the whole lot of them--have
done nothing in the history of the world except
threaten Greece. Alexander will tolerate no more of
it. This land will never rise up again, once we’re
through with it. We are going to leave it so soaked
in blood that it will never dry out. Parthia will be
a land of desolation not even fit for buzzards to
roost on. Now. I believe you had something you
wanted to tell me."

****************************************************
--end of chapter 49--
*****************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 47-48

2006-08-11T04:00:00Z

I don’t own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"
******************************************************
Chapters 47 and 48
******************************************************
Writer (Chief Liar): A. Lias

Summary:
Chapter 47: Any word on the royal family yet?
Chapter 48: So what changes might be in store for
Hephaestion?

Disclaimer: I made all this up. It didn't happen.
Please don't sue me.

Pairing: Nobody in chapter 47. There's a SLIGHT bit
of physical punishment in chapter 48, but nothing to
write your mom about.

Rating: chapter 47: PG; chapter 48: PG-17 for rude
talk and not-so-veiled threats

Warnings: Nobody gets any yet, but it's not far from
all their minds, trust me.

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

Feedback: On or off list, lots and lots and lots,
please. It helps keep me going.
*****************************************************

Chapter 47:

Haglada the Aged:

That wretched girl! Here she comes now--with a full
bowl of honeyed figs--all untouched, I’ll wager! King
Bessus will have our heads!

“Tayalis! Get over here so I can beat you!”

“Please don’t, ma’m! Don’t beat me again!”

“You need beating if the Queen Mother wouldn’t eat
her food again!”

The silly Sogdian piglet gets on her knobby knees and
implores me not to use my switch on her back; she’s
already well-striped from several acts of incompetence
during the course of the day. Damn the little cow,
I’M the chief of the Queen Mother’s maid-slaves, and
if she dies, I will die with her. But I’ll send this
worthless Tayalis on before me.

“Tell me what she said!” I yell, switching the girl’s
shoulders.

“She never says anything!” bleats Tayalis, trying to
cover her head. “She just sits there in her cell with
her chair facing the wall! She won’t speak to anyone!
She won’t look at anyone!”

Sisygambis was always a mean old bitch, and she’s
determined to play her suicide drama to the hilt. Not
that I blame her, really. It was a terrible thing. I
heard the old harpy fought like a demon with a dagger,
and killed several of those filthy Greek mercenaries
before they finally brought her down, howling like a
she-wolf.

One of the mercenaries told me that she gave up and
just let go of her knife, seeing her grand-daughters
die: When Bessus’ assassins closed in on them, Little
Drypetis grabbed her older sister’s hand and started
running for the rooftop terraces--not much of a
distance on the royal floor. It was as if the child
knew they were already lost--like she knew what Bessus
was going to do to her and her sister--dragging young
Stateira with her, she leaped over the edge and nearly
a hundred feet down onto the cobbled flagstones of the
central courtyard, dashing them both to so much pulp.
If I had been in their shoes, I’d have done the same
thing. There are certain things no woman should be
forced to endure--let alone a pair of royal
princesses.

The Queen Mother stood there, looking out at the roof
garden and its low outer wall, bereft in an instant of
all her world. The girls had leapt in a flurry of
silk and gold, suddenly gone, the younger sister
killed them both and I don’t fault her for it. I hope
for their sakes they were dead before their bodies
reached the stones. The pack of mercenaries were
stunned: They had been ordered to take the women
alive, but the Queen and the two Princesses were
already dead--only Darius’ mother was left breathing
in the wake of the debacle. They shackled her like a
dog and dragged her to the cold cells beneath the
palace.

King Bessus wants her to attend the funeral of her
son, the late King Darius: If he can produce her at
his side, in public, he can appear to the people a
more legitimate successor to the throne versus the
vicious murderer he is, but I know Sisygambis won’t
stand for it. The funeral is in two days, but she’ll
be dead before then, starved to death in a basement.
She refuses any food or drink; you can leave the
tastiest morsels out beside her all day and she won’t
touch them. I gave up on trying, and so I started
sending Tayalis with the food because I couldn’t bear
to look at my poor mistress any more. It’s a misery
to see all your children and grandchildren dead, and
know you’re old and alone and the last drops of your
blood lineage will die with you. No wonder she sits,
silent, with her face toward the wall, and starves to
death.

What other power has she now--other than to end her
own life on her own terms?

************************************************
--end of chapter 47
************************************************

Chapter 48:

Dashistas:

It’s been awhile since I’ve encountered Bagoas, and I
can’t WAIT to see the look on his simpering little
face. No more smug looks from YOU, baby among
eunuchs! Always so serene and SUCH pretty manners and
clever ways, always the favorite of King Darius,
always courted and petted, always too good for the
rest of us eunuchs. HA! Now he’s brought low--he’s
the slave of a slave! I haven’t seen the foreign
heretic yet, but my master KING Bessus says I may go
to the TWO SLAVES and give them his message. Can’t
wait can’t wait can’t wait! All that’s stopping me
from skipping down the corridors like a child is the
presence of Darius’ doctor Azartes beside me. A
eunuch must always behave with the appropriate decorum
when he may be observed by others. But I want to run!
I want to barge into the royal apartments and grab
Bagoas by his skinny neck and laugh at him until I
have seizures. And maybe I’ll fuck him, too, while
I’m at it.

Of course no one may lay hands upon the hostage. My
master--NOW THE KING--made that abundantly clear.
This is a freeborn royal whore, a prince in his own
right--a rare treasure beyond all the diamonds and
rubies in the Persian Treasury. He’s off limits to
me, but Bagoas isn’t, and I’ve felt like giving him
what for since we were both gelded.

The good doctor Azartes is terrified for his life, as
well he should be. Bessus will let him live if he
takes proper care of the Macedonian and makes sure he
doesn’t go flying off the roof like the rest of the
sweet young things around here.

We’re accompanied by the hostage’s new guards, a
score of Greek mercenaries. These churls have no love
lost for the Greek King Alexander--most of them are
from Athens, and they don’t appreciate Alexander
starting a war back on their home front. I heard that
General Memnon once suggested that Darius attack
Greece so that Alexander’s attention would be
distracted from his Eastern advance, but the Greek
King doesn’t seem slowed by a naval war south of his
precious Macedonia. They say that he’ll turn his
entire army East as soon as Tyre is destroyed and
Persia can get no aid from any western allies it has
left. Darius had Babylon abandoned and the Court
moved further east to Persepolis to put more lethal
desert miles between us and Alexander. Unlike the
Immortals, these mercenaries have no sense of honor
and service, and King Bessus won’t have to concern
himself with the hostage’s guards becoming too fond of
him.

The chiefest of these is Cratorius, a big strapping
soldier for hire who seems quite enamoured of his
native Athens. He doesn’t talk much, but when he
does, all he does is tout the wonders of Athens Athens
Athens. I’ve never been there, but I’m already sick
of the place. I hope Greece gets a big fat plague
that kills ALL of them.

We find my old friend Bagoas sitting at the bedside
of the hostage, his big doe-eyes as wide as saucers.
Welcome to the new world, Bagoas--you’re not going to
like it! The hostage is unconscious, looks drugged
on poppy--you’d better not have overdosed him,
Bagoas--or Bessus will make you lose a few more of
your appendages! I steal a quick glance of the Greek
as Azartes flutters to his bed, and starts unpacking
his medical pouch--a great shame to see such ugly
wounds on pretty skin like the Macedonian’s. Hopefuly
I’ll get to see more of him later; too bad I missed
the party where he was first “presented” at court. My
timing is always lousy.

I pull Bagoas aside so that Azartes can work in peace
without the little shit hovering around. I can close
all my fingers around his skinny upper arm. He’s even
thinner than he used to be--another joy of life in
captivity--he’d better accustom himself to it.
“Greetings, Bagoas!” I tell him, pulling him closer so
I can pinch his scrawny ass. “I have a message from
King Bessus for your master--you may relate it to him
when he is awake and himself.”

“So . . . it’s true . . . the King is dead . . . ?”
Bagoas is hoarse, as if he hasn’t spoke in a long
time.

“Yes, and long live the King!” I grin from ear to
ear, letting it settle in on my little nemesis. “MY
master is upon the throne now, you bony hen, so you’d
best stop putting on your airs now. Anyway, KING
Bessus says for your slave-lord not to worry his
pretty self about being dragged out and beheaded as he
richly deserves.”

“My master is not worried about any of you,” Bagoas
mumbles.

I slap him for his impudence.

“KING Bessus says to tell you that there are to be
very few changes in the caretaking of the prisoner:
He is to be treated mostly as Darius commanded, as a
royal hostage: You will ensure that he is kept safe
and healthy. My master King Bessus does not wish the
hostage to see us as barbarians.”

Bagoas arches an eyebrow, as if in disbelief. He
can’t help it.

I slap him again.

He puts a hand to his fragile face, but doesn’t
flinch. Oh, how I’ve waited for this!

“Your master is to continue to fare as he has, with a
few exceptions: He will be provided with whatever
food or clothing he wishes, he will continue to dwell
here in the old royal apartments, he will be permitted
to keep whatever possessions he had with him prior to
the new regime, whatever was given him by
Darius--including his horse and you.”

“My lord has never seen the horse.”

He speaks so quietly--yet still very willful, aren’t
you, Bagoas? “Then I will arrange for your lord to
see and approve the animal. I’m told it’s the finest
mare on the continent--far more than an infidel Greek
prisoner deserves. However, my King Bessus wishes to
demonstrate his generosity. Besides, the hostage is
going to need a horse, anyway--although I personally
would rather see him astride an old sway-backed
donkey.”

“Why does my master need a horse?”

“Because, stupid, we’ll all be moving out in a few
months to take war to the upstart King Alexander. My
King wants this Hephaestion at his side when he guts
Alexander in front of him.”

“No!”

Do you LIKE getting slapped around, Bagoas? Well,
I’m certainly happy to oblidge you. Any excuse to
make your sweet face all blue and puffy.

“Oh, yes, Bagoas. Oh, yes. KING Bessus will find a
killing ground of his own choosing, and prepare it in
advance as he sees fit. He is raising an army, the
like of which has never been seen in the history of
the world. When it is fully assembled and trained,
you will be given orders to prepare to travel and
attend your lord as is fitting.”

Bagoas’ soft brown eyes dart around the room. “Who
are these men? Where are the Immortals?”

“With their ancestors in Hell, I expect. These are
Greek soldiers of fortune, mostly from Athens. I’d be
very polite and respectful toward them if I was you.”

He bites his soft, wet lip. I know all your tricks,
Bagoas, so save them for somebody else where it might
do you some good.

“Your master will continue to have access to the
royal library and the pleasure gardens, although he
will be guarded much more closely as before. If he
harms himself in any way, YOU will answer for it,
Bagoas. King Bessus wanted me to ensure that you
understand this completely.”

He nods slowly, his eyes darting briefly toward the
great bed, like a fish breaking the surface of a pond,
then back upon me, intense and calculating as always.

“As previously, your lord may not send or receive any
corespondence from his own people. He is not to be
given any news or any intelligence. This is strictly
forbidden. Such isolation is not new to Hephaestion,
in his situation, so he shouldn’t be surprised that
the policy will continue.”

“My master is surprised by nothing here.”

I slap him. Again. My hand’s getting sore.

I go on. “The new changes to your lord’s status are
as follows, and they are minor: ‘Lord’ Hephaestion is
to be blindfolded whenever the King is present. A
foreign hostage is not fit to look upon the glory of a
Great King. There will be occasions when His Majesty
will see fit to have your master brought into his
royal presence. You will ensure at those times that
your lord is dressed as befits one in the audience of
such greatness; he must be properly bathed and groomed
at all times, that he not be any more offensive to His
Majesty than he must be, by virtue of being Greek. He
will be expected to always comport himself with all
royal decorum.”

I lean closer to Bagoas, taking exquisite pleasure in
his distaste for the situation.

“Need I also tell you that his body is to be kept
prepared and oiled for the King’s pleasure? While
he’s not good enough to look upon the King, he’s
probably fit to fuck.”

Bagoas drops to his knees, clutching my hands. I see
through this little trick of his, too. “Please,
Dashistas--I beg you--please intercede for my lord!
He must not be used in this way! I offer myself in
his place, anything, anything but this!”

Cunning bitch. Even your beauty can’t compare with
the King’s satisfaction of taking the lover of his
greatest enemy to bed for himself, knowing that every
time he has him, he has humiliated his foe. Whoever
forces himself upon Hephaestion, also has his way with
Alexander. What better way to grind your enemy’s nose
into the dung than by profaning that which he holds
most sacred and dear?

I start laughing, holding my sides and almost
rolling on the floor.

**************************************************
--end of chapter 48
**************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 43-46

2006-07-25T04:36:56Z

I don't own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"
Chapter 43/10,0000
******************************************************
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)

Summary: Construction on the causeway to New Tyre
proceeds apace.

Warning: Archaic grammar, thinking bad thoughts. No
smut.

Rating: PG-13 for talk of violence

Pairing: Nobody gets any, but it's never far from
everybody's thoughts.

Disclaimer: This is Alternate Universe stuff. Didn't
happen on this planet, unless the "historians" are
lying to us, which wouldn't surprise me one bit. If
Alexander isn't calling lawyers on me, you don't have
an excuse.

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me please.

Feedback: The more I get and the more positive it is,
the more motivated I am to write. It's just human
nature to respond to strokes.
*****************************************************

Chapter 43:

Cebalinus:

If I have to listen to Dimnus’ bellyaching one more
time, I’ll run him through, I swear I will.

“I’m a prince! I shouldn’t be packing rock like a
mine donkey!”

Sure, the sun is so hot it feels as though it sits
upon our shoulders in the midst of the rubble we’ve
been dragging from the ruins of Tyre’s Old City.
Sure, we’re exhausted--we had to break the rock and
tear down the streets and buildings first. And when
the daylight is gone, all the torches will be set
aflame and we will keep hauling stones in their red
glare. Every man wants to show he can work as long
and hard as King Alexander himself--and that keeps us
going, taking one step after another as sweat from our
foreheads and salt air coming off the sea sting our
eyes and make us as blind men struggling along under
our heavy loads.

But we are only mortals, and must stop occasionally to
eat, rest, or sleep. The stories are buzzing in the
camp that the King is not a mortal--he has been
working on the causeway without ceasing, day and
night, night and day, without slowing down for any
human comfort or need.

Callisthenes says he’s in a tearing hurry to finish
Tyre so he can turn us East and march toward
Persepolis. Months ago, the King often visited the
Pages’ bivouac to instruct us himself in martial
philosophy, and we would wait upon his tent--now only
the most senior officers warrant any brief morsel of
his attention away from the stone
and earthen mole growing steadily toward New Tyre.

“This isn’t RIGHT, Cebalinus!”

I hoist a load of bricks higher upon my shoulders to
balance them better. “Stop bitching, Dimnus! See,
there are the Generals Seleucus, Ptolemy, Philotas,
Coenus, and Cleitus! If THEY’RE not too good to pack
rock, what makes you think YOU are? Even old
Parmenion takes his turn! And not only the
Generals--look, even the King himself works harder
than the rest of us!”

“We should be attacking Tyre like warriors--not
grinding our bones to stubs over these silly
construction projects! Building bridges is for the
likes of a Hephaestion to be doing--whenever he’s not
warming the bed of whatever King he’s serving at the
moment!”

I almost throw down my bricks in my anger. “How
DARE you speak so of your betters!”

Dimnus stops staggering and lets his collection of
flagstones fall off his shoulders, rolling them front
and back to work the kinks out of them. We don’t have
time for this suicidal talk; let him take up his load
and keep working before he’s noticed. “My
BETTERS?!” he sneers at me. “Since when is a King’s
whore MY better?! We’re out here toiling in a blazing
Hell so we can go chasing off after a whore!”

The Lyncestian Alexandros has been tutoring us with
Callisthenes while Alexander and the more senior
officers are occupied with the siege. I don’t like
him at all; he and Callisthenes have become quite good
friends--and have made fast fellows of many of the
Pages. Field officers like Cleitus call us maggots
and have nothing to do with us socially, but “tent
generals” Callisthenes and Alexandros come and drink
with us and tell us stories of how Phillip came to
tyrannize the whole of Greece and raised Alexander to
be a ravening wolf in the body of a man. They hate
this King as they hated his father before him, and
that sort of treasonous rumination can get a man
executed these days. I for one don’t want to be
strung up in a tree by my own bowels; the situation
makes me very uneasy about my living future.

I see Philotas heading toward the water station, and
my blood runs cold even in this broiling heat. “Be
quiet, Dimnus! You can be killed for talking like
this!”

He shrugs my hand off his his arm. “Nobody will
ever stand up to Alexander and tell him how it REALLY
is!”

“KING Alexander, my friend! He is KING! Have you a
deathwish? One word from his lips and you could find
yourself hacked to shreds and fed to the dogs while
you yet live!”

“Alexandros has more right to the throne than that
golden bastard.”

“Dimnus--you listen to treason! Callisthenes and
the Lyncestian are fools--they would belittle the
master of all our destinies at their own peril! Can’t
you see they’re just trying to start a mutiny and get
us young idiots to do their dirty work for
them--lowing in our ears about how the young and the
strong must save the nation from tyranny! It’s only a
matter of time until someone reports them, and the
King will strike them down like dogs!”

“Not if he’s dead first.”

“My God, Dimnus . . . no . . .”

He rounds on me, and I see his true face for the
first time in all the years I’ve known him. “Not one
damned word out of you, Cebalinus. Not to anyone. Or
you’ll be dead long before the golden bastard. Mind
your own business and stay alive.”

Then he sees Philotas has stopped in his tracks and
is looking directly at us. Shrugging, Dimnus takes up
his load of rocks again and gets back into the
transport detail.

******************************************************
--end of chapter 43--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

TItle: A Dishonorable War"
Chapter 44/WIP
*****************************************************
Summary: Old wounds still fester.

Warning: People thinking bad thoughts. No smut.

Disclaimer: AU. It didn't happen, unless there's a
lot we're not being told by the "historians".

Pairing: Nobody gets any, sorry. P is in the way of
PWP.

Rating: PG-13 for more violent inclinations

Beta: Denise--thank you so much!

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

Feedback: Lots and lots and lots, please.
*****************************************************
Chapter 44:

My esteemed Queen Olympias:

I greet you as your servant, and daily offer up my
prayers to Dionysus for your well-being. It must be
so difficult; you are after all the Mother of the
King--and have the heart and stomach of a King
yourself--and yet you must constantly defer to
doddering old Antipater. I agree--whatever was
Alexander thinking of when he made that old coot
Regent instead of you? Of course he can control
Antipater from afar, but is that what is truly best
for the lands we love?

Please do forgive me my anger, we have talked
together many times of it--I know you will deal with
these matters yourself, and in your own wise time. I
only wish to report to you that I am now in
Persepolis--thousands of us mercenaries have come here
for the new prospects of paying work now that Darius
is dead and his cousin Bessus has made himself King of
Persia.

And I see I must ask your forgiveness again in
bothering you with details about a war you must surely
find boring--all that matters is your son realizing
his mistake marauding about Parthia, and returning
home to cast down Antipater and consolidate his power
there under your tutelage. You’ve said before that
Persia will keep until later after more vital matters
are resolved. As do many of my peers, I believe you
will prevail upon Alexander to resume diplomatic ties
with my beloved Athens and abandon his war against us.

Even now, my Athens suffers fire and plague at the
hands of Nearchus, Antigonus, and that traitor
Amyntor. You must understand what anguish I felt as I
watched the King of all Greece rapidly lose sight of
his mission to expand the Greek Empire and become the
man who would destroy all the Eastern nations, as well
as anyone at home who opposes him, and squander all
their riches for bloodletting. I was the man who
crowned Alexander at Troy, but now I am only another
deserter to him, marked for death by his seal of
command and there is no going back to him. Whether I
live or die is of no consequence, my goal is to help
him come to his senses, I know that.

I remain not only your servant--but also the devoted
disciple of Dionysus--and I will keep my mind upon my
mission always, Your Majesty. Dionysus is not denied
a sacrifice that is rightfully his, and now that I am
in Persepolis and employed by the high Persian
command, I will honor our pact and worship our god as
is proper. Thank you so much for your generosity
which has speeded me on my way.

Hephaestion’s blood will flow like wine, and Dionysus
will at last have the libation of which he was cheated
so long ago.

In the greatness of Dionysus,

Chares

****************************************************
--end of chapter 44--
****************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: A Dishonorable War
Chapter 45/WIP
******************************************************
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)

Beta: Denise!!! Thanks and hugs!!

Summary: Remember Hephaestion? Maybe we should check
in on him and Bagoas about now.

Disclaimer: This is AU. Please don't sue me.

Warning: PG-13 for more violence.

Pairing: Nobody gets any, but there are a couple of
sweet moments between Hephaestion and Bagoas, our
local Rapunzels.

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, okay?

Feedback: On or off list, it helps keep me going. A
fanfic writer is a very lonely person.

*****************************************************
Chapter 45:

Bagoas:

We’ve had no contact with whatever world lies
outside our rooms--if such still exists at all. I
laid in a very tidy supply of foodstuffs a few days
ago, but it won’t last forever and no one has brought
more. My lord won’t eat, anyway. I also have
supplies on hand to care for my master’s wounds, and
enough poppy juice to keep the pain far away from
him. The poppy has also served to make
him addled and sleepy all the time; I miss our
conversations and the lessons he was giving me on how
to read and write, but he mustn’t move about yet.

I was so terrified on that dreadful night. Such
strange and frightening things happened--my master
invited to a banquet, then abruptly returned to his
rooms without explanation. He knew that something
awful was in the wind; he refused to rest as I begged
him to; he paced around and around the bedroom like a
maddened tiger, his eyes blazing like two burning blue
stars.

He became incensed when we heard an iron bar placed
over the outside of the door.

I was afraid of him and hid under the bed.

Then the sounds of fighting started outside our
door--swords clanging, people screaming, and I was
even more paralyzed in my hiding place, unable even to
beg them to stop. We couldn’t hear anything specific
through the heavy door and the antechambers between it
and the corridors, but there was murder being done.

My lord went into a bloody frenzy the like of which
I
couldn’t imagine. He fought the door as though it was
a man blocking his way, throwing his entire body
against it again and again and again, attacking it
with whatever part of his frame he could use as a
weapon. He screamed and roared like a wild animal in
a fit of brutal rage, as if with his bare fists he
could hammer down a cedar door over a foot thick.

I kept my eyes closed tight for a long time, unable
to bear the sounds I was unable to shut out even with
my fingers pressed over my ears. I wanted to run
away, I wanted to fight, I wanted to kill
something--to help someone--somehow--but what can a
weak skinny eunuch do?

Suddenly it became as quiet as a tomb; I could hear
my own heart beating as though it was trying to escape
from my chest.

I crept out from under the bed--and bit my hand to
keep from screaming.

My master was lying utterly still in a thick,
congealing pool of blood, curled on his side and not
moving at all: I couldn’t even tell if he was
breathing. I tried to remember the things he had
taught me about being brave, and swallowed my gorge to
approach him.

The blood had seeped into our room from under the
door.

Drypetis!

I thought I had heard her voice from without before
the fighting began.

Please, Bel, let my little heart still be alive!

Let Drypetis live, all you gods, please, please,
please, let her be alive and unhurt! Take my life,
strike me dead now, but not her!

My brain snapped--there was nothing I could do for
my impossible love--not now, anyway. I took several
deep breaths. I would think about her later. I must
see to my master! Bel, please let my
lord be among the living--he’s all I have left--please
don’t take him, too!

Almost faint, I knelt fearfully beside my lord. His
handsome face was drawn and hard and wet. My lord’s
eyes were open and unblinking, but there was no blue
in them--just white--no pupils; I thought at first
that his eyes had rolled back in his head, but they
hadn’t; they moved to track me: They were not the
eyes of a human being.

Shaking with mortal fear, I picked up his hand and
LIGHT dripped from his fingers like blood. I knew I
must be hallucinating, so crazed with horror that I,
too, had gone mad. I reached out to touch a drop of
light as it slipped from his hand toward the floor,
and it sizzled hot and painful on my skin, raising an
instant ugly blister where it burned my flesh. I
cried out, and he didn’t acknowledge my presence--nor
did he move at all.

I took his shoulders to try to turn him over, and
gave another cry of alarm: He weighed nothing; he
felt like a child’s hollow doll, like
something--something vital and alive--had gone out of
him. It was the strangest thing--I picked him up in
my arms and it was like holding a bird.

I could think of nothing but that he must be
cleaned.

I carried him to the bath and set him into the
cooled water, then jumped in myself, heedless of what
the bloody water was doing to my beloved silk robes,
stripping my master and scrubbing him until there was
no more blood stuck to his flesh. The water suddenly
warmed up faster than I ever imagined so much
bathwater could heat, now hot to almost scalding.

I just kept desperately rubbing his body with the
sponge and begging him not to die.

All the while he didn’t move or speak.

It was as if he’d forgotten me and the entire world
around him.

I wrapped him in thirsty bath blankets and carried
him to his bed--it felt strange: I am quite tall, but
very thin because I cannot make muscle like a true
man. My lord is as tall as I am, but has manly muscle
proportions even though he has become much thinner
since becoming a captive. I shouldn’t be able to lift
him at all; I’ve never been able to budge him with my
own strength--yet I could now scoop him up in my arms
as
though he was not made of sinew and bone, but a being
of air wrapped in a little flesh.

There was nothing I could think of to do for him,
but to put him to bed and keep him warm. I covered
him in sleeping furs and sat down beside him to keep
vigil.

Hours passed, night became day, and then night
again.

All the while, it was as if I was the ghost and not
him.

At last I fell into a fitful sleep, napping as I sat
there.

Suddenly I was awakened by flailing limbs, and I
realized his left arm was badly broken--yet another
source of blood--how could I have missed it before? He
had a thousand cuts upon his body--had I made them,
scrubbing his skin so hard as I did? He’d been soaked
in so much blood I hadn’t noticed the cuts and
abrasions before.

His eyes were blue again--about as normal-looking as
his ever are, and the black pupils had returned--but
his stare were glazed and unfocussed. He began to cry
and rant, calling upon Ares, upon Alexander, crying
out the name of our beloved Drypetis--other female
names--probably his other wives, maybe his mother or
sisters. And he said things that made no sense:

“I’ve failed . . . I’ve failed . . . “

“Mortal bodies are too weak!”

“Failed . . . failed . . . failed . . . “

“Alexander, forgive me!”

He raved for hours, then his strange, disjointed
speech dissolved into small, broken sobs, like a child
cries when it is exhausted of tears.

I put my arms around him and he shuddered against my
breast, his lean body solid again and no longer
bleeding light.

***************************************************
--end of chapter 45--
****************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: "A Dishonorable War"
Chapter 46/WIP
*****************************************************

Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar. Note that I don't have
the gall to call myself the "author" of this piece.)

Beta: The Incomparable Denise!

Summary: One of the first folk-tales I ever heard
about Alexander concerned an incident between himself
and his royal barber. It is believed by some to have
arisen to explain some of the Alexander coinage. I
stole it for my purposes.

Warning: No slash, no smut, not really any violence
(don't faint!).

Pairing: Nobody gets any, sorry.

Rating: G or PG

Disclaimer: This is all AU. Bessus made me do it, so
sue him, not me. The barber of legend's name is not
known, so I have created one for him to lend a tiny
bit of humor to the story.

Archive: Wherever you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

Feedback: Please. It helps keep me going.

****************************************************
Chapter 46:

Paunchissus the Royal Barber:

“Good Morow, Sire.”

The King grunts. Each morning I come to his tent to
groom that thick crown of golden curls. He used to be
very fastidious in his toilet, but ever since the
Granicus, he smells like a hot foul mixture of blood
and iron. If he is washed, it is because I pour
basins of water over him and wash him while he is at
his maps and plans. He ignores me, and I tend him as
I would a horse.

It was different when Lord Hephaestion was
with us. The King had time for kindness and patience
then; he loved to watch me comb my lord’s long hair,
braiding it up before a battle or weaving tiny gold
charms into it before their nights together.

“May I see to your hair, Majesty? How about a
shave?”

He grunts again.

I take that as an assent.

Stepping up behind him, I pour a basin of warm water
over his head, then add a little emulsified olive oil
sweetened with herbs.

He continues to ignore me.

I work my hands together into a lather and start
scrubbing over his head. I always watch for lice, but
somehow the King never acquires any--unlike everyone
else in the camp.

Oh, dear, his face is terribly sunburned--beet red
but for a thick line across his forehead where he's
worn a leather strap to use his head to help up his
harness for carrying rock on his back.

It is then that I feel them:

Two small but definite horns on his head.

Growing out from under his temples and curving down
and around toward his ears.

The King’s hair is so thick no one can see them.

I have never FELT them before.

Have they just grown?

Where did they come from?

Why does my King have horns like a ram?

I push a heavy curled stalk of hair aside, and I see
one of the horns with my own eyes, and touch my finger
to it:

Black, hard, ringed, and whorled, a thick, hooflike
feel to it.

I step back abruptly.

Too abruptly.

He NOTICES.

He looks at me with those golden wolf-eyes, the riot
of curls bouncing forward with the movement of his
head to obscure the sight of the horns.

“Are you all right, Paunchissus?”

Cerberus must ask the same question just before
mealtimes.

“A b-bit unsteady, Your Grace. I--uh--drank too
much last night.”

“Then you’ll not shave me today. You may do that
when your razor-hand isn’t shaking. Now hurry up and
finish your work. I’m extremely busy.”

Tentatively, I reach into his hair again.

The horns have gone.

Where?

Retracted back into his skull, perhaps?

I sneak a look down at the tent flooring--they
certainly haven’t fallen off.

Or did I only imagine them?

Maybe I should become a teetotaller, like General
Cleitus.

Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll never touch another
drop of wine.

I rinse the oil from his hair and scurry out of the
Royal Tent, leaving his hair wet--but it will dry
quickly as the day warms up.

Such a secret!

I see my friend Betis the eunuch and spy, and it’s
on the tip of my tongue to tell him what I’ve just
seen and touched--

But I’m a dead man if I do.

I stagger past the other tents of the camp. The
other officers and the rankers are awakening, and
preparing for another day of rock-busting and hauling.

The smiths are already well into their day, clanging
away at their anvils for making weapons; there is one
bunch that calls itself The Forge of Hephaestion--like
the Sacred Band, they were quite devoted to our lost
lord, and now busy themselves tirelessly at all hours
with fashioning swords, sarissas, spears, arrows,
bronze missiles, whatever occurs to them. They’ve
invented fearsome and wonderful things, like a
catapult capsule that breaks apart upon landing and
spews out deadly creatures--the scorpion bombs. Tyre
is going to see a lot of them quite soon.

There is a deep well outside the camp, and I go
there for a drink and a douse of clear cold water; I
need it badly.

No one else is around the well; the women have
already come and drawn their water for today.

I kneel at the lip of the well. It’s deep; no one
knows how deep--it was dug ages ago and is always
fresh and sweet. Another mistake of the
Tyrians--leaving a fine well like this unpoisoned for
the enemy--even a simple barber knows that.

It’s on my tongue to whisper, “Alexander has two
horns,” into the well. My secret is burning me
up--I’ve got to tell someone--

Or do I?

What if there’s an echo in the well?

This seems as good as time as any to teach oneself
the virtues of self-control.

I will never repeat aloud my secret to anyone.

Never, never, never.
******************************************************
--end of chapter 46--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 41-42

2006-06-08T04:37:55Z

I don't own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"

Chapter 41/WIP
******************************************************
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)

Summary: The Hell with skipping around; don't you
guys wanna get the fook back to the banquet?

Disclaimer: Same old same old. I don't own anybody,
this didn't happen; any mistakes I might make are
solely the fault of Bessus so complain to him, not me.

Warning: Violence. Nobody gets any, sorry.

Pairing: Nobody gets any, sorry.

Rating: PG-13 for Violence.

Archive: Anywhere you like, just no e-mail links to
me, please.

Feedback: Lots, on or off list. Praise helps keep me
going, brickbats discourage me.
******************************************************

Chapter 41:

Queen Mother Sisygambis:

Darius is sick. No, he’s poisoned. He has gone
white and clutches his belly, swaying on his feet.
Bessus, Mazeus, and the rest of the cousins exchange
snug, knowing looks. He’s ordered Demosthenes and
Charidemus removed from the banquet, but no one is
moving to obey him, and he knows he will not live out
this night.

But he’s trying to hold on with the last of his
strength, trying not to let them see yet they have
killed him. Oh, my son, my son!!!!!! I want to stand
and roar like a she-bear between him and those
miserable traitors and snap their windpipes in my
teeth. Curse all of them and these years!

“Mother, please do go to my wife and children and see
how they are doing,” he says pleasantly enough, even
though a grimace of agony etches its way across his
handsome face. “I would have you apologize for me to
my daughters that it is not yet time for them to take
their place at Court.” These last words he gasps as
the Greek mercenaries encircle him like carrion birds.

They befoul royal blood with their poisons!

Will they also spill it like water?

Monsters!!!!!!!!!

May they all die slowly, writhing in horror and
misery!!!!!!!!

I turn and walk briskly to the door, trying not to
call attention of the mercenaries to myself even as my
heart breaks forever. My poor son may already be
dead, but there is no time to mourn him. I must be
strong now, and practical, more than I ever have been
in all my life. There’s still a chance to preserve
what’s left of our blood if I can get to the royal
apartments and gather Stateira and the children. The
Greek hostage is quartered nearby, too; if I can free
him, he can protect us until we reach the barracks
where Agis’ men are quartered. Perhaps the Immortals
guarding the royal apartments are still alive. If we
can escape Persepolis tonight while they are occupied
with killing the King and seizing the throne, I may
yet save the children!

Closing the door to the Great Hall behind me, I throw
propriety to the winds, gather my skirts to my knees,
and start running like a madwoman. I notice that my
Immortal escort left waiting outside the Great Hall is
gone--a bad sign, but I have no time to look for them.
Only the children matter now!

The corridors are empty.

No one is about.

Treachery, treachery!!!!!!!!!!!

They will all suffer for this!!!!!!

Bel, make them pay!!!!!!!

Melkart, avenge us!!!!!!!!!!!!

Make them all bleat and beg for death!!!!!!!

Ishtar, please let my grandsons live and grow to
manhood and put swords in their hands that they become
masters of these traitrous curs and put them all to
ruin!!!!!!!

As I round the last corner to the wing of the royal
apartments, I hear my dear little girls screaming.

THERE!!!!!!

Filthy Greek mercenaries--putting their hands upon my
babies!

I draw my dagger and fly into their midst, spitting,
biting, cursing, stabbing in all directions, my
dagger in a death grip that it not be taken from me
until I have taken these worthless lives.

I hear the Macedonian hostage, too; we are right
outside his door. I see it from the corner of my eye,
bolted with iron from the outside. Hephaestion is
screaming, too; I hear him throwing himself against
the heavy door again and again, trying to break it,
fighting the thick plane of wood as though he, like
me, has gone mad.

Drypetis and young Stateira have never been taught to
use a knife; no, their mother refused to allow me to
show them, stupid bitch, they must be brought up as
ladies--a curse upon you, daughter-in-law, if you
still live, I will teach you better whether you like
it or not! Perhaps you never grew up in hard times,
but I did, and may all the gods help us, those dark
days are back upon us now!

A Greek lackey squeals like a piglet as my dagger
slices open the side of his ugly face, greatly
improving his looks. They’re startled at an old woman
suddenly attacking them and step back in surprise; I
know it’s temporary--they’ll recover themselves in a
moment and fall upon us.

I make a horizontal slicing pattern through the air
with my dagger, shoving my terrified granddaughters
behind me as the mercenaries take a step back in
unison. “Unbolt this door!” I command, trying to
keep my voice from shaking. Lord Hephaestion is
within, also screaming at the mercenaries to open the
door.

“Don’t listen to her, you fools!” Nabarzanes and his
escort have caught up with me. “If you unlock this
door, Alexander’s whore will kill all of you!”

“Agis!” I bellow at the top of my old lungs, praying
desperately that the Spartans camped outside the
palace. “Agis, help us!”

“The Spartans are dead, Great Queen,” Nabarzanes says
slowly, spreading his fingers to fan out his hands at
me. “As are the Immortals. Please, Great Queen. No
one wishes to harm you or your granddaughters.”

I make a lunge toward him with my knife, causing
Nabarzanes to shrink away from me like the simpering
cur he is. He motions for his own mercenaries to
stand between him and me.

“Where are the Queen and her sons?!!” I demand,
trying to hear myself think over the jittering cries
of the two young girls I’m trying to save.

“It’s a very unfortunate thing, Great Queen
Sisygambis, but the elder Stateira has died. She
ruptured herself fighting her new guards; it was too
soon after giving birth to her latest baby, and she
bled to death on the floor of the nursery. Your son
the King has died, too. Please, lady, no more
violence.”

“NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!” I howl like a grizzled old
she-wolf. “Bring me the sons of Darius--NOW!!!!!!!!
Bring them to me and let the Macedonian go! I am
Queen of Persia now and I COMMAND it!!!!!!!”

“You are Queen of nothing, lady,” Nabarzanes says
quietly. “Bessus is King. At least for now. He has
sworn to spare the lives of you and your
granddaughters; he and Lord Mazeus will marry the
girls.”

“I want my grandsons!!!!”

“The boys are dead, lady. You of all people know
well enough that princes can’t be allowed to grow up
and avenge their fathers. Now please see some reason
and surrender your blade for the sake of your
granddaughters.”

My little grandsons!!!!

My darling babies!!!!!!

Murdered by these beasts!!!!!

It is too much to bear.

Murdered, all of us murdered!!!!!!!!!!!!

I draw back my knife arm and charge the snivelling
lot of them.
******************************************************
--end of chapter 41--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

Title: A DIshonorable War" (Chapter 42/WIP)
******************************************************
Writer: A. Lias

Summary: Demosthenes writes to one of his political
enemies back in Athens.

Disclaimer: I don't own anybody, this never happened,
please don't sue me, blah blah blah. Please excuse
the use of terms such as "rednecks" and "hillbillies",
but that is what the cultured Athenians thought of the
Macedonians, and their terminology for "White trash"
has been lost--at least to me.

Warnings: None, really. Threats and hints of
violence, wars and rumors of wars.

Rating: PG for veiled threats

Pairing: Nobody gets any, sorry

Archive: Anywhere you please, just no direct e-mail
links to me.

Feedback: The more, the better, on or off. Kind
comments help keep me going.
*****************************************************

Chapter 42:

Demosthenes to Isocrates:

Dear (?) Isocrates:

I hope this letter finds you exceedingly unwell,
along with the rest of your Macedonian friends. You
may as well stop trying to poison my position in the
assembly. Weak King Darius is dead! Long live Good
King Bessus! HA!!!!!!

You had better make yourself scarce before I return
to Athens, you silly old fool. I hear that Macedonia
is very nice at this time of year--you can teach
poetry to the hillbillies and see if they’ve left any
virgin sheep you can rut with. But don’t plan on an
extended vacation because King Bessus is going to raze
that backwater garbage dump of a province and Athens
is going to help him.

So far behind the times, Isocrates! I grew up
listening to you harping on and on and on about how we
had to raise an army to march on Persia and get
vengeance for Thermopylae and all that ancient
history. I have some news for you, old friend! Cyrus
and Xerxes are dead! It’s a brand new world order!
We don’t have to be enemies with Persia anymore!

And we aren’t. Thanks to the efforts of myself and
dear Charidemus, that great empire is now the FRIEND
of Athens. All the money, all the manpower (and did I
remember to say all the money?) of Persia stand ready
to crush the Margites Alexander. With the Macedonian
rednecks no longer a threat, Athens will go on to
punish Thebes, Thracia, Sparta, and all her enemies.
We will establish an empire with Bessus that will make
us richer than any men who have ever lived.

So if I were you, I’d start packing my things for a
nice long exile. Don’t take much with you (not that I
need remind you, with you being such a pauper); you’ll
want to travel light and fast.

Demosthenes

****************************************************
--end of Chapter 42--
****************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 39-40

2006-06-05T03:29:54Z

I don't own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (39/WIP)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar--note I didn't have the
gall to refer to myself as the "Author")
Summary: Back to the banquet and 'bout time, too.
Warning: Violence, conspiracy, bad people.
Rating: PG-13 for violence
Pairing: Nobody gets any, sorry.
Disclaimer: This didn't happen on this planet, unless
there's a LOT Ptolemy, Arrian, and Calisthenes aren't
telling us. I don't own anybody. Too fookin' bad,
eh?
Archive: Wherever you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
Feedback: On or off list, lots and lots please;
positive helps keep me going, negative discourages me,
you do the math.

Chapter 39:

Queen Mother Sisygambis:

Bel deliver my granddaughters. Bel save my
grandsons.

I’ve got to find a way out of this assembly. It may
be too late for all of us.

It is surely too late for my poor Darius.

He sets down his goblet and lets a slave refill it
for him.

I want to break down and start weeping, screaming for
my son, but I can’t--not while I may yet find a way to
be able to save his children and what little is left
of our blood. It takes every measure of strength I
have to announce it is past the young ladies’ bedtimes
and get Darius’ permission for them to be packed away
to the royal apartments. Drypetis and young Stateira
are confused, suddenly and prematurely expelled from
their first court banquet, but I can’t concern myself
with their hurt feelings now. Their mother and my
little grandsons are in the royal apartments, too,
guarded by the Immortals, as is General Hephaestion.
The Immortals are loyal only to Darius. As long as
the Immortals stand, the royal family--as well as the
Macedonian hostage--are safe.

But the royal cousins have their own guards here.
Including Greek mercenaries with no loyalty and
especially no honor. Men who will fight and kill for
whomever will offer them the most coin. I haven’t
seen these men here in Persepolis before. My son, my
son! I set the goblet aside and drink no more of the
wine.

“I believe we must continue to deny battle to
Alexander,” my poor doomed son is saying, and I barely
hear him. My mind is buzzing like a hornet in a jam
jar, trying to hatch a plan to save those whom I yet
might. “Even if he does manage to overrun Tyre, it’ll
spend that much more of his resources and tire his
army even further when it heads East. The desert
could finish him without our even having to take sword
in hand.”

“Finish Alexander with a little heat? A tiny bit of
thirst? A couple of missed meals?” Charidemus is a
red-haired man, and he flushes to high color
instantly. “We don’t even know WHAT this Alexander
is--but it’s not human! With all his wounds, he
should have died months ago! And the speed at which
he is destroying our coastline! Great King Darius,
how can you be so cavalier now that he is more than
just a nuisance on your western border? We call him
popinjay at our own peril!”

“Please consider the evidence, Majesty,” Demonsthenes
interrupts. “When Alexander first marched into
Parthia, he allowed some towns and cities to surrender
and swear alliegiance to him, which bears evidence
that he was initially interested in conquest. Now, he
is unquestionably on a campaign of extermination
against you and your allies. Does this mark a change
in the nature of the man? We must know his MIND,
Great King! Has it changed since his lover was taken
from him--or has he ALWAYS intended only to annihilate
us? How deeply does he crave vengeance and for
what--the virtue of his lover or is that only the
BEGINNING of this scathing enmity toward us? Our
spies say he’s gone mad--or HAS he? You must allow us
to interrogate Hephaestion!!!”

“No!” Bessus turns upon the Athenian. “Hephaestion
is nothing more than Alexander’s male mistress.”

“Oh, I think he’s a great deal MORE than that!” roars
Charidemus. “What if he is an assassin, planted here
to kill His Majesty?!”

“Planted?” asks Darius mildly, not seeing the danger
he’s in. “How so? Memnon nearly killed him, taking
him by force of arms, then carried him across the
desert to Persepolis and broke his health along the
way. Only recently has he been able to walk about
without assistance. Besides, he’s hardly more than a
child. Not what I would expect of a royal assassin.”

“Do not be deceived by that pretty face and sweet
body, Great King! He turned Thebes against us by his
own guile! Athens is alone and besieged because of
him! You have a very dangerous young man in your own
bed, Majesty--and you can’t even see it! This
supposedly harmless Hephaestion can be anyone or
anything his King pleases of him! Perhaps he murmurs
into your royal ear and breathes poison into your
brain!”

“I can see that he transformed the ‘nobility’ of my
Court into ravening rutting beasts.” Darius ignores
the observation that he has slept with the hostage.
Why should he acknowledge it? All here are his to do
with as he will. Thankfully, this tidbit doesn’t seem
to register with the princesses. I don’t want them
learning ALL the ways of the flesh just yet. If they
can survive, there will be plenty of opportunity to
educate them later.

“And you put your Court into the pigsties for it!”
screams Mazeus. “Your own kith and kin, loyal to
you--mocked by the common slaves for taking their just
due of an enemy’s catamite!”

“Guards--escort the Lords Demosthenes and Charidemus
from my presence! I command them sent back to Athens
and away from me!” Darius repeats his previous order.

The Greek mercenary guards do not move a muscle to
obey him.

Where are the Immortals?!

I cast about for an excuse to leave the table myself
and rejoin my granddaughters. There is high
treachery and treason afoot tonight; I’ve seen it
coming, but I’d hoped to get my son’s children to
safety before it happened--so close at hand, with King
Agis’ escort here in Persepolis awaiting us on the
morrow. My hand rests upon the hilt of my jeweled
dagger at my waist as I rise from my seat.

******************************************************
--end of chapter 39--
******************************************************

I don't own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (40/WIP)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: Meanwhile, back at Tyre . . .
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. To the best of my
knowledge, none of this happened on this planet.
Rating: PG-13 for Violence.
Warning: Nobody gets any, sorry. Talk of wars and
violence. Plot gets in the way of PWP, sorry.
Pairing: Nobody gets any, sorry.
Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
Feedback: Lots and lots, please, on or off list.

Chapter 40:

Tarmenes:

I’ve been to Tyre before, but can’t remember it being
so cold--even in the winter. My lady Barsine gives me
a small bowl of stew and bids me take it to my master
up on the city walls. He isn’t well, and trying to
hold Tyre against Alexander is more than a healthy man
could manage. I do give the bowl a sniff--just some
root vegetables and bread in juice--and a bit of
mutton. My lord was most wise to canvass the
countryside and bring in all the crops and herd
animals we could find so that we’ll have food for the
siege. Ephialtes says we could also slaughter the
horses for food, but Lord Memnon says eating one’s own
good steed is nearly tantamount to cannibalism, and we
must not revert to such savagery or else Alexander
will have destroyed our souls as well as our
bodies--this would be truly the last resort.

King Azemilik thought we were invulnerable at first.
“See here!” he would say at the first council
meetings. “We are half a mile from the mainland, we
have two good harbors to serve us, and we have the
finest navy on the coast! We can be resupplied from
our allies in Carthage and Persia at will! Our walls
are mightier than those of Troy itself! And look at
the enemy! Alexander is a tyro, playing soldier!
What does HE know, when we have Lord General Memnon
himself to command our forces?! Look at the child on
the banks, building his little siege engines--more
toys, I tell you! LET the boy tear down Old Tyre if
he wants to play with building blocks--we were done
with it ages ago! He has no navy--while we can sail
out and attack him just for an afternoon’s amusement!
What a pity Phillip his father was struck down--now HE
might have shown us some sport!”

The rest of King Azemilik’s council thought this was
worthy of much mirth, but my lord Memnon excused
himself and walked out of the room. Ephilates was
furious, and would have followed my master had he not
ruffled feathers to soothe.

But I must always obey my lord and hurried after him.
He, too, was angry, but would not show it to the
Tyrians. “These buffoons laugh themselves into their
own graves, Tarmenes!” he muttered, his long callused
hands clasped behind his back. “Fools! Miserable,
stupid fools! They should be flattered Alexander
would even bestir himself to attack them at all!”

I’m not trained in the ways of soldiery and war
tactics, but I try to learn all I can. Maybe someday
I will be fit to enlist in the army, but Lord Memnon
says I have a long way to go before I can become a
infantryman, as is my dream, and I trust him to know
when I’m ready. He says it’s more than holding a
shield and a sarissa, more than thrusting a sword,
more than marching in proper formation--a soldier must
know how to serve his commanding officer down to his
very life, and be prepared to give up that life at an
instant and without hesitation.

Certainly I’ve heard all the frightful stories about
Alexander--how he’s gone mad and drinks blood and
murders the helpless. But I wonder about such tales
when I go up on top of the walls and watch him. His
golden armor and royal purple mantle make him stand
out when the sun strikes him so, and I see him on the
mainland, in the hills, wherever he is, visible to all
and harboring no fear of anything we mortals could do.
He seems more machine than man, stalking about an
enormous city of hardened fighting men day and night,
overseeing all with his own eyes. They say he has
golden eyes, like a hawk, and they glow in the dark
like the fire of Hell. He’s brought the storms of the
sky with him as though they have followed him at his
bidding; I see his golden armor in the snap of
lightning and I think Ares himself has come to kill
us. At other times, even in the merciless noonday
sun, Alexander will strip to his loins and dig with a
shovel and haul rock on his back with the meanest of
his laborers; even his highest ranking generals chisel
away at Old Tyre and carry the stones to the
ever-growing causeway. Alexander must want us dead
very badly, to toil like a common slave and force his
officers to do the same. The clouds gather and
blacken daily; the thunder walks along the hills with
Alexander, and we are all dead men.

The “little” siege towers King Azemilik laughs at are
over one hundred feet tall, dwarfing the height of New
Tyre’s city walls. The Macedonian army is a deafening
thing even when not on the move; the clanging of
hammers over anvils as thousands of new swords and
sarissa blades are created, the rumble of scores of
giant bellows to keep great bonfires stoked around the
clock, construction work on more mighty towers and
ballistas larger than entire forts. This is not a
mere army, Lord Memnon says, it is a war machine
beyond our most dread imaginings with a feral pulsing
life all its own, and it is all brought to bear upon
us. Even the women with them shear off their own hair
and weave it in thick coils to use as rope on
boltshooter pulleys. We’ve attempted to send out
small boats and divers to sabotage the mole, but it is
too well-protected by encircling ships come from Greek
sea cities who fear Alexander. The Hellenic League
ships have come, unexpectedly (Memnon and Epihaltes
didn't expect any of the city-states to rally to
Alexander against us), and also bottled up our other
harbors--even if Great King Darius had aid to send us,
they could not run such a heavy blockade. We’d hoped
Athens and its navy could relieve us, but Memnon says
they are busy with their own war; the Macedonians
would destroy the jewel city and all who dwell within
it.

Lord Memnon expected that Alexander would conjure
some excuse that we should peaceably allow him into
the city; such as expressing a desire to come in and
make a sacrifice to Heracles, but he made no
communication with us at all. He came and immediately
set to dismantling Old Tyre and building a causeway
out to the island of New Tyre out of its bones. He’s
sent no emissaries, made no terms for surrender or any
other contact.

I find my Lord Memnon up on the Tyrian walls,
observing the construction work that comes closer to
us every day. They are currently out of range of our
arrows, but we can see them making a great wheeled
shield which will be brought up to protect their mole
and war machines. Clearly Alexander possesses modern
warmaking technology that we have never encountered,
and has no intentions at all but to use it on us.

“My Lady Barsine sends her regards to my Lord
Memnon,” I say, kneeling before him and proffering the
bowl of stew. “She urges my lord to consider his
health and requests that he come and visit her at his
convenience.”

General Memnon absently takes the bowl, still gazing
out over the water. “See there, Tarmenes,” he
stretches his arm out toward the sea. “The Greek
ships are passing a sort of netting between them.
There, in the water, see it now?”

I can see thousands of swimmers bringing great
lengths of nets between the Greek warships and
attaching them to barges laden with bronze tanks tied
beyond the ships. “The nets are rubbed down with fat
and natron. I believe the Macedonian artillerists
have also fashioned a sort of bronze siphon which they
have mounted on the barges. But I’m not sure yet what
it means.”

“Perhaps the nets are there to try to stop our ships
from getting out the harbors to attack theirs.”

Memnon snorts, but is too kind to make further
acknowledgement of my ignorance. “Our ships could cut
through the nets, and Alexander knows it. What is he
doing? How does he think he can stop us from sailing
out with a few fishing nets?”

I have no idea, and urge him again to eat of the
stew.

“Our guerilla raids on the mole have all failed,”
Memnon muses, looking over at the rows of crucified
Tyrian heroes over on the mainland. The Macedonians
did not deal mercifully with them.

“One sally will make or break us. We’ll have to
concentrate everything on one naval attack, every last
ship, nothing in reserve, all or nothing. Apollo help
me, I can’t see another way.”

Apollo will not help us. Our own Heracles hasn’t
helped us, so why should Apollo?

******************************************************
--end of Chapter 40--
*****************************************************

A Dishonorable War chapter 38

2006-04-29T03:47:04Z

I don't own them. This fic belongs to A.Lias, please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (38/WIP)
Chapter 38/WIP
****************************************************
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: We need a more pleasant interlude in this
thing, as well as a chance to tie in the big picture a
bit. All work and no play makes slash pigs tired.
Girls and boys just wanna have fun.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people or
events. Too bad.
Warnings: Smut, slash, incest, strange fixations.
Pairing: Those Krazy Kids Ares and Apollo are at it
again.
Rating: R
Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please. It ain't easy being Beelzebub.
Feedback: Lots and lots, please, on or off list.
Positive much preferred to negative.
*****************************************************

Chapter 38:

Ares:

I just love being a mortal from time to time. Come
down to Earth, make war, exult in as much blood as I
please, make love with my brother Apollo as mere men
in these vibrant human bodies. Mount Olympus is
absolutely no fun compared to this.

Apollo purrs in my arms as we rock together in a
hammock. His skin is soft and warm whenever he takes
mortal form, and he smells sweet and tasty. We are
more like statues when we are gods, everlasting and
cold. Touch is a faraway sense; as mortals we are not
above the intense sensations we crave.

"Brother, you were divine," murmurs my brother as he
plucks gently at the chest hairs circling my human
nipples.

"Of course it was divine. We're gods, remember?"

"Mmmmmmm." He snuggles closer. "This isn't so bad
now, is it?"

I give the hammock a push to send us swaying back and
forth. It's a bit like our Mother Hera rocking us
when we were born, but a lot more fun because we're
getting sexed this way. "I could do with more
bloodshed, you know. This--farce--I mean, you can't
SMELL it. I love the scent of iron in human blood, I
really do."

Apollo enjoys swinging in the hammock--another nice
little invention of mortals, who are experts at
finding even small pleasures. "This swing has given
me an idea."

"You spend too much time thinking, little brother.
Crawl up here on my lap--I want you again."

He smiles and impales himself upon my cock with a
happy sigh. "We're going to fall out of this thing,"
he cautions. "We can't fuck like this without turning
the hammock over. Anyway, I want to tell you my
idea."

"I have a better one--tell me you love me."

Apollo leans down and kisses me, sending his pretty
pink tongue wandering into my mouth. "Of course I
love you, pig among the gods. But look at this
hammock-thing. What does it make you think of?"

"Fucking your godlike little ass."

"Besides that?"

"What else is there? Maybe some carnage . . . "

"No, no! Check out the shape of the hammock. We
could use it to make a bra for our sister Artemis.
Make the end ties into bra straps she could fix around
her back or neck, then she could put all her breasts
into them at once--like a sling!"

Leave it to Apollo to be fantasizing about Artemis
and her thousand tits while I'm screw him silly. "I
think our sister looks awfully fine with all those
rows and rows of boobies hanging out for all to see."
I give his darling ass a sudden thrust to make him cry
out and hopefully forget about Artemis and those
stupid fucking jugs of hers. I know he's a bit
fascinated by her fertility cult stuff because his
worshippers think he wants libraries and temples built
to him when he'd rather have fun.

"But she might be getting tired of the Etruscan look
after all these thousands of years," Apollo insists.
"Think she'd like a hammock with little pouches sewn
into it so she could have cups for each one of her
tits?"

I give a great big grunt to show him how much I care,
and roll him over so that I'm on top of him again.
Miraculously, we don't fall out of the hammock and my
cocks remains wonderfully snug inside him. I pin his
wrists against the netting and nibble my way across
his throat. "It doesn't matter what kind of
undergarments you invent for our sister, you
dullard--she is NEVER going to let you play with her
tits. When are you going to figure that out?"

"Hopes springs eternal--AH!!!!!!"

I kiss him again. "So you finally felt that, eh,
pretty godling? Good. It's high time. Now put your
long edible legs around my waist and PUT OUT!!!!!!!!!"

"Ooooooh!!!!!!!" He suddenly clutches at my
shoulders, clawing them like a woman, our sister's
breasts momentarily forgotten as I plunder him. "Do
it, brother! Deep and hard! Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Oh,
take me take me take me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

"Now who's a pig?"

"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The hammock eventually settles into a gentle rhythm
and I stroke his wild wealth of hair as we finish our
climaxes and rest, half-dozing. I want to lie there
with him for the rest of eternity, but no, in this
time period we have to have what my lovely 'Pollo
calls "jobs".

"Mr. Farrell! Mr. Leto!" The mortal flunkies don't
DARE come into our tent so they call from without.
"Ready for you both on the set! Oliver says hurry
while we have some sunlight left and you can still see
your marks!"

I hug my suddenly-wakeful brother against me,
resentful of this intrusion into our latest foray to
the mortal world. Why must we always endure one
separation or another whenever we come here?

"I hate having 'jobs', 'gigs', 'stints'--or whatever
ELSE you want to call them! The blood isn't
REAL!!!!!!!! It smells like mortal chemicals and
doesn't even LOOK like blood! And I hate this god of
music thing of yours!" I growl against his ear,
crushing him to me. "I hate it when you go--what do
you call it here--'on tour'! Hate it hate it hate
it!!!!!!!"

"Well, come on the tour with me then. Nobody's
stopping you. But we'd better get dressed right now."

"Why? Doesn't this 'Oliver' mortal know who he's
ordering around? Doesn't he know we could crush him
like an insect? Doesn't he know we have better things
to do than jump through his hoops?!"

"No, he doesn't." Apollo grabs the green-blue robe I
like, the one that leaves his smooth chest bare and
looks so beautiful on him. "We can't tell the mortals
who we are--Father Zeus says if we want to come down
from Mount Olympus and play, then we have to follow
the rules. You KNOW that! Now stop pouting and get
dressed!"

He pushes a gold circlet over my knuckles and closes
it on my wrist. "Okay, brother dear. Time for a name
check before we go out."

"I'm Jared and you're Colin."

"No. I'M Jared and YOU are Colin. Don't forget.
You answer the mortals when they say 'Colin'."

"You can't fucking expect me to keep all this fucking
stuff straight! I'm the fucking god of fucking
WAR!!!"

He puts his arms around my neck and sears a dazzling
kiss across my lips that leaves me breathless in my
mortal body. "That'll hold you until this take is
done. I'll meet you back here after dinner."

"And you'll be my dessert, 'Mortal'?"

"As always, 'Mortal'," he laughs. "Remember, you're
'Colin" and I do love you."

"Maybe this isn't so dreadful after all," I mutter,
mollified by the kiss and hearing him tell me that he
loves me. "I love you so much."

"And remember, I don't REALLY die in that big bed
scene coming up--I'm only PRETENDING, so don't get so
upset you start killing everybody again. No
stabbings, no hangings, and ESPECIALLY no
crucifixions."

Another quick kiss and we're off to 'work'.

Maybe next time I'll come back as a President.

******************************************************
--end of chapter 38--
******************************************************

all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War Chapter 36-37

2006-04-16T09:41:05Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (Chapters 36 and 37)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary:
Chapter 36: What does Alexander think of Memnon's
letter?
Chapter 37: Politics make for strange dinner dates.
Warning: No smut, but it's on everybody's minds,
trust me.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. I wish I did.
Please don't sue me.
Rating: G or PG for Yap Yap Yap
Pairing: Nobody in these two chapters, but they're
all thinking about it, trust me.
Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me please.
Feedback: On or off list; positive much preferred to
negative and = encouraging the lonely liar who's
scribe to our boys' adventure here.

Chapter 36:

Seleucus:

The King’s face is inscrutable as he sets Memnon’s
scroll down on his table and sits back in his chair.
He hasn’t eaten a full meal in months--yet his face
isn’t drawn and haggard at all; he is sustained
utterly by his hatred.
Cleitus smiles like a pirate. The idea of Memnon the
lying bastard so close at hand, within killing range,
makes his mouth water. Sometimes I wish he hadn’t
stopped drinking--he used to be good for a laugh every
now and then, but he’s become almost as deadly and
serious as Alexander himself.
“Shall I take Memnon and Azemilik your answer, Sire?”
he asks, grinning.
Alexander still shows no emotion. He sits silently
for a moment, then selects among the papers on his
table and hands a sheaf of them to Cleitus and
Parmenion, who also waits with us upon the King’s
pleasure.
“I have nothing to say to such tripe,” he says
flatly. “Rather, you shall give them the answer of
Hephaestion.”

*****************************************************
--end of chapter 36
*****************************************************

Chapter 37:

Queen Mother Sisygambis:

I make small talk with the Greek on the way to the
Great Hall. He remarks upon the pleasant scent of the
cedar beams forming the ceiling, the intricate art of
the mosaics, the beauty of the rooftop gardens. I’m
no more interested in prattle than he is, but we must
play this game of courtesy and protocol. Two of his
Immortal guards walk ahead of us, one on each side,
and two behind. My own escorts precede and follow
them. Bagoas nervously trails behind us, picking his
way along the flagstone like a frightened fawn,
determined to attend his master, though, and make a
good showing for himself.

The Macedonian chats on while I ponder: Earlier this
evening, Hephaestion said that he and Alexander had
longstanding plans to marry my great-granddaughters.
If Persia is lost to Greece in battle, the Greek King
and this his consort have no need to marry my little
girls--they can do with them as they please with no
incentive to wed, for Stateira and Drypetis will be
but prisoners. Hephaestion knows this very well, I’m
certain.

Later in our conversation, when I had embarrassed him
and pressed him beyond what he had prepared for, he
resorted to calling himself a mere soldier--which he
is most cerainly not. Were his pretty tears real--or
a device he used to stop my questioning him further?
I believe he is lying to me in some several respects,
which doesn’t surprise me. But I sense a kind of
purity and truth in him; he admits his devotion to his
King even in his abject circumstances and carries
himself with utter conviction and nobility. He will
never waver in his devotion to Alexander; there is no
point in even attempting to subvert him to our cause.

I’m not altogether surprised when we find Nabarzanes
and his escort waiting for us. I’ve often told my son
King Darius to rid himself of this weasel who calls
himself a Grand Vizier, but the King is convinced this
man is of some use to him. Bah, I’ve told my son:
You can replace this viper and a thousand of your
nobles would be clamoring to take his place--one court
syncophant is as good as another. Why do men NEVER
listen to their women??!!! Men think any creature
without testicles is also without brains!

Nabarzanes makes a ridiculously low bow in front of
me. He knows he’s not deluding me. “Good evening to
you, Great Queen Sisygambis. It is an honor to be
invited to dine in such charming company.”

I take a step between him and the Macedonian before I
even realize what I’ve done. “I bid you good eve, as
well, Vizier. You have met our guest-friend, Lord
Hephaestion.”

Of course he has. Almost every man and woman at
court has had the pleasure of General Hephaestion’s
flesh from what I hear--although Hephaestion himself
certainly wouldn’t call it pleasure in any sense of
the word.

“I must apologize to you, Great Queen, for depriving
you of your escort--His Majesty King Darius has
changed his mind and must regretfully withdraw his
invitation for Lord Hephaestion’s company at this
dinner.”

It’s all I can do not to draw my own dagger. I can’t
demand Nabarazanes give me an explanation here an now;
the King need not explain himself even to his own
mother. If there is a scheme afoot to assassinate
the hostage, then he needs to be returned to the
safety of his own chambers at once.

I take both Hephaestion’s hands in mine, giving his
fingers a quick squeeze to reassure him. He is
frowning, eyes narrowed; he doesn’t like this sudden
change of plans any more than I do; he looks as though
he wishes he had a sword in hand.

“My son the King has been concerned for your health,
General Hephaestion, and you do look a bit pale now
that I can see you under the torchlight. I bid you
return to your apartments with your honorable guards;
I would trust only the Immortals themselves with your
safety.” I say it loudly enough that all present can
hear me. Behind Hephaestion, I can see little Bagoas
with his hand resting upon the tiny knife tucked into
the folds of his silken vest. “Don’t worry about me,
my young lord; Grand Vizier Nabarzanes and his escorts
will have every regard for my person. Bagoas will see
that your supper is brought to you, and perhaps I
shall summon you later for wine and a visit with me.
I would hear more about how your King Alexander
intends to be a friend to Persia.”

There. I’ve gotten Hephaestion out of here without
harm. I don’t want Nabarzanes and his stooges
anywhere near such a valuable prisoner at this
critical point in time--especially not alone in an
empty hallway and when I’m not convinced the King has
given any such order at all.

I’d rather not be in Nabarzanes’ unctuous presence
myself, but there’s nothing for it but to accompany
him to the Great Hall. He offers me his arm, and I
pretend not to see it. He’s insulted; good.

The banquet isn’t as crowded as I’d expected--just
the King, his royal cousins, and their retinues. And
that old Athenian hyena Demonsthens and his loathsome
friend Charidemus; while Athens is a magnificent city
to look upon, it is populated by career weasels.
Darius looks so handsome tonight--he’s the most
handsome man on the continent--even if I do say so
myself. My daugher-in-law Stateira isn’t present, and
that is no surprise--she has a new baby to attend to,
and Darius’ son isn’t yet of age to attend formal
dinners so he, too, is with his mother. The royal
nursery is very close to the apartments where the
Macedonian hostage is lodged, so the area is
well-guarded with Immortals. Young Stateira (even
prettier than her mother) and my darling Drypetis look
like cherubs. I wish King Alexander was here instead
of Bessus, Mazeus, Nabarzanes, and the rest of the
royal cousins.

Bessus cuts quite the dashing figure this evening.
He’s lost a lot of weight, and replaced it with strong
hard muscle--very impressive at his height; I hear
he’s taken command of the Royal Cavalry and has been
drilling them day and night. He’s become much more
quiet, too, and that disturbs me. He was always the
most intelligent of the royal cousins, and possessed
of far more wits than my poor Darius.

Mazeus hasn’t changed over the months of this war
with Greece; he’s like a gadfly, gossiping about with
his cousins and their women. I’ve never liked him. I
don’t like the way he looks at my granddaughters.
I’ve seen less predatory looks on hyenas.

We are all seated around the great table. Of course
talk turns to the war as soon as prayers are offered
and the slaves start bringing out the feast.

“Memnon sends word that Alexander is at the gates of
Tyre.” Mazeus always knows how to start up a
conversation. “Does Your Majesty expect them to
stand?”

Poor Darius, never any good at warmaking. “I . . . I
hope they can.”

Bessus takes a sip of wine and leans closer. “Has
Your Majesty made plans to engage Alexander?”

“Well, er--not yet.” Darius should have thought
about this before! “I’m hoping we’ve done enough by
withdrawing to the East. Memnon says it doesn’t
matter how many men I can muster into the field--a
million farmers are no match for even a few of
Alexander’s hardened professional soldiers. Memnon
says I should look to the desert to finish off the
Greeks. He’ll find nothing in whatever’s left of
Babylon by now.”

“I beg to differ with General Memnon,” Bessus
suddenly says. “Alexander wants a confrontation badly
and he’ll force it sooner or later. We must ready
ourselves for combat, Sire. Let the battleground be
of OUR choosing--not his.”

“Why do you always disagree with Memnon?” the King
asks. “I had thought it sound strategy that we should
burn the land before Alexander’s advance--”

Bessus dares interrupt the King. “And what shall we
eat after the Macedonian threat is no more? Thirst,
starvation, the violent heat of the desert
sun--Alexander cares nothing for these petty
annoyances. His army is sustained by his will alone.
Leave the land that we may eke out food for ourselves
when Alexander is dead. And who knows? Perhaps our
agents in the Macedonian quarter can find the
opportunity to finish him off tomorrow!”

“Assassination of Kings is a dirty business,” Darius
mutters.

“And YOU should know!” giggles Mazeus.

Drypetis looks suddenly at me, her mouth a round “o”
of bewilderment. I give her a sharp glance and a
small shake of my head: Be silent, girl. This
conversation is for adults only. Listen and learn.

“Tyre can’t hold,” Bessus presses. “Alexander
destroyed Gaza in a day, his men are ravenous wolves,
and his treasury is fat on OUR wealth which he has
taken. He will storm or starve Tyre, block the last
of our trade routes and communication lines, then
march East. There is more bad news, Majesty--Sparta
has sided with the Hellenic League. Lord Demosthenes,
please do continue to inform King Darius as to the
situation; you have more recent knowledge than I.”

Demosthenes preens like an old crow. “The western
front is quite grim, Majesty. As Your Grace knows,
the Hellenic League has made Athens outcast, and
declared war against her. Alexander’s Admiral
Nearchus leads the Hellenic fleet to beseige us
constantly. We face starvation, and beg aid of Your
Majesty at this time.”

“Regrettably I have no succor to offer you at this
time,” Darius sighs like the Greek god Atlas. “I must
focus all my resources here should I be forced to meet
Alexander in combat. Is there no one to intercede
with King Alexander on your behalf?”

Ha! Good one, my son!

“No, Sire.” Demosthenes looks down for the first
time this evening. “The post of Athenian liason to
Macedonia has been historically held by a certain
family that has become the enemy of our city. The
patriarch Amyntor wishes to see our jewel of a city
burned to so much ash and char. He will not help us.”

A thin smile ghosts across Darius’ mouth. “I suppose
most fathers would feel that way toward ones who
helped engineer the abduction of their sons.”

Charidemus flushes red to his ears and jumps to his
feet. “Then let us make an example of these children
of traitors such as Amyntor! Give me Hephaestion’s
head that I may impale it on a stake at our city
gates! Let Alexander’s men see what we can do to
them!”

“You are mad, Charidemus. We will see in the morning
if an escort can be mustered to escort you and Lord
Demonsthenes back to Athens. I grow weary of your
conversation at my court.”

“And what of Hephaestion?!” Charidemus’ nostrils are
flaring like a horse’s.

“An envoy from King Agis has arrived. They will
assist the Imortals in seeing General Hephaestion and
my family to Sparta.”

“You would entrust your dear ones to SPARTA?!”
Charidemus howls. “That strange nation would be
betray you at the drop of a sash! Even Hephaestion
could tell you that! And speaking of Alexander’s lap
dog--where IS he?! We were promised he would be at
this dinner, and we would interrogate him as to the
Macedonian plans!”

Darius doesn’t reply--why should be? He snaps his
fingers, and two Immortals come running to his side.
“General Charidemus and Lord Demosthenes are to be
taken to their quarters while transport is arranged
for them to return to Athens. As for Lord
Hephaestion, though--why is he not here? I requested
his presence tonight at dinner.”

My breath catches in my throat. “If my son the King
will excuse me and his daughters, I believe it is time
for the ladies to retire.” I beckon to Stateira and
Drypetis--we must get out of this room at once!

****************************************************
--end of chapter 37
*****************************************************

Fic : A Dishonorable War Chapter 35

2006-03-04T07:53:28Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (35/WIP)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: Memnon writes a letter.
Disclaimer: No smut yet; still more talk of violence
and death. I don't own of this, please don't sue me.
It didn't happen (on THIS planet, anyway).
Thanks: Many thanks to Denise for being such a great
sounding board!
Warning: No smut. Just talk of violence and death;
they thought about that kind of thing a lot back then
(in addition to smut, but we'll get there). P is
getting in the way of PWP.
Rating: PG-13 for talk for violence and death.
Pairing: Nobody. But I swear they're all STILL
thinking about it.
Archive: Anywhere you want, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
Feedback: On or off list; positive gets updates far
more quickly than negative ones because it keeps me
encouraged

******************************************************
Chapter 35:

From: Memnon, Commander of the Garrison at Tyre
To: Alexander, King of Macedonia

Your man Black Cleitus awaits in the Great Hall below
my high rooms in King Azemilk’s palace--for my reply,
he says. I almost laughed in his face; your terms for
surrender tell me exactly how interested you are in
whatever reply I might make to you. Poor terrified
Azemilk suggested we toss Cleitus over the walls. For
such foolish statements from him, I did laugh,
Alexander, and right in his face. First, I’d like to
see him TRY tossing a legendary fighter such as
Cleitus over a pebble, and secondly, Azemilk thinks
you can’t do worse here than you have elsewhere on
your Parthian march.

I disagreed with him on both counts. He’d be lucky
if Cleitus didn’t save you the bother of a battle and
slit all our throats right here on the island of new
Tyre. And I believe your bag of war tricks and
torments is more bottomless than the deepest pits of
Hades. I told Azemilk that there is no limit to the
suffering you would inflict, then I asked Cleitus if
his King would consider sparing the city if I
surrendered myself to his royal justice.

You would have smiled if you could have seen Black
Cleitus then, Alexander. He gave a huge belly laugh
at the entire Tyrean court, then rolled over on
Azemilk’s fine floor mosaics, holding his sides and
hooting with glee. I admit it was pointless for me to
ask the question, but I had to do it nonetheless for
the sake of those innocents caught in this hateful war
between Kings, those who must suffer at the whims of
the great.

I remember working in my map room here when your army
arrived. Tyre had seemed remote and isolated for some
months, and Azemilk felt somewhat safe behind his
mighty walls: Perhaps you wouldn’t come here after
all, perhaps Tyre would be beneath your notice and you
would let it live. I knew better, of course: With
the fall of this last coastal city, Persia cannot be
relieved by its allies to the West, and the miles
between you and Persepolis will burn like so much
chaff before a bonfire.

It was late in the day when I felt the approach of
your army, Alexander. I didn’t hear it so much as I
sensed it--the presence of thousands upon thousands
converging upon the plain just beyond Tyre--coming as
inexorably and relentlessly as the sun scours the
desert--armored men, heavy cavalry, thick imposing
siege towers and great engines of war as though the
mountains themselves were on the move. Your forces
began to bristle along the hillocks, ever gathering
and forming like a storm blown from the nostrils of
Poseidon himself. I heard the cadence then, men
beating with all their mights upon copper kettledrums
and the bones of elephants, then the roar of the host
being brought to bear upon this lonely city. The army
mustered, surrounding any land routes by which we
could flee, and waited, assured and measuring us, and
I knew beyond doubt that we were lost.

Hold fast, I told Azemilk. Let us take no action
until Alexander delivers his terms, or things will be
all the more terrible for it. Mayhap it will please
the Macedonian to accept my death and the proffered
loyalty of Tyre as his own port city. I’m still
surprised that Azemilk hasn’t run me through on a spit
and sent my carcass out to you lying upon my shield;
he must be very frightened indeed if he’s looking to
me--a dead man--to save his city from you.

There will be no opportunity for you and me to talk
together as generals, Alexander; your actions show me
there’s no hope of any parley. You’re not remotely
interested in anything an old man has to say,
particularly one who has wronged you as I have, and I
would not beg you for my life for all the gold in
Persepolis.

Yet I find myself writing to you, compelled to
communicate with you even if Cleitus does make merry
opening every throat in the Tyrean court while he’s
waiting for this letter. As I said, I will not ask
for my own life, nor will I plead for the lives of the
people living within these walls which you will
destroy, probably sooner rather than later.

No, I write to you for the sake of your own soul,
King Alexander, on the behalf of another who is
physically far away from this skirmish--but right here
with us in his heart.

I know you will not accept my ignorance of
Hephaestion’s identity as an excuse for what I have
done in carrying him off to Persepolis. So be it. I
wouldn’t accept an apology from you, either, were our
positions reversed. I just want you to know I would
not have committed such an atrocity had I known whom I
was abducting. I did not imagine Hephaestion of
Eordaea would be leading the Sacred Band of Thebes and
separated so from his King; had I given him him any
thought at all, I would have assumed him to be with
you and the Royal Bodyguard.

But there was no turning back once I had him, you
see. We had to go to Persepolis or else your noble
knight would have died in the desert, such was his
condition after the fight he put up against me. I
spent some several weeks with him in Persepolis,
keeping him with me in my own quarters to protect
him--now that I knew who he was.

I wish to give you my reassurance that your
Hephaestion is alive, King Alexander. I made many
warnings (which I believe were listened to in all
seriousness) that he was not to be harmed under any
circumstances--or your rage would be too terrible to
imagine in the worst nightmares of the insane devils
that gorge upon the flesh of mortals. Any subject of
Darius you have left alive on your way to Persepolis
can thank Hephaestion that he is still permitted to
breathe air into his lungs and eat of whatever food he
may find.

Hephaestion and I spoke many times at length, and
became like a father and son while I grieved for the
boys you took from me and he pined for your company.
We were, after all, strangers in a strange land, and I
took comfort in the presence of another Greek in that
alien court, another soldier who could understand. To
his credit, Alexander, he didn’t judge or reproach me
for what I had done; he was kind to me and counted me
his friend, as I do unto him. I think of him often,
and nightly offer prayers to Father Zeus and the rest
of the pantheon for his continued safety and eventual
return to you.

But I must ask this, King Alexander: To WHAT would
young Hephaestion return? He left a young man, a King
with whom he was deeply in love. He spoke of you so
much to me, so lovingly, and related to me how the two
of you dreamed together as boys of glory and honor.
Even though I had only met you once as a child, I felt
I had come to know you through the love of
Hephaestion. He has never wavered in the adoration
and faith he bears for his King; he walks in honor
even among those who hold him captive and make his
life a misery because he would die before bringing
shame upon his King and love.

Hephaeestion is allowed no news of the war as he
waits in his cage for you.

He is alone in a dark writhing den of his enemies.

And I wonder: Does he know of the monster you have
become, O King? Does Hephaestion know you crucify
infants and burn women alive upon pyres built of their
dead husbands’ corpses? Does he know you chop off the
hands and gouge out the eyes of Persia’s fighting men
so that you can send them out humiliated, as beggars,
utterly broken in spririt and pride as well in body?

Does Hephaestion know you are no longer the man he
loves? Nay, that you are no longer a man at all--but
a clawed thing seething with hateful shrieking black
fury, fit only for howling at the moon and gnawing on
rotten bones? Is THIS how you would honor your lover,
who survives only by strength of his love for you?
Would you have him see you thrust your sarissa through
the helpless and the aged, Alexander? Would you so
make a mockery of the knight he is--and the knight you
were--the knight he believes you still to be? Would
you lay even his heart upon the altar of your
blood-drenched madness?

Look at yourself, Alexander.

I pray you, examine whatever is left of your soul
before it is too late for both of you.

Reconsider your terms. You say Tyre can surrender or
not--it makes no difference to you because you will
put every last man, woman, and child to the sword
anyway. This forces Tyre to fight you,
Alexander--your thirst for revenge slows you down,
can’t you see it? Hephaestion is in grave danger,
King of Macedonia, and you would waste time here
because you can’t get enough murder to fill the
screaming maw inside what used to be your conscience.

Forget Tyre.

I will run upon my sword if that will satisfy you and
speed you on your way East.

And when you reach Persepolis, Alexander, remember
who you were--and what you were to Hephaestion--and be
that man again for his sake if not your own--or else
all of you are lost.

Memnon of Rhodes

*******************************************************
--end of chapter 35
*******************************************************

A Dishonorable War chapter 34

2006-02-24T04:59:28Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (34/WIP)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: Old ladies speak their minds.
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. This didn't happen,
to the utmost of my knowledge of history. But
wouldn't it be fun if it HAD, and nobody is telling
us?
Pairing: Nobody. But they're still thinking about
it, and they WILL get around to it soon.
Warning: No PWP, just P. Sigh.
Rating: Probably P or PG for talk of violence.
Feedback: On or off list, positive helps keep me
going, negative discourages me.
Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

Chapter 34:

Queen Mother Sisygambis:

Drypetis can barely contain herself when Bagoas opens
the door to the suite my son the King has given the
Macedonian. She’s dying to meet this Hephaestion, and
I can’t blame her. Bel, these Greeks are such
handsome men!

Poor Bagoas! He bows low to admit us and our small
entourage of attendants, but there’s no mistaking the
look in his dark eyes when he looks at my young
granddaughter. How sad. I’ve heard he hails from a
noble family now extinct, likely from betting on the
wrong horses in the old succession wars. His beauty
probably saved his life--if a eunuch can describe his
existence as a life. Poor child, if the story is
true, perhaps he might have someday made suit for the
hand of a Princess. Now he can never be anything more
than a pleasure slave--even if he was freed, he could
never marry and have a family. And when he gets older
and his sweet face shows a few wrinkles, ah, poor,
poor thing. At least the Greek is said to treat him
kindly.

The hostage emerges from the private rooms when
Bagoas announces us.

I grab my little granddaughter’s arm to stop her from
fainting.

Even though I feel a bit like swooning myself.

He’s the most beautiful being I’ve ever seen, man or
woman--not even a god could be this lovely. I would
probably have mistaken him for the King had he been
present when we were introduced to Alexander--so tall
and handsome, such poise and bearing! He is nothing
but beauty, from those huge luminous blue eyes and
wild wealth of shining copper-bronze hair, the body of
a god, even down to his shapely feet. He smiles
warmly at us, displaying a set of perfect white teeth
curtained by generous lips created for kissing. I’ve
never seen a woman with such a pretty face, but
there’s certainly nothing womanly about this
Macedonian. He’s wearing a plain white cotton chiton
in the Greek style I hear he prefers, and it shows off
the magnificent planes of his finely-muscled body far
more interestingly than our heavy Persian robes.

He comes within an appropriate distance of us, and
makes a polished bow not so low as to seem subservient
to us, but yet deep enough to show his respects to
royal women. As he dips his head slightly, his long
hair falls across his face like a shimmering fan, then
back over his shoulders and down his back as he
straightens his posture to his full height.

If Drypetis was somewhat ignorant of men before she
entered this room, she certainly knows exactly what
she wants now.

And, by the glory of Bel, the Macedonian feels the
same way!

When their eyes meet, it’s as though a bolt of
lightning struck them both.

They are in love, instantly and madly.

I’ve seen this kind of thing once before--with Darius
and his Stateira.

Drypetis and Lord Hephaestion speak to each other,
some polite murmur, but both of them are flushed to
the ears.

None of the rest of us exist for them now.

Whereas Alexander proposed dutifully to Stateira’s
mother and me, asking that we proxy for Darius, he was
timid and stammered a bit. The King is not accustomed
to women, but this Greek is--and I can tell he’s quite
used to getting his way with them.

Enough!

If he wants my baby, he must marry her!

And the little lady has done MUCH more moon-eyed
staring at the Greek than she should!

“Drypetis, I need to speak to our guest with privacy
now. You will go with your ladies to the banquet
hall.”

“Grandmere . . . “

She never takes her eyes off him--nor he from her.

I take her arm and hustle her to the door. “Little
one,” I hiss in her ear. “You will roll your tongue
up off the floor, put it back into your mouth, and say
NOTHING to anybody for the rest of the evening. Am I
understood?”

“Grandmere . . . “ she says with a small dreamy sigh.

“The survival of your entire family is at stake these
days, young lady. You have been invited to this
banquet. Smile and be the beautiful poppet you are,
but save your conversation until your future is
settled.”

She gives me a beseeching look, but she must learn
the ways of the world because she’s about to thrust
headlong into it. “Keep your eyes and ears open, but
do not speak. No one expects you to--especially the
senior members of your family--so don’t disappoint
us.”

“What if--?”

“No. Not a word must pass your lips. Do not stare
at the Greek, however tempting it will be. Watch your
mother, watch your sister, watch ME.”

The little girl looks up at me and asks, “Why is
everything so dangerous, Grandmere?”

“Because that is the reality we find ourselves living
in, Drypetis. As women and as royalty, we must pick
our way as though we were walking upon the shells of
bird eggs. It is a hard fact, a cold fact, but a fact
nonetheless. Take heed of my counsel if you want to
live long enough to become this pretty Greek’s bride
someday.”

She nods her head, swallowing hard deep in her
throat. I surreptitiously swat her bottom and send
her scurrying with the rest of our escort while I
close the door so that I can be alone with the
hostage. Bagoas hovers around the room, but he
doesn’t count--unless a witness should be required for
something.

“You and your King Alexander are very young, General
Hephaestion,” I say to him as I take the plush ornate
chair Bagoas brings up for me. “Not so many years
older than my granddaughters. And yet you plan to
rule the world from your cradles. Both of you are
hardly more than babies.”

The Macedonian nods his head solemnly. I push a fat
pillow off the chair. “Sit down, my fine young man.
I hear you haven’t been well; there’s no need to keep
you standing in the presence of an old woman.”

He laughs gently, and there is music in his laughter.
“I know who you are, My Queen. A common man such as
myself should remain on his feet in your presence. Or
on his knee, if you prefer.”

“Nonsense, boy.” I laugh back at him--what a delight
he is! “It hurts my old neckbones to crane my head
back to talk to you if you stay on your feet. Come,
sit down beside me. I want things to be informal
between us. After all, you and Alexander will soon be
calling me Grandmere, too.”

“That has long been our intention, Great Queen,” he
answers, folding his long legs elegantly beneath him
to sit on the cushion at my feet. Bagoas dithers
around until he can find a fur to drape around his
master, to keep him warm as he sits on the stone
floor. The cold winds sweep down across Persia and
cut through Persepolis like knives during these months
of the year.

“Alexander thinks marrying my granddaughter will
legitimize his claim upon the throne of Persia.”

The barbarian smiles; smiling comes easily to him
when he wishes it so. “How could it hurt his cause,
Great Queen?”

I’ve heard this Hephaestion can charm a crocodile out
of the Nile. So I change the subject, to see if I can
discomfit him.

“I’m informed that you killed one of your own
countrymen here in this palace a few weeks ago. Why?
Are you in the habit of tearing out throats upon a
whim? Why should I entrust my darlings to men who
wantonly murder their fellow soldiers upon enemy
soil?”

“It was not a wandon murder, Great Queen.”

“Oh? Suddenly you’re feeble in your bed, suddenly
you’ve got a dead Greek’s windpipe in your hands,
suddenly you’ve got your legs spread for yet another
Greek--in the span of about five minutes! What am I
to make of you, young Hephaestion? Invalid, murderer,
whore--all in one day? What ARE you?”

Ha! I’ve got him on the defensive now. Let’s see
him charm his way out of THIS one!

He looks up at me, batting eyelashes so long I fancy
I see a little breeze as they flutter so fetchingly.
“I am none of those things, Great Lady.”

Simple and eloquent. Masterful touch, that.

“You have yet to answer my question. I hear you are
sickly. I hear you kill in cold blood. I hear you’re
a slut. I would have you tell me exactly WHAT you
are--and why I should give my granddaughters to you
and your lover the Greek King.”

He draws a deep breath, preparing his reply as slowly
as he can without being utterly trounced in this
little game of wits. But even one as jaded as this
old woman feels part of herself melting when he says
so sweetly, “I’m a soldier, Great Queen. I am the
servant of my King. All that I do is in his
interests. That’s all there is to me in every
honesty, Your Majesty. I am Alexander’s man, no more
and no less.”

“How does it serve Alexander for you to tear out
throats of your fellow servants to your King?”

He can’t NOT answer now. The question is too direct.
He doesn’t look away from my gaze. “I wrought the
death of the individual you speak of for the King’s
own benefit. The man Eumenes and I are both of very
old families, Great Lady. We live and die by the
feud, have done for centuries. That is the way of the
ancient houses of Greece; sometimes Kings are a part
of these blood debts without even knowing it, because
they have gone on so long. But I would not bother my
liege with such matters when he needs to focus his
attention elsewhere. Eumenes and I would keep our
rivalries and longstanding grudges to ourselves, and
deal with them quietly for the sake of the King.”

“Your feud with the dead man involved your King?”

“Yes, Lady. I can’t tell you any more than this
much, but I swear to you I haven’t done murder. There
was just cause and severe provocation, and I would be
derelict in my duty to the King had I not acted as I
did.”

“And after you killed him, you immediately made love
with another Greek soldier. Does your King not desire
that you save your body for his pleasure alone? Dear
child, I don’t wish to embarrass you by being so
frank, but these are important questions I must have
answers to if I am to advise my son the King and
intercede on your behalf.”

“I’m not accustomed to ladies being so . . . “

“Of course you’re not. You’re a prince who’s been
very carefully brought up; I understand perfectly.
But YOU must understand that I didn’t live long enough
to get all these wrinkles and white hairs by being
ignorant.”

The lovely young man looks me straight in the eye.
“I’ve already answered you, Great Queen. My every
breath is dedicated to the service of my King.”

“How does it serve your King that you be imprisoned
and defiled by his enemies?”

His head drops and I see his shoulders shudder.

I’ve gone too far; I regret what I’ve just said.
But I can’t let him see me falter. I can’t take it
back. I’m sorry, but I can’t.

“A simple soldier can’t know these things, Your
Majesty,” he whispers, and I hear his voice break.
“He can only keep the faith and wait upon the will of
his King.”

I put my hand under his chin to lift his face so I
can see it. “Let me give you some advice, child,” I
smile at him, trying to put him more at ease.
“Continue to be so brave as you are. My son King
Darius could use a few thousand men with your loyalty
and courage, and your King should be proud that you
comport yourself so honorably in his service. Please
count me among your allies, do; I will protect you
here and I will protect you when we reach Sparta.”

The tears he’s been fighting finally decide to spill
over his cheekbones. I hold out my arms and he gets
to his knees, putting his arms about my waist and
burying his head in my lap, and I stroke his hair as I
would one of my grandchildren. “Go on, child,” I
reassure him, still stroking the mass of bronze hair.
“Cry, dear little one, you’ve earned it. And when you
are done, Bagoas will bring you a basin of cold water
and you will wash your face. Then I want you to take
my arm and walk with me to dinner. It’s been a long
time since I’ve been escorted by such a noble young
man.”

He nods his head against my belly, and I lean down to
kiss his temple.

“From now on, you will call me Grandmere. I gave
Alexander leave to address me so, and I give it to
you, Lord Hephaestion. You will marry my Drypetis,
Alexander will wed young Stateira, and I will be
honored to be the great-granmother of the children you
will get upon them.”

Another nod.

“Now wash your face, child. I'm hungry.”

******************************************************
--end of chapter 34--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 33

2006-02-17T06:54:43Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (chapter 33 out of 782)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: So . . . what REALLY happened to poor ol'
Craterus?
Warning: No smut. Sigh. I promise I'll get around
to some very soon and I'll make this snail's pace up
to you. But smut is still very much on the mind of
most--if not all--of the characters, and they want it
just as bad as you do--if not more. Soon.
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody here, this didn't
really happen (according to the USUAL histories,
anyway), please don't sue me, blah blah blah.
Rating: PG for a-drinkin' and a-cussin'.
Pairing: I wish. This is what happens when Plot
drowns out the much more enjoyable PWP.
Archive: Anywhere you wish, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
Feedback: On or off list, positive helps keep me
going and gives me incentive to write faster, negative
discourages me and I don't get any writing done while
I'm pouting. No comment at all keeps me in a lonely,
lazy vacuum.

Chapter 33:

Cassander:

I’ve been following Craterus for several days now, at
a safe distance. Of all the Companion Pupils growing
up together, only Alexander could track a man more
cleverly than I. Nearchus didn’t have any talent on
the ground, although he was quite good when we boys
played Battle of Salamis on our makeshift rafts.
Hephaestion was never much of a hunter; our hateful
old tutor Leonidas would probably have let him starve
if Alexander hadn’t killed enough game to sustain them
both on those long miserable hunting expeditions.
Hephaestion never had a stomach for killing, and I
prayed for weeks that Alexander would leave him in
Pella when he set out against the Parthians.
Hephaestion would have been safe in Pella; I would
have vouchsafed that. But Alexander couldn’t bear to
part with his darling and NOW where are we?
Hephaestion was taken from us anyway, and thus the
bloodcrazed King presides over an army of slavering
beasts.

The whole thing is an utter bore. I’d never have
come out to the Eastern Front if Alexander had only
listened to me and left Hephaestion in Pella; I’d have
courted my intended there and taken Hephaestion to bed
years ago. Alexander will surely never return to
Macedon again, and I knew I could eventually win my
sweet one’s heart--if given a chance. In my entire
life, Hephaestion is the one constant emotion, the
only thing I’ve ever loved, the only heart pure enough
to redeem the black pump in my own chest.

I really rather liked Medius’ plan in the beginning:
If Alexander was eliminated in the field, the Army
would have to return to Macedonia, Hephaestion among
them. Of course I would be the one to comfort him.
My father Antipater is an old man, and I would surely
become regent after him--if not outright King. Best
of all, I know in my heart that Hephaestion can come
to love me someday--but only if Alexander is gone.

Yes, a fine hatchling of a plan, but moot to me when
I visited Persia and learned Hephaestion had been
lost: I need the King alive now. A wise man knows
his strengths and his limitations: Without Alexander,
the Army can’t push on to Persepolis. I can’t
marshall them alone or hold the loyalty of the
generals and their various factions. If Hephaestion
can only be retrieved by bloody battle, then Alexander
is the only man who can bring that deadly force to
bear upon the Persians. I must wait for my moment;
I’ll know that crucial opening when I see it.

I have no idea if Alexander believes Craterus is
dead; the evidence was compelling enough, but not
consistent with what I know of the battle prowess and
ferocious heart of our mean Craterus. I received
permission from the King to return to my father’s
assistance in Pella, but as soon as I was out of sight
of the camp, I picked up Craterus’ trail from the
burned southern wall of Halicarnassus--he’s so sure
he’s counted among the dead that he isn’t bothering to
conceal himself. Besides, this is a different path
from the road the army is using and nobody SHOULD be
following the old bastard, so he thinks he’s gotten
away with his little plan.

To understand a Craterus, you must know how his mind
works. Loyal, stalwart Craterus, the King’s own
strong right arm--he would NEVER disobey the King, be
it Phillip, Alexander (or hopefully someday--even me).
If Alexander SAID to him, “Craterus, I cannot spare
you for whatever private mission you wish to set for
yourself,” well, then Craterus would be bound to stay
beside the King, by patriotism, oath, and honor. But
if Craterus doesn’t ASK his boon, then he isn’t
disobeying his King by taking off on his own for it,
is he? This is the way Craterus thinks. He is a
simple man, a fighting man seeking glory only for his
King and asking nothing for himself.

And so he will grieve his King instead while he
attends to whatever demons are driving him to commit
what will probably be considered frank treason. I
stayed with the Army long enough to attend the grand
funeral Alexander ordered for Craterus, and the sight
of a King fighting his own tears was enough to
unsettle things in my chest more than I like.

I didn’t believe the stories that Craterus was dead,
I have the freedom to go as I wish, and so I follow
him on his course, directly to the East. He doesn’t
ride like a man cast adrift in an ocean of sand; he
making a straight path for Persepolis, following the
stars, albeit in a more southerly route than the Army
is taking. There could only be one reason for
Craterus to act so unlike himself: He’s going after
Hephaestion. I understand this logic: While Craterus
may deride the King’s pretty favorite from his
personal point of view, he would battle Cerberus armed
with nothing but his own teeth if that was what it
took to restore happiness to his King.

But he certainly isn’t travelling cold sober all the
way; he has several wineskins with him and seems to
drink more heady wine than water. He carelessly
builds nightly campfires for himself and drinks
himself to a sleepy stupor, so confident is he that he
is alone in this desolate corner of the world. When
he’s had time to sink deeply enough into his cups, I
sneak up closely enough to listen as he rants at the
moon. He bellows alcohol-soaked gibberish at the
night sky, shaking his fist at the planets and railing
nonsense like a madman:

“Abomination among women! I’ll not tell the King he
was suckled by a harpy from Hell! The Queen has bile
in her teats--not the milk of a human woman! Pig!
Filth!”

“I love my King! I wouldn’t have done it if I’d not
been drink! Forgive me, Alexander! Forgive me!” He
falls on his face, scrubbing his head with dirt,
heaping sand upon himself and howling like a dog being
tortured.

“Forgive me, Alexander!”

He drunkenly shambles to his feet and reels around
the fire.

“A queen who murders children! A Great Lady who
profanes the innocent! You dare call yourself a
mother, o ye garbage of Epirus! Would that you’d died
a thousand times before Phillip! Wretched sow wearing
the form of a woman! May Hades damn your rotten
eyes!”

Another pull from the wineskin.

“You dare speak honeyed words to the King and coo to
him of your womanly love! Liar! Hypocrite! Witch!
She-wolf! You have the gall to tell my Alexander you
have his interests at heart! Oh, poor King, you
CANNOT be the fruit of this womb of Hell! My King, my
King--I’ve wronged you so! Forgive me, Alexander!
Oh, I beg you--forgive me! I couldn’t bear it if you
hated me, Alexander! Forgive me!”

There was a time when watching Craterus play the fool
would make me smile. I’ve never liked him, too puffed
up with his own soldiery and self-righteousness, but I
don’t enjoy seeing him suffer so. And I don’t enjoy
the ramifications of his drunken ramblings, so I’m
beginning to piece together the reasons for his
misery. There are at least two of them.

“I will find you, Hephaestion!” he yells at the
heavens as though his perceived young nemesis hid
among the stars. If I was willing to reveal myself to
Craterus, I would tell him in no uncertain terms that
Hephaestion has never been his enemy.

Unlike me. I’ve figured out what Craterus did to
Hephaestion, and good Queen Olympias before him. You
can slap my face and MAYBE I’ll let you survive if it
suits my purposes, but anyone who harms MY Hephaestion
is on my death list forever. The old woman will keep.
I will deal with her later. And maybe I’ll deal with
Alexander in due time, too. Craterus is here and
within my reach. Simple matter to fall upon him now.
I THINK I could take him if he’s drunk enough. But
I’m not entirely sure of it; I would be flattering
myself to think I’m his equal in combat, no matter how
soused he is.

And I would know more and more of past perfidies, so
I will continue to follow him without his knowledge.
He will drink himself stupid come each night, he will
talk aloud, and I will listen. Craterus seems to have
some plan in mind to rescue Hephaestion (challenge the
entire Persian Empire to a death duel for their
trophy--by Hades, Craterus is crazy and stupid enough
to do it!) and I may allow him to take this path for
awhile if it’s to my advantage.

But Craterus will pay dearly for what he’s done. When
such time comes as he is no longer of real or
potential use to me, I will watch him roast in the
pits of Tartarus and exact a million whimpers of
anguish from him for each moment of pain he’s forced
upon my Hephaestion.

*****************************************************
--end of chapter 33--
*****************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

Fic : A Dishonorable War Chapter 32

2006-01-22T13:26:18Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"
Chapter 32 (WIP, no end in sight)
Writer (Chief Liar): A. Lias
Summary: What else is going on in that rotten Persian
Court?
Warning: Nobody gets any, but that doesn't mean
they're not THINKING about it.
Rating: G (maybe PG-13 if you push it a lot)
Pairing: Nobody, but they're THINKING about it
Disclaimer: I don't own of these people, but I wish
I did. None of this happened, that we know of--but it
should have. I have used some terms, particularly
"grandmere" for grandmother just because I like the
way it sounds and I was looking for some affectionate
terminology for an era far removed from ours--nobody
was actually speaking French.
Archive: Wherever you want, just no direct e-mail
links to me
Feedback: Lots and lots, preferably positive, on or
off list.

Chapter 32:

Queen Mother Sisygambis:

“Pull all my hair back and put the golden combs in
it. I want to look severe.”

My hairdressing slave Piapa pins my white pincurls
atop the back side of my head. I pick up my mirror to
inspect it, instructing Piapa to capture and restrain
any rebellious strands that want to escape the bun.

“Please wear your hair up, Grandmere! It makes you
look like a girl!”

“I don’t want to look like a girl, Drypetis. I want
to look what I am--a very old woman.”

“You’re not so old!”

Oh, but I AM so old, little granddaughter. And my
hope this night is to help ensure that someday you
will live to be as old as I am.

Darling Drypetis comes to sit at my feet, lightly as
a butterfly, and gazes up at me, trying so hard to be
serious. So pretty, so bright--everything is new to
her! I wish I could put her inside an emerald and
keep her forever just the way she is now. It’s a
chore for me not to spoil her, the litle imp. Her
older sister Stateira is a good, dutiful girl (if not
a little dull); she will make a great Queen in due
time, she will bear many sons and daughters, and all
her people will call her blessed. But Drypetis
reminds me of--well, me--when I was her age.

Young Stateira will marry Alexander, and I couldn’t
be more pleased. I’ve taken quite a fondness for this
young Greek king. I think maybe I would have been
just like him, had I been fortunate enough to have
been born a man. A woman’s lot is always difficult,
even for a Queen and especially so for a Queen Mother.
If I were King now, the marriage would have already
taken place. But if I were King, I should have
welcomed this Western king to my side as a brother and
shared my kingdom with him--because Alexander will
take it anyway. My poor son, my poor son! Dear
Darius, how can you not understand that all our hopes
lie with Alexander now? He has already beaten you,
and everyone knows it but you! I didn’t raise you to
be a fool, Darius--if only you’d listen to ME instead
of these scheming syncophants that swarm around your
throne!

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeease, Grandmere?”

The little devil-girl is back at it again. Well, I
can hardly blame her for wanting to accompany me.
It’s such a big night for her--her first state banquet
and a chance to meet her future bridegroom, for Darius
tells me he has invited our Macedonian “guest” to the
feast, as well. Naturally, Drypetis doesn’t know he’s
here as a hostage; at her age and experience level,
when one is called a “guest”, then one is present at
his own will. Part of me wishes she could always
remain so naive. But there’s no need to enlighten her
to the cruel ways of the warring world tonight.
Stateira has been able to meet Alexander, and know
that her mother and I approve of him as her future
husband. Why not? Where else in this world exists
another Great King worthy of her royal blood? I would
see both my baby girls grow old untouched rather than
give them to these “nobles” of the Persian Court! All
they want is power--none of them are capable of love!
Yes, give my young Stateira to the handsome, noble
Macedonian King who will match her as her equal, who
will give her sons, and who will love her!

Oh, I know about King Alexander and his Hephaestion,
who languishes with us. Their true relationship is
obvious to anyone who knows something of the ways of
the world. And knowing of these ways, we learn how to
live with them. A Great King will take whom he will,
and if this Hephaestion is half the man King Alexander
is--well, then, my girls will be well-served! It’s
rare for a wife to be first in her husband’s heart in
these modern times, but a woman must see to her own
survival and that of her children, and if that
requires holding her tongue with regards to the King’s
bed choices, then so be it.

But I find that I also approve of Alexander and
Hephaestion. Listening to Alexander talk of the man
he would give to Drypetis gives me to understand them
both so much better. Hephaestion appears to be a good
(if not absent) husband to his other wives, and he
will accord Drypetis her proper station among those
wives and treat her with honor and fairness.
Alexander wants very much to be a proper husband when
the time comes for him to marry, and I’ve promised to
give him all advice and counsel from a woman who’s old
enough to have seen everything under the sun--but not
yet too old to have forgotten it! Hephaestion has
taught Alexander how to love, and I can feel in my own
heart that Alexander has love enough inside him for
all the world. My grandaughters will be queens of a
new era for the world.

“Grandmere . . . ?”

How could I deny you anything, Drypetis, skillful
little sprite that you are?! But we must make some
things clear first before we go anywhere in this
palace.

“You may come with me to visit the Macedonian before
the banquet, but you cannot stay long.”

“I just want to SEE him!”

“You shall see him--but nothing more. You may give
him formal greeting and curtsy as you would to any
other foreign prince, but you are not to engage him in
any other conversation. You are not to approach him
closely enough that he could possibly touch you.”

“Oh, Grandmere! We’ll be going with your noble
ladies and our guards--I wouldn’t DARE misbehave!
YOU’VE taught me how to act! I’d NEVER be
inappropriate!”

Not unless you got the slightest chance, would you,
little demon? They say this Hephaestion is even more
handsome than Alexander himself. And THIS old woman
has never seen a man as handsome as Alexander, so
Hephaestion may even make MY heart stop. I can just
imagine how he’ll affect Drypetis. I’m sure a great
noble such as he would treat my baby princess with all
the honor she is due, but she’s such a pretty thing
and he IS a Greek, after all, and everyone knows what
Greeks are like. If I’m chaperoning any young men and
women, they WILL behave themselves.

“After you and Lord Hephaestion are introduced, you
will gracefully take your leave, Drypetis. I will
have some questions for this Macedonian that aren’t
for the ears of young ladies.”

“I’ll be good! I’ll be good!”

“Yes, dearling, you will.”

I’ll SEE to that.

--end of chapter 32--

Fic : A Dishonorable War Chapter 29-31

2005-12-31T09:46:08Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War"
Chapters 29 - 31 (WIP)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summaries:
Chapter 29: It seems that Hephaestion is not the only
casualty of the Persian campaign.
Chapter 30: What of the big meeting in Miletus?
Chapter 31: What's going on in Persepolis these days?
Disclaimers: I don't anything. None of this
happened, except in my sick mind. Please don't sue
me; it would really dampen my creative spirit.
Pairings: Three whole chapters, and nobody gets any.
Rating: PG to PG-13, for wars and rumors of wars.
Feedback: Public or private, positive MUCH preferred
to negative.
Archive: Anywhere you want, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
Thanks: Much appreciation to Denise, for being such a
great sounding board!!!!!!!
Warnings: No fun, just lots of yak yak yak, and too
much thinking.

Chapter 29:

Philotas:

We drew lots for this painful chore, and I was the
unlucky one. How can I do this? Why did it have to
be me?

I go to the latrine before approaching the King’s
tent. I don’t want to tell my sad news to Alexander
on a full bladder--the LAST thing I need is to be
shamed by pissing myself in front of the King. But
who knows what his mood is these days? It’s certainly
been murderous up to now.

The pages who cluster about the King’s tent entrance
sit around like morose little monkeys. They’ve been
talking among themselves, but quickly fall silent at
my approach. One of them, young Dimnus, salutes me.
Tutoring the pages is a duty I’ve glady surrendered to
Alexandros of Lyncestis and to Callisthenes--I don’t
have time to instruct a ragtag band of boys in
military protocol, and at least he will inculcate the
proper Greek ideals into their mushy skulls. My
father and I have been trying for weeks now to unravel
the plot against the King, but it seems more
complicated than the Gordian Knot; every possible lead
we ferret out just seems to coil back onto itself, and
we’ve no more answers than before we started.
Sometimes I feel like lining up the entire camp
against a hillside and torturing every last one of
them until I hear what I need to know. Father says I
feel ashamed of having boasted, and that’s all normal
and well, but I was so wrong about Alexander. Our own
family couldn’t have honored Nicanor more than the
funeral the King provided for him in the wilderness,
and every time I see my little brother Hector I want
to throw my arms around him and weep. I have
Alexander to thank for his life, and my family has
that much more chance of survival with more males
surviving.

Dimnus gives a half-kneel when I don’t respond to his
salute, the snivelling brat. If I’d had MY way, the
King would have left these worthless boys at home with
their mothers. “General Philotas, may we be of
service to you?” he asks tentatively. He’s tried to
curry favor with me, as well as all the other high
officers, but who has the time and inclination to
wetnurse a lump like him?

“Tell the King I have the tallies from
Halicarnassus.”

The boy scurries into the tent, and comes back out in
a few moments. “His Majesty will see you in an hour.
Come back then.”

“WHAT did you say, boy?”

Dimnus corrects himself, stammering. “It would
please His Majesty to receive you in an hour, General
Philotas. May we offer you some wine while you wait?”

I wouldn’t take a cup of muddy water from this
ignorant young boar. “I will return at the appointed
time.” I inform the rascals. “I’ve better things to
do than babysit the likes of you.”

After inspecting the catapults, I come back to the
King’s tent. The boys are sullen and bored, but I
couldn’t care less. Dimnus announces me to the King,
then skulks away.

I find Alexander pacing his tent like a caged wolf.
He’s always like this anymoe, seething and impatient.
His food sits untouched on his table, but he’s
certainly helped himself to the wine, although I
haven’t seen him drunk since before we lost
Hephaestion. He just grows ever sharper, and more
cruel. After a moment’s deliberation, I salute the
King and bow my head; it’s best this be done on a
formal level. All the old camaraderie among the Royal
Guard is gone, and I must ever remember I speak to a
King, not a boyhood friend.

“I have the tallies, Sire.”

He paces back and forth, not even bothering to look
at me. “Just leave them on my map table, and go.
I’ll review them later.”

My breath hitches in my lungs. I can’t breathe, but
I must speak. “There is something I must tell you,
Your Majesty.”

He ignores me. Back and forth, back and forth.

“Majesty, General Craterus is among the missing.”

“WHAT?!!”

Alexander whirls upon me, and I’m afraid for my life;
thank Zeus I emptied my bladder (again) before coming
here! “What report of Craterus?!”

I’ve never in my life had to dredge up so much
courage. “His men saw him running into the flames
after some of Memnon’s guard. The buildings around
him collapsed.” I take a deep breath. “We haven’t
been able to find his body under the ruins.”

The King stops pacing, and stares at me. My heart
reaches out to him: First Hephaestion, and now
Craterus! Is Alexander to lose all he treasures on
this campaign? The loyalty of Craterus was one of the
things the King could still hold fast to, and now it’s
gone--along with the love of Hephaestion. How much
loss can one man bear, even though he be a King?

Well, he isn’t going to confide in me. A shadow
passes across his face like a fleeting thundercloud,
but his _expression doesn’t change. “Leave me,” he
says without emotion.

I flee to my tent, to be alone with my own tears and
thank the gods Alexander didn’t kill me on the ground
where I stood.

--end of chapter 29--

Chapter 30:

King Agis of Sparta:

I had expected a summons from Lord Amyntor, and now
it’s come. Ordinarily I would refuse to to go
anywhere at the bidding of a commoner, but General
Amyntor is no mere commoner. Eordaea has offered him
its Kingship many times over, but he always
refuses--why bother with a dangerous title when he is
their king in all but name? This noble family has
always represented Athens and defended it, but that’s
certain to be a thing of the past now; Amyntor will
step aside and allow the High King to vent his wrath
however he pleases. The Athenians have made a
terrible enemy in Lord General Amyntor--the only thing
worse for them is the enmity of Alexander.

My task as King of my people is to avoid making
enemies of Lord Amyntor and King Alexander at this
point. I know I’m young and inexperienced--nobody
expected me--the youngest of five
princes--to ever become King of Sparta and so I was
never groomed for such office. I have to learn how to
be a King in the worst of all possible times; I’m no
natural, like an Alexander--and my nation depends on
me for its existence. If I fail, Sparta will be lost.
Anyone who dismisses Alexander as a young buffoon (as
Demonsthenes and his dear friend at the Persian Court
Charidemus are so fond of bruiting about) do so at
their peril. This Alexander has never been defeated
in battle, and he’s made many naysayers eat their
words like bile. Now is not the time for false
confidence, particularly if Alexander means to extend
his war back to the west as well as continue reaching
eastward.

Lord Amyntor isn’t alone; I’m not surprised to find
the General Antigonus and Admiral Nearchus present in
his study as well.

Nearchus has apparently decided to be the genial one;
clearly Amyntor isn’t in the mood for niceties and
Antigonus isn’t known for his statecraft. Alexander’s
chief naval officer gives me a wide grin and salutes
me. “Good Agis!” he booms. “Welcome, Majesty! Come,
help yourself, we have some very nice olives and
cheeses--and good wine!”

I decline the spirits; I’ll need all my wits in this
company.

Lord General Amyntor gets right to the point. “King
Agis, I’ve read over the correspondence you’ve given
us, and I have a few questions.”

“Of course, my lord. And I am eager to answer them.”

“How did my son enter this intrigue between Athens
and Persia?”

I choose my words carefully; I must tell these men
the truth and have no desire to do otherwise. Between
Persia, Athens, and Alexander, I believe Alexander
will emerge the winner, and it’s only prudent to be on
his side.

“Lord Amyntor, your son is--unfortunately for
him--quite the living legend as a beauty, as well as
the close friend and confidante of a great war King.
He is a natural target.”

Antigonus stares at me without blinking his one eye.
“Given, King Agis. So tell us how you came to be
involved then.”

“A couple of years ago, I was in Thebes, just having
become King of Sparta. I was feeling my way--as it
were--trying to determine which alliances might be
best for my nation.” I may as well be truthful; they
probably know this anyway, and are testing my
veracity. “A man from Athens, of of their city
fathers--by name of Demosthenes--had urged a meeting.
He felt that an axis between Athens, Thebes, and
Sparta might be strong enough to overturn a young
tyrant King named Alexander before he became so
powerful no one could stand in his way. I wondered at
such prospects, and decided to hear for myself what
Athens and Thebes had to offer.”

“This proposed alliance was all but dead by the time
I arrived in Thebes--Athens and Sparta would find no
co-conspirator against Alexander in Thebes--it was
already won to Alexander, thanks to a very polished
young diplomat named Hephaestion. As you can imagine,
Demosthenes--who was there with his friend
Charidemus--was livid. Athens had no hope without the
support of Thebes--all its resources, its riches, the
Sacred Band--everything it had was Alexander’s.”

“Still I would learn more. I arranged to meet with
Demosthenes and Charidemus, and listened as they tried
to woo me to their cause: The overthrow of Alexander.
So I pretended to be interested, and asked them what
was in it for me. My tastes in handsome young men are
no secret, gentlemen. Demosthenes offered me your
son, Lord Amyntor--he told me that if we could
eliminate the High King, the young man Hephaestion
would be mine to keep.”

“I told them I would consider the offer, and returned
to Sparta. Demosthenes wrote to me there, repeating
his proposal. Now I had it in writing, under
Demosthenes’ own seal. I wrote to him, feigning
acceptance, then called all of you for this meeting at
Miletus--close enough to Alexander that he might send
his representatives--you, Antigonus and Nearchus--and
ascertain for himself that I am his ally in this.”

Antigonus isn’t altogether convinced. “A dangerous
choice, young King. What if Persia and Athens should
be victorious? They will come for Sparta as soon as
they’ve levelled Macedonia if Alexander should fall.”

“One MUST make choices at times like these, General
Antigonus. Sparta can’t stand alone now, whether she
would like to or not--we MUST throw in our lot with
one side or the other if we are to survive. And I
believe that Alexander will be the winner, and that he
will help me protect my country. I love the isolation
I have grown up with as a Spartan; I really want no
truck with any of you--but this is a matter of
necessity. If Sparta remains apart, it will suffer
for it sooner or later. If I must bow my knee, let it
be to another Greek, a High King born and bred--not to
some Eastern potentate or Athenian politician. I have
given you proof against both Athens and Persia--I ask
only for your trust and protection for my people.”

Lord General Amyntor stands up and goes to the
window, folding his hands behind his back, and I am
unable to see his face. He has lost his child to this
shadow war, his pride and joy stolen away like a
golden bauble to thieves, and I could weep for him now
if he would allow it. He stands erect, his shoulders
pressed back and high.

Nearchus answers for all of them. “King Alexander is
willing to accept your word, King Agis. He welcomes
you as his vassal, and requests you raise an army for
an attack upon Athens as soon as spring begins. He
will send you further orders later.”

“Alexander’s friendship comforts me, gentlemen.
Please assure the King that he will not regret
extending his hand to me. I am his man, and all of
Sparta stands behind me. Let us send a message to all
jackals and conspirators that Greeks aren’t men who
can be bought and sold by Eastern kings and the
ambitious vermin at home.”

“We are aware that King Darius has written to you,”
says Lord Amyntor. “How will you answer him?”

“In the only way that I reasonably can, my lord,” I
inform him. “I will give sanctuary to his family and
to General Hephaestion, and vouchsafe their
protection. Darius has even more enemies than
Alexander, and this war can’t be fielded to an
appropriate conclusion while the spouses and children
of the Great Kings are at risk. Let Darius and
Alexander rest their minds with regards to their
precious ones, that they may go forth and settle this
conflict between themselves as Kings and as men.”

--end of chapter 30

Chapter 31:

Bagoas:

I’ve been very busy preparing for our journey into
exile. My master appears to agree with our going to
Sparta with the Persian royal women and children. He
says that the Spartan king Agis will be fair with both
Alexander and Darius, and this is a good choice. He
doesn’t relish the prospect of sitting out the war
back in Greece, but I suppose being a hostage on your
home soil is better than being one in an alien court.
And there he will be among his fellow Greeks, and able
to occupy himself with guarding Darius’ family. He
will be permitted to correspond with King Alexander
and receive visits from his own relatives. I’m a bit
nervous about it, but my lord assures me I need have
no fear.

Darius has been exceedingly generous since his visit
to our apartments, and I’ve had a new wardrobe made
for my master. He’s glad to have his simple kilts,
blouses, and chitons back, relishing the feel of
cotton, wool, and linen again after so many months of
Persian silks. He’s sent wonderful warm fur cloaks,
blankets, and boots for my master to help keep him
comfortable. The Great King has had other chambers in
the royal apartments opened so that we may have more
room and other diversions; my lord Hephaestion
particularly enjoys now having access to the King’s
library, as well as the rooftop gardens. The royal
gardens in Persepolis aren’t quite as spectacular as
the ones in Babylon, but the conserved flowers and
tamed animals are a treat for one who has been
confined as long as my master. There are pet monkeys,
cats, rabbits--even deer--to enjoy, pet, and feed.
It’s good to see my lord finally smile a little.

Yesterday the Great King presented my lord with his
own horse--an exquisite white mare that had been given
him from Sogdia. She is a magnificent creature, a
gift fit for a King--my lord says he will breed her
with great Bucephalus himself, and Darius shall be
given the first colt. Lord Hephaestion named the mare
Sister Artemis. He isn’t allowed to ride yet, but
appears more interested in eating and rebuilding his
strength in preparation for our trip. His Immortal
guards are still mystified that their charge will soon
be their commander as they escort us west to Ephesus,
where we will take ship for Sparta and remain there
until the war is over. My lord has given King Darius
his word that he will not attempt to escape and rejoin
Alexander; he says the safety of Darius’ family takes
precedence for now, and he is completely confident he
will be reunited with his King in good time. All
said, he appears very pleased with the turn of events,
and if he isn’t worried, why should I be?

--end of chapter 31--

all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl all work and no play makes
jill a dull girl

Fic: A Dishonorable War chapter 28

2005-12-12T10:20:06Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (28/WIP)
Writer (Chief Liar): A. Lias
Summary: Alexander meets a refugee from
Halicarnassus.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this, except in my own
skull. It happened on Earth A, which I rule, but
nowhere else, okay? Please don't sue me. I apologize
for any mispellings.
Rating: NC-17 for violence. Nobody gets laid in this
chapter, sorry.
Warning: Violence and talk of more violence. No sex
for anybody in here.
Pairing: Nobody gets any tail.
Feedback: On or off list, positive MUCH preferred to
negative.
Archive: Anywhere you want--just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.

Chapter 28:

Lydia of Halicarnassus:

Maybe I’ll find some water--even food--today. The
roads between Halicarnassus and Tyre are rough and
dangerous; nearly everything is burned and all the
cavalries have rucked up the paving stones and reduced
much of it to gravel. Two days ago I came upon the
remains of a refugee party numbering eleven dead,
butchered by Alexander of Macedon, who is marauding
around these parts. I searched the bodies, looking
for food, skins, coin, anything I can put to use.
There were a few loaves of bread on the corpses, going
moldy and hard, but I took them regardless--anything
is better than nothing.

Money is no good at the moment--and heavy to carry
even if you can come up with some, but I’ll need it if
I live to reach Tyre. The real problem is food and
water. I keep the sea in view as I walk to avoid
getting lost, but the salt water would burn out my
innards. I sometimes think I’ll go mad, seeing so
much water and I can’t drink a drop of it. Alexander
has poisoned many of the wells, so I check for corpses
around them before I dare risk drawing any water for
myself. The Macedonian army is all around these
parts, trampled what little grain they haven’t taken
out of our fields, carried off the beasts and fowl to
eat for themselves. Food is so precious I hear
Alexander has taken to sacrificing any Persians or
Asian Greeks he can capture to please his gods so that
the bulls, pigs, sheep, and birds are reserved to feed
his army. They say he likes to do all the
bloodletting himself, with his own hands, this foreign
King who exults and wallows in blood like a rabid
wolf, while his priests and prophets stand around with
no purpose but to agree with whatever butchery he
wants to do.

The air stinks in spite of the sea breeze. King
Alexander has crucified everyone he’s been able to
catch who couldn’t refugee out of Halicarnassus,
making mile after mile of bloated bodies nailed on
trees and posts, even walls; the bodies are
decomposing as they hang in the sun and the carrion
birds feast. I’ve seen some bodies of the crucified
where refugees who fled before me have stripped the
fleshy muscle from the calves of the dead and dying in
desperation for meat. I swear to myself that I will
never eat the dead--no matter how desperate my
situation--even barbarians don’t eat their own
kind--but I have seen the most tender mothers of
Halicarnassus roast their own children in their hunger
madness. General Memnon took all those he could in
the boats with him when he withdrew to Tyre, but no
boat would allow a leprous woman so I’m alone even
among straggling bands of people trying to evacuate
before Alexander can hunt them down.

I feel like Halicarnassus herself, a sick widow,
desolate, beset. Alexander mocks all who live on the
continent; he curses us as he pursues and afflicts us.
Was the destiny of Halicarnassus to collapse under
her own charred timbers--or did Alexander choose that
destiny for us like some avenging god as he spread his
bloody hand over the city and scorned it as nothing?
By the spirits, he would put his foot upon the neck of
the entire world, devour it, and make the remains a
place of profanity and starvation!

Almost to Xanthus now; everything between it and
Halicarnassus is burned and gutted. I considered
trying to get to Rhodes, but it’s gone over to
Alexander and I’d find no solace there even if I
wasn’t a leper.

I hear them long before I see them, and drop the
ground, pretending to be dead. A group of Macedonian
riders bursts upon the road like furies on devil
horses, their armor gleaming and their weapons
clattering. I open one eye just a little:

One of the riders is astride the largest black
stallion I’ve ever seen, a blazing great beast who
seems to blow fire frm his nostrils, pawing the
ground, impatient to bring more lamentation upon our
wretched land and people. The rider is wearing golden
armor that shines as bright as a small sun, and on his
head is a priceless helm beaten into the shape of a
lion’s head, with twin white plumes on either side of
the head.

I realize suddenly that this is King Alexander
himself, the destroyer of Asia, and my eyes fail me
because they well with tears. My body betrays me by
lurching at the sight of this besieging monster; I
vomit bile before the black horse, causing it to rear.
I cringe at its clashing hooves, fearing it will
break all my bones and make a raw dead pulp of
whatever is left of me.

“In the name of Hephaestion--I beg you spare me,
Great King!” I rasp at him.

Miraculously, he hears me and reins in the great
horse. “Who are you, mother?” he asks.

“A poor woman of low birth, Majesty--one who couldn’t
possibly harm you and who beseeches your pity.”

The golden man swings himself off the leopardskin
covering the back of the black horse, in spite of the
protests of his escorts--a gang of fearsome horsemen.
The Greek King is covered in caked gore; he’s had a
busy day of killing but looks like he’d still greedily
slaughter anything he can find.

“Why do you call upon Hephaestion, my lady?” His
hostility seems to have faded a bit; he merely regards
me with curiosity and some interest.

“Because I know who you are, Your Grace. I know that
the Lord Hephaestion is your lover, and was cruelly
taken from you in an act of cowardice and dishonor. I
know they have carried him off to Persepolis to make
you miserable and pour out your heart upon the sand
like blood. I, too, lost my spouse--my love--but
unlike you, I have no hope of ever seeing him
again--he went to the house of shades many years ago.
I pray you recover your lover, Great King, because I
know how much pain you are suffering and I wouldn’t
wish it upon even you.”

“An honest woman!” the King shouts. “So you pray for
me? To whom do you pray?”

“To great Zeus and mighty Heracles, Your Grace. I
also pray to father Amun. I pray to any god who might
lift your suffering and stay your hand against us.”

He smiles, and it is a frightening sight. “You don’t
pray to Bel to break my teeth in my mouth? Why don’t
you pray Bel give me nothing to drink but gall and
wormwood and make my soul sink into reeking ichor?”

He’s toying with me, idly considering whether or not
to kill me where I kneel. With one pass of that
sword, he could cleave my head from my body. “I have
no reason to hate Your Grace,” I answer warily but
truthfully; I can tell that he would sense it should I
lie to him. “If I were a man like you and had the
means, I would kill those who took my husband from me.
I am cursed to be a woman.”

He starts to make a step toward me, but I throw back
my hood and hold out my hands to him. “Your Grace,
please come no further! I am unclean! Don’t touch
me!”

But my cry of warning doesn’t stop him. He strides
right up to me, takes my hands in his, and lifts me to
my feet. “You are no leper, dear mother,” he says,
his yellow eyes narrow and appraising me. “I know
something of medicine, and I know lepers when I see
them. Lady, you have lupus--not leprosy.”

So close to him! I fear I shall be incinerated! My
tongue clings to the roof of my mouth and I can’t
speak. “Not every disease of the skin is leprosy,
mother,” King Alexander says, his voice soothing and
full of compassion for me. “You have lupus--a disease
in which your body has turned against itself--but I
can’t acquire it from you--and neither can anyone
else.”

“Look at me, Your Grace! My skin is red and clings
to my bones! I defile all who come near me!”

“Tell me whom you have infected. Give me their
names.”

I can’t. I can’t recall a single person who has
taken leprosy from me. I stand there tonguetied.

“I had a great teacher once, when I was a boy,” the
King goes on. “He taught me a great deal about
illness and injury--how to recognize and treat
them--and I have maintained an abiding interest in
these things. I swear to you on my Kingship,
lady--you are not a leper.” He touches my face with
his bare hand, and it’s all I can do not to shrink
away from him.

“You are in misery,” he notes. “You’re alone and
starving, thinking yourself a leper. Yet you keep
trying to go on. You’re trying to survive. Why?”

“Because I believe suffering can’t last forever, Your
Grace. I’ve lived a long time, and seen many troubles
come and go. I have hope that things will get
better--and you see, they already have, I could die
now, happy in the new knowledge that I am not a leper.
This fills me with hope and gives me courage. You,
too, must have hope, Majesty. Your Hephaestion lives.
He’s waiting for you. Today is bleak and
discouraging, and perhaps tomorrow will be, too, but
the gods will not allow a love such as yours to wither
away and die. How could they be gods and so cruel to
their children? It cannot be!”

He smiles again, and this one is tender and
beautiful. “Mother, you shall come with us. I will
have you escorted to the court of the Carian queen
Ada, who also is a wise and wonderful woman. She has
a new court to establish now that I have returned her
lands to her that she may rule in my name, and she’ll
need a lady in waiting. You will assist Queen Ada,
mother--what is your name?”

“Lydia, Your Grace.”

“Lady Lydia.” He gallantly kisses my hand. I’ve had
no human touch in so many years--and now I am kissed
by a Great King! “Please continue to pray for my
Hephaestion--and for me.”

I kneel, loving him both like a son and like a King,
then prostrate myself on my face before him. “I swear
I will, Your Grace! May those who took him from you
find themselves utterly rejected by their gods and
cast into darkness and desolation for their
punishment! May they eat live coals and yearn that
you had put them to the sword and granted them quick
and merciful death!”

**********************************************************************************************************
--end of chapter 28--
**********************************************************************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

Fic: A Dishonorable War chapter 27

2005-12-02T04:21:57Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (aka The A. Liad,
chapter 27 of several zillion)
Writer (Chief Liar): A. Lias
Summary: What's been going on in Cleitus' mind
lately? Question and answer time. And more questions
than answers.
Disclaimers: I don't own anybody, this never
happened, blah blah blah blah blah. All of this is
strictly AU stuff that happens on Earth A, where I am
god. I have used some modern terminologies to
describe some things from the ancient times, sorry if
it's jarring, but this was a hard chapter to write.
Any typos are the fault of Bessus, who sends all of
you his love and felicitations.
Pairings: Alexander/Hephaestion/Cleitus (Hot
Damn!!!!!!!)
Warnings: Somebody finally gets some, or at least
they're willing to tell you about it. Reports of
death and destruction. Angst.
Rating: R for language, slash, violence, all that
good stuff
Archive: Any where you like, just no e-mail links to
me, please
Feedback: On or off list, positive much preferred to
negative

CHAPTER 27:

Cleitus:

I find it odd and somewhat maddening that I seem to
have lost my taste for sacking the cities of our
enemies--the sight of brick defensive walls used to
make my cock hard, but not this time. I feigned ill,
and the King excused me from battle. He knew, of
course, that there wasn’t enough fight left in
Halicarnassus to even make a bit of sport, but
Alexander’s soul has become a pit for devils to nest
in. Half the army is driven to frenzy with his
insatiable bloodlust, and the other half is becoming
terrified of him but swept along by his overwhelming
charisma and utter determination. We are all trapped
in the wake of a comet, hurtling along at breakneck
speed, destroying all in our path.

Somewhere beyond the low hills I can hear the sounds
of Alexander’s latest conflagration; he’s sure to be
furious and bitter because Memnon and Ephialtes fired
the magazines and everything made of wood they could
pile together near the Halicarnassan wall that made
the obvious focus for the Macedonian assault. I see
the lights from the blaze like a smoky sunset even
though it’s almost midnight.

We’ll be on the move in a couple of days; I walk
through our empty camp, seriously considering that I
should take up drinking wine again; the teetotaller
isn’t nearly so numb to the world around him as the
man who goes to battle in that fortunate state between
pissed out of his mind--yet still able to walk and
wield a sword.

There I see the two gaunt warhorses of Alexander and
Hephaestion, tethered near the King’s baggage wagons.
The King fears old Bucephalus is growing weak from the
scanty forage; besides, he doesn’t need a great battle
steed to mop up what’s left of a wrecked burning town.
I also see Hephaestion’s baggage wagon--little more
than a modest covered cart because Hephaestion likes
to travel light.

I miss my ‘little brother’, as I often used to call
Hephaestion, and still do when we are alone. Even
more, I miss my King. I’m lonely for the Alexander
who left Macedonia so full of hopes and dreams; I
fancied I could see a smidgen of Phillip in him, but
his personality far eclipses that even of his father.
All the loneliness aching deep in my guts, I crawl
into Hephaestion’s baggage wagon, a maudlin
sentimental fool who feels a lot older than he is.

The glow of the battle fires is such that I don’t
even need a candle this far away from the fight.
Hephaestion never took much with him beyond weapons
and armor: Like Alexander, he travels with his own
well-worn copy of The Iliad, along with several other
books and parchments. I sit at a small chair with an
attached writing surface and pick up a volume covered
with dust from the months of Hephaestion’s absence. A
scholarly tome of war, dissections of all the great
classic battles. A sheaf of papers falls from the
book when I open it.

Unlike Alexander, Hephaestion left a gaggle of wives
back in Eordaea, and they all write to him regularly
and passionately. I see a neat packet of letters my
abducted comrade had written and left ready to send,
one addressed to each wife. I don’t read these, as
they are sealed and I wouldn’t want to disturb them
should Hephaestion be returned to us and find me out.
I read pages and pages of love poems in various stages
of completion--some dedicated to the wives and some
for Alexander. The beautiful verse touches my heart
and brings tears to my eyes--would that someone felt
such love for me. But that’s just an idle dream,
Cleitus, you villain, you pirate--put it from your
mind before it starts to ferment.

Working my way through his papers makes me feel
closer to Hephaestion--more like a nephew than my own
brothers’ sons. Beneath the poetry, I discover the
anticipated lot of field studies, logistical reports,
planning diagrams for bridges, roads, and cities
Hephaestion expects to build for his King. A Craterus
might make light of Hephaestion’s combat skills, but
even that crusty old ogre has to admire the boy’s
genius for engineering. Whatever Alexander dreams
possible, Hephaestion designs and builds it into
reality, compressing and refining an imagination as
wild and limitless as the universal sky into a few
precise drawings and diagrams.

To merely look upon Alexander and Hephaestion, one is
at first struck by their looks--two young men far more
beautiful than any mortals, in the truest and deepest
love for each other, the perfection of every ideal one
could dream--and yet, there is the darkness that lurks
within these two suns which orbit one another forever.

This darkness of Alexander’s has become obvious to
the world by now; he is called an unholy, inhuman
monster, and so he has become. Every throat he slits
forms a cry to his Hephaestion to come back to him;
Ares himself would weep as Alexander does--in blood
and bone and fire.
But Hephaestion’s dark nature is far more subtle than
Alexander’s: I find dozens of designs for new
inventions of warfare, and improvements to the
lethality of old ones. I’m particularly impressed by
the plan for an automatic catapult, with a winch
turning chains to operate a slider that will let
arrows fall from a magazine into an arrow trough--make
the trough deep enough and the prettiest man in our
regiment can more quickly kill the multitudes for his
beloved King. He’s taken the concept further in
drafting a gigantic multi-storied siege tower set up
and framed for over twenty such catapults--so much for
the walls of Troy. There’s another drawing for a
rolling device that runs on flatlink chain around
pentagonal wheels, looks like a mobile battering ram;
Hephaestion has labelled it as a “tank”.

A small row of potted aromatic plants (now direly in
need of water) and copious notes and observations tell
me that our sweet Hephaestion is no novice to the
arcane science of poison. The wagon is full of
assorted daggers, saws, swords, spears, nets--as well
as construction tools to erect his war machines for
Alexander--and later, build more new cities all named
Alexandria.
I’m certain that if his King ever developed a
gourmand’s abiding passion for mushrooms, then
Hephaestion would be scouring the country for the
finest truffles and over at the anvil hammering out
new frying pans and poaching bowls. Anything to make
his Alexander happy is all that Hephaestion ever
wanted, and the unfairness of his abduction rankles
me--Hephaestion is probably the most innocent man on
this godforsaken continent.

But the question continues to plague me: ARE
Alexander and Hephaestion mere men? They both look
nothing like any of their parents or other forbears.
Alexander’s craving for blood and conquest, his yellow
lion’s eyes and riot of golden curls, his sheer
invincibility--a mortal couldn’t take the wounds he
does and shrug them off like gnat stings--what IS
Alexander? I wish I knew. And Hephaestion, possessed
of that unearthly beauty and the strange heat of his
body, so attractive to men and women that no one can
resist him--the fair blue-eyed son of two brown-eyed,
olive-complected parents. And then there is the bond
between Alexander and Hephaestion that is stronger
than any thing of this world . . .

I recognized it during the heavenly days I had them
to myself as boys, after Alexander’s disatrous first
attempts to make love to another young man. They were
frightened of their love back then--yet the initial
fear was punctuated by occasional flashes of KNOWING.
I don’t know how else to describe it--they had made
their own little circle of two, a world of love
without end even as children, and I was there to serve
them. I settled the boys in my hut, then sent word to
Phillip that they would be staying with me in the
groves and we were not to be disturbed for any reason.
Phillip--bless him--understood, of course.

As I’d feared, Hephaestion had never healed
completely from Olympias’ monstrous assault upon him
as a little child. He would never make for a prolific
lover of men because he was damaged inside, too much
scarring, no give if an extremely well-endowed man
tried to take him without great care and patience.
She had made him frail for the love of men; he feared
the pain and risk of it, and who could blame him? I
stand amazed that he could ever make love at all--to
men or women--but thankfully our sweetest one isn’t
without appetites of his own.

Patience and care have never been among Alexander’s
greatest virtues, but he learned them in abundance for
his Hephaestion. I taught them carefully how to
pleasure each other--with their permission, I made
love to both of them within the limitations of
Alexander’s rank and Hephaestion’s safety. I taught
them how to stroke and suck each other to ecstasy, for
that couldn’t harm either of them.

Alexander likes to watch me take Hephaestion, then
and now. He strokes himself to climax while watching
us fuck. I am the only other man he trusts with his
precious one; Hephaestion lets me take him when the
King wishes to observe us. He doesn’t know why
Hephaestion’s body is the way it is, and I pray he
never finds out, as it is the King’s most prized
possession.

Alexander was the most apt pupil one could ever
imagine; like Phillip, he can’t get enough sex. The
only thing he loves more than sex is fighting wars.
He’d fuck Hephaestion constantly, morning, noon, and
night if his darling could endure it. Sometimes I
almost fall over laughing at soldiers and camp women
who’ve passed the night with the King--they’re all
moon-eyed in the morning because Alexander suddenly
showed up in their tents and fucked them stupid. He’s
forgotten the tryst before he’s even made his way back
to his tent; a King is like a pig--his land and
subjects are his trough for him to eat from one shore
to the other. Any available cunt or ass is fair game
for him, and any sane person who wants to live a
little longer isn’t going to deny a horny King. Of
course he’ll have to make future marriages for the
sake of politics, but heaven help anyone who dares
give him their hearts.

And that includes Hephaestion. Because he had the
courage to love a King, he has become a battleground.
I almost wept in front of him, seeing him captive in
Persepolis. I suspect he had more reasons for killing
Eumenes than merely proving him a spy, but I wouldn’t
ask him. I could only see how terrible his
imprisonment is for him. He has only a frightened
eunuch slave for company, he is made to wear Persian
silk when he prefers homespun, forced to eat what of
their food he can stomach, and sleep in the bed of
their King. It is torture without end in
sight--Alexander is burdened with an army and an ugly
war standing between him and his lover; he can’t fly
to Hephaestion’s side like a falcon or else he would.
The Parthians would never kill such a prize as the
cherished lover of an enemy King; his guards are ever
present as much to keep him from harming himself as
they are to keep him secure for his captors--so he
couldn’t even hope for the release of death (but how
little they realize of their hostage!). Boredom and
loneliness eat away at Hephaestion constantly, and I
know him so well--separation from Alexander is a slow
agonizing misery for him. He’d be happier rotting in
an underground dungeon, being beaten and starved
daily. At least then he could feel more like a man
than a plaything to be fought over. Of course they’ve
fucked him, raped him; he’s too beautiful not to bed.
In Persepolis, he is no longer a prince and an
officer--he is less than a slave--and how can one of
his rank and blood stand that? His silent suffering
screamed at me when I came to see him with the late
and unlamented Eumenes.

I’ll never forget how he fell into my arms, his
pretty Persian gown sodden and stinking with Eumenes’
blood. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d killed the
King’s secretary simply to feel like a soldier and
fighting man again. That’s why I didn’t scold him
overmuch for squandering his waning strength on the
likes of Eumenes, but he can’t last forever under
these oppressive circumstances. I hated myself for
what I had to say to my ‘little brother’ then.

“The King has ordered me to bring him a taste of you.
He must assure himself that you live. I’m so sorry,
Hephaestion.”

He understood instantly, and went limp against my
chest, his hands clutching onto me like a drowning man
to a steadfast rock in the middle of a vicious river.
So tired so tired so tired so tired so tired, his body
language told me, so tired so tired. But he would
give his last breath gladly and without hesitation if
Alexander asked for it.

I laid him down on the bed and lifted his
blood-soaked robe. They’ve given him no
undergarments--yet another small cruelty in the legion
of torments. “I bring you the love of Alexander your
King, young Hephaestion,” I whispered in his ear. “I
come as his proxy, as he so commanded me. He bids me
ask you to close your eyes and imagine that he is here
loving you now, to take comfort and courage in any
pleasure I can give you, to give me your seed to bring
to him that he might taste your essence and receive
heart to keep battling his way to you, for he will not
rest until you are safe with him again. These were
his words, Hephaestion; he wants you to know he thinks
of you every moment of the day and night, and all the
demons in Hades can’t stand against him.”

“I know,” he answers, simply and beyond eloquence.

“Do you feel well enough for this?” I’m very worried
about his pallor and erratic pulse.

“Please tell the King that I await him in all faith
and spirit. Everything I have, everything I am--all
is his to command. His request is reasonable and
justifiable, and I only wish I could give him more.”

“You will, ‘little brother’.” I stretched out over
his body, trying to keep him warm, trying to project
my strength into him to last him for the bleak months
I know are yet to come, yearning to take him with me
to reunite him with the King. “Nothing will stop him
from coming for you.”

He nodded, and spread his legs for me to kneel
between and take him into my mouth. He did shut his
eyes, and I knew he was trying to pretend it was his
Alexander making love to him, and failing--for tears
leaked from under his closed eyelids with their
impossibly long lashes and spilled over his
cheekbones. I tried to love him as I had seen
Alexander do time and again when the three of us were
alone, I tried to touch him as his King would. I did
my best.

But it was his will to comply with Alexander’s
command that finally made his body spasm in my arms
and send its sweetness spreading over my tongue. As
soon as it touched my alien mouth, the come
miraculously formed itself into a round, hard pearl,
which I pushed between my upper teeth and my lip, and
thus managed to keep safe until I could give it to our
King himself. I forced myself to leave my ‘little
brother’ even though my soul bellowed at me to fight
the Immortals with my bare hands (my weapons were
taken during my brief sojourn in Persepolis) and bear
Hephaestion with me back to his beloved. I kept the
pearl in my mouth most of the time; sometimes I would
take it out and examine it--always glowing and warm
like a pearl, an object of utmost beauty and
incredible existence, as if it were a living thing
determined to survive long enough to reach Alexander.
Otherworldly happenings are everyday occurrences when
it comes to Alexander and Hephaestion.

I don’t know what they are. They frighten me, they
fascinate me, they entice me, they make me love them.

Any man who dares to part demigods will suffer as
Prometheus never dreamed.

*********************************************************************************************************
--end of chapter 27--
*********************************************************************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl all work and no play makes
jill a dull girl

Fic : A Dishonorable War Chapter 26

2005-11-18T20:28:32Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (aka The A. Liad)
Writer: A. Lias (chief Liar)
Summary: So what's going on to the west of
Alexander's army?
Rating: G or PG for nothing but yap yap yap
Pairing: None here
Disclaimer: Sigh. I don't own anybody. This didn't
happen. I'm tired of writing disclaimer notes.
Warnings: No smut here, just lotsa yakking.
Archive: Anywhere you like--just no email links to
me.
Feedback: On or off list.
*************************************************
CHAPTER 26:

Pammenes:

Being at Miletus--so near and yet so far away from
all the action at Halicarnassus--is maddening. I want
to be in the center of battle, not here at another
staging ground. The entire Sacred Band yearns to be
at Halicarnassus instead of here. We’ve had reports
that the city is in flames--set by Memnon instead of
Alexander (much to the King’s fury). Memnon has
withdrawn south to make his last stand at the more
defensible Tyre, and Alexander has ordered all
survivors and stragglers crucified--down to the unborn
infants, who are to be ripped from their mothers’
wombs and nailed to any posts that can be found. They
say the King wants the road from Halicarnassus black
and sticky with dried blood. Perhaps Memnon doesn’t
know he’s played right into Alexander’s hands: The
King WANTS him to face the monarch he’s wronged so, he
wants Memnon dead, the more horribly so, the better.
His royal and brutal inner demon would feed and feed
and feed upon enemy corpses, and he wants none more
than Memnon’s.

King Alexander said that Halicarnassus is no place
for the knights of the Sacred Band, and so we’ve been
sent to escort Admiral Nearchus for his war council
with General Antigonus. Even though I’m twenty now,
Antigonus is still a frightening sight: He lost an
eye in battle for King Phillip ages ago, and prefers
not to cover his mangled old socket with a patch--he
likes the appearance of it; I’m told it looks even
worse than Phillip’s ragged eyepit did back when he
was alive. Antigonus likes to scare everything he
sees--from babies to women to politicians--so I try to
hide my revulsion as best I can so he won’t have the
satisfaction of rattling a warrior of the Sacred Band.

My father Coroneus, leading knight of the Band, feels
as we all do: We’d rather be with the rest of the
army at Halicarnassus running riot among the Persians
and traitrous Asian Greeks. But Father reminds us
that only the intervention of the gods spared Thebes
from suffering the same fate as Halicarnassus and all
the other cities who’ve rebelled against Alexander.
Had the gods not sent Alexander and Hephaestion to
Thebes, we should have perished at Chaeronea along
with the finest of Athens. Hephaestion won the Theban
city elders to Macedonia; my father was there and said
that ferocious death was in the eyes of Alexander as
he looked upon Thebes. They were boys even younger
than my mates and I, but we seem such awkward tyros
compared to them. Phillip spared Thebes because of
Alexander, and Alexander spared Thebes because of
Hephaestion. To honor our savior, the Sacred Band put
aside its gold and red colors, and donned the silver
and dark blue of Eordaea. We’ve sworn to the Kings of
Macedonia and would march to the moon if Alexander
asked it of us.

But Athens never learns. Phillip only stayed his
hand at Chaeronea because he considered it the
jewel-city of Greece, Alexander only so far because
he’s had other matters on his mind. Athens is the
teeming nest of the career politician--which my father
says is the greatest enemy of the civilized world.
The man who can talk his way into power without the
blood or the deeds to make him worthy of his high
office is lower than the belly of a snake. Athens is
like a hideous, evil woman clad in lovely garments,
and Demonsthenes is her pimp, selling her rotten wares
in the Persian courts. If only we could preserve the
beauty of the city without obliterating its populace!

As the son of Coroneus, I am permitted to stand
against the wall in the war room and listen to the
great men converse. Nearchus and Antigonus have been
empowered by Alexander to speak for him in the serious
issue we now find ourselves facing--maybe someday I’LL
be honored with such an assignment! Imagine it--to
speak for a King!

And to such an assemblage of dignitaries. All the
Hellenic League (with the exception of Athens) is
gathered here at the old palace at Miletus to decide
the fate of their wayward sister. This gathering was
requested by King Agis of Sparta. Normally, Sparta
would have nothing to do with any of us, but matters
have become too deadly for even the Spartans to
ignore. Thessaly, Aegae, Olynthus, Elis, Olympia,
Corinth--every citystate represented here--even Rhodes
has thrown aside its allegiance to its native son
Memnon and cast its lot with Alexander.

Among the noble sages, I see Lord General Amyntor of
Eordaea, and I wonder if he is saddened because he
must abandon so many generations of his family serving
as protectors of Athens. One can read nothing from
his face.

King Agis is the highest-ranking individual here, and
he starts the meeting by tossing a letter onto the
central table. “Let’s not waste time on formalities!
Here is the poison of Athens, gentlemen! Many of you
have already read it; those who haven’t, then see for
yourselves the den of perfidy we nurse in our mother
Greece! All of you have seen the hand of
Demonsthenes--no one can question it here!”

The King of Torone glances at the missive, then puts
it on the table and drives his personal dagger through
it and into the wood of the table. “We’ve all sworn
fidelity to Macedonia--would we allow Athens to make
fools of us? Darius and his courtiers must be
laughing at us! Darius thinks to pick us off like
squabbling schoolboys! Why should he bother to invade
us, when we will happily cut our own throats for
him?!”

Agis speaks up. “Demonsthenes wrote to me, and
offered me a prince of Eordaea --also a prince of
Athens itself--as my plaything if I would aid Persia
and Athens against the Macedonian King. I had to
investigate for myself whether this proffered disgrace
came from Demosthenes alone, or if he also had the
support of the government of Athens.” He drops a
sheaf of papers on the table, adding to the pile of
damnation against Athens. “It appears that the city
fathers are in full agreement with Demonsthenes. The
abduction of General Hephaestion by Greek mercenaries
working for Persia was done with the complicity and
assistance of Athens! And mark me well,
gentlemen--this is even more serious than a Greek
nation trafficking in the suffering of its own
princes! It is a treason--not only against
Alexander--the liege to whom we all swore loyalty--but
to the Hellenic League itself!”

My father Coroneus has the rank to speak up. “The
family of Amyntas has long defended Athens--even
against Phillip. If this serpent-infested city would
repay Lord Amnytor in such kind for his long life of
trouble on its behalf--what makes Thebes or any of the
Hellenic League believe the leaders of Athens will not
take it upon themselves to become our overlords along
with Darius should Alexander fall? The King of Thebes
has named me his representative at this meeting--if we
do not take action on our own soil against Athens, we
will face far worse than any Chaeronea--if not at the
hands of Darius, then by a justly vengeful King of
Macedonia!”

Lord General Amyntor stands up. He had been seated
until now, staring at the letter from Demosthenes to
Agis. I can now see the pain in his brown eyes, how
the devastating loss of his son has made him decades
older in the course of a night. “We must keep clear
heads, countrymen--no matter our personal stakes at
this time,” he rebukes the lot of them. “Has
Alexander sanctioned a war of the Hellenic League
against Athens?” He looks straight at Nearchus and
Antigonus, staring them in the eye.

“King Alexander wishes the thorn of Athens removed
from the side of Greece,” answers Antigonus, not even
blinking his one eyelid. “He would prefer to
concentrate on Darius having to watch his back for
Athens. Admiral Nearchus has accompanied me here in
order to give any loyal state such naval assistance as
it may need.”

“And the Athenian captains of those ships Alexander
would place at our disposal?” asks the king of Dium.

“All put to the sword,” Nearchus assures us. “The
ships and their crews are now loyal to Alexander. We
are certain of it.”

Antigonus clears his throat with a gusty growl. “How
long will the outward beauty of Athens move us to pity
for her black and filthy soul? What sort of nation
betrays its countrymen and barters for its selfish
interests with the flesh of it princes? Shall we
stand idle as Athens connives with Darius? What will
she give Darius next, gentlemen--HONOR was the first
casualty of this war! We are ALREADY at war with
Athens! When will we make it formal?”

“There’s no time like now!” I hear one of the nobles
shout, and there is a roar of assent around the room.

“If King Alexander wishes Athens dealt with,” reasons
Lord General Amyntor,” then he is prepared to proceed
on his campaign toward the East without a navy?”

Antigonus is ready. “The King won’t need a navy.
Tyre is the last of Persia’s coastal cities. Once it
is taken, he will march on to Babylon and Persepolis
with land forces, and live off the land as he goes.
It is his desire that his allies in Greece free his
rear from Athens.”

“Then I stand at King Alexander’s disposal,” says
Lord General Amyntor. “General Antigonus, command us
as the King would have us.”

They put their hand together upon the table, every
great man present. I would do so, too, if I only had
the age and rank to step forward. I hope the Sacred
Band marches against Athens now! Let us stand united
as men of honor now! Let us serve our King! And let
us avenge our own against Athens!

********************************************************************************\
************************
--end of chapter 26
********************************************************************************\
*************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

Fic : A Dishonorable War Chapter 25

2005-11-12T14:10:29Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (25/?)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: Has the relationship between Hephaestion and
Bagoas changed since their recent party with Darius?
Warning: Mention of sex, but none really happens
here.
Rating: PG-13 probably
Pairings: Nobody--this is just a look at a
relationship between two captives.
Disclaimers: I don't own anybody. This didn't
happen. Blah blah alternate universe blah blah.
Archive: Anywhere you wish. Just no e-mail links to
me, please.
Feedback: On or off list.
******************************************************
Chapter 25:

Bagoas:

We’ve finished another game of Hounds and Hares. My
master, having repeatedly given me orders not to let
him win, is astounded that I’ve bested him again.
“Dear lord,” I tell him in order that he not be vexed
at my victory, “I am as well-trained in all games of
skill and chance as I am in the techniques of
love-making. I’ve remained alive here because I can
amuse my betters.”

I pick up the game board and pieces. “The sun is
low; it’s time for you to retire to your bed.”

“No, thank you, Bagoas. I’ll just sleep here
tonight.”

He’s been quiet since Darius was here. Part of it is
certainly due to the grinding fatigue of his
captivity, but he seems to have had other matters on
his mind, and who could blame him? He still
faithfully spends most of his days lying on his pile
of pillows and blankets by the windows, waiting for
his Alexander--and I know better than to try to budge
him at those times: I bring him his food and drink at
the windows, as well as trying to entice him into
games or conversation to pass the hours.

“My master will sleep in his warm bed by the fire.”
I put on my STERN voice.

“I’m fine here.”

“My master will not sleep under a large open window.
He will allow himself to be put to bed. He will have
a care for his health.” Then I pull out my ultimate
trump. “My master will do as his servant asks of him
because he knows his King would have it so.”

He sighs. “Then you should find another place to
take your own rest, Bagoas.”

Ah, the picture becomes clear. He’s troubled because
he now knows a eunuch can feel desire and have
intercourse, and he hesitates to sleep in my arms as
he hitherto has done. He doesn’t wish to cause me
frustration. “My lord finds me displeasing?”

“Oh, no, Bagoas! You’re the best--assistant I’ve
ever had. It’s just that . . . “

“My lord need not explain himself to his servant.
May I have the liberty of speaking freely to you,
lord?”

He almost laughs. Unlike me, he never for one
instant forgets his status as a prisoner. “Say what
you will, Bagoas. I’ve asked you to give me your
honest thoughts whenever you please. I’ve commanded
it--why would you hesitate to obey?”

I pull his arm around my shoulders and help him up
from his daybed. “How much experience has my master
had with eunuchs?”

He flushes with mild embarrassment. “I . . . but a
man should have SOME consideration for one who has
been kind to him, no matter what the circumstances.”

It’s the sort of answer any great nobleman would give
a servant he’s fond of. We walk slowly to the kingly
bed, his steps still faltering, and I put my shoulder
against him to keep him upright. “It’s an honor to me
that my lord slumbers untroubled in my arms at night.
I’ve never in my life slept much, master. I was
orphaned and gelded as a small child, and lived by my
wits since. What chances have I had? Who has need of
such as I? Who should bother themselves about me?
Dear master, no one has ever been as good to me as
you--not even Darius himself. With you, I feel
there’s something AHEAD for me--some purpose far
beyond my abilities to put up my ass or suck the cocks
of those who enslave me. For the first time in my
life, I look forward--to what, I don’t know--but there
IS a reason Bel has made me continue my wretched
existence. I feel . . . hope. All I really know for
sure is my fate hangs upon yours, and there is no one
but you to protect me. I love you for that, dear
lord. Any comfort I can give you is a gift from
heaven to me.”

He looks away, still unsure.

“Does my lord now believe me a brute? Please set
this poor slave’s mind at ease, master! The life of a
eunuch is all about control! It must be so--or I
should have been put to the sword years ago! My
desire for any man or woman comes or goes at my own
will. When I hold you at night, I think only of the
honor you show me in trusting me to watch over you.
Please don’t despise me now!”

Lord Hephaestion reaches out to stroke my head.
“Child,” he smiles gently, “so much wiser than your
elders. You’re the only friend I have here.”

I take his hand and press my face into it as I kneel
before him. It’s very gracious of him to call me a
friend, but I greatly doubt his sincerity: How does
he know I’m not a spy sent to worm my way into his
confidence and extract secrets? He’s certainly been
guarded in what he tells me--nothing that isn’t
trivial or already common knowledge. I realize I can
no more trust him than he can trust me, and here I’ve
been blabbering my heart out to him. But then again,
I know nothing that isn’t trivial to a great general
such as he. He is more gracious than any other master
I’ve ever had--but he’s still my master, and answers
to a master of his own.

But he does finally allow himself to be assisted to
bed, and drops off to sleep almost instantly, so tired
is he of his monstrous imprisonment. At length he
positions himself as usual in my arms with his head
pillowed on my chest. Someday, I will convince him
that I’m loyal and true to him.
******************************************************
--end of chapter 25--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War chapter 24

2005-10-31T08:49:38Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (AKA The A. Liad) (24/WIP)
Writer and Chief Liar: A. Lias
Summary: Memnon writes a letter to Darius.
Disclaimer: I don't own anybody. This didn't happen
according to history. Blah blah blah.
Warnings: No smut.
Rating: G for nothing but some old geezer going on
and on.
Archive: Anywhere you like, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
Feedback: On or off list.
*******************************************************

From Memnon, Commanding General of Halicarnassus
To Darius, King of Kings, at Persepolis

I send Your Majesty my greetings from Halicarnassus,
along with my prayers for your health and longevity.
Thank you for your gracious offer of promotion to
Supreme Commander of the Army and Navy of Persia, but
I must respectfully decline. I cannot be Supreme
Commander of anything when you will not give me a free
hand to do as I see fit. While I concur with your
wise decision to remain in Persepolis and avoid
meeting Alexander in combat any further to the west
(such as Issus, as was earlier proposed), I would urge
Your Majesty again to reject the counsel of your
vassals that crops, herds, and cities to Alexander’s
east be spared from the torch.

Your Majesty by now has some idea of what the
Macedonian King is capable of. Hardship, starvation,
wounds, and sickness mean nothing to him; he shrugs
them off like an old moth-eaten mantle. You could
incinerate the entire world and it would make no
difference to Alexander. There are whispered stories
that Alexander is not altogether human, that he was
begotten by one of the gods, and there is increasing
evidence of merit to them.

Your advisors take Alexander too lightly, Your
Majesty: He will not be stopped. He will come to
Persepolis even if every last man in his army is dead.

But his army can be dealt with, Great King. Unlike
Alexander, they are mortal men and can die of heat,
hunger, and thirst. It is VITAL that you destroy all
sources of food and water in the advance of the
Macedonian army. Your vassals cannot think beyond
their prospective riches of the immediate future--if
Alexander is left unchecked, none of your vassals will
be able to maintain their fiefdoms and none of your
people will live to enjoy the harvests of their
labors. Make no mistake, your satraps can muster a
million farmers and herdsmen and put them in the
field, but their numbers are useless against
Alexander’s experienced, battle-hardened warriors.

I don’t know how long I can hold Halicarnassus; I can
see the upraised sarissas of Alexander’s army
bristling in the distance, just ahead of the ponderous
advance of his immense siege towers and the most
deadly war machines in existence. In spite of your
orders to the contrary, my inclination at this point
is that I must burn Halicarnassus myself and withdraw
to Tyre, which should be a much more defensible
position. With winter coming on fast, I can hopefully
hold Tyre as the severe conditions make a war of
hardship and attrition upon the Macedonian army for
us. Please forgive this humble soldier, Your Grace,
but this once I must do as I see fit, or all your
empire --which you have charged me to protect--will be
lost.

In the spring, I will raise an army and attack
Macedonia to the west. Alexander’s regent Antipater
is an old man and I doubt he can fend me off until I
can seize Pella and cut off Alexander’s line of
logistics from there. I hope to find some support
among my fellows and kindred at Rhodes; there may be
some ships to be hired there--we can use piracy
against Macedonia even if we can’t muster
soldiers--any source of annoyance for Alexander is
worthwhile to us at this time. I will also kill Queen
Olympias; the Queen Mother is as dangerous as any man.

I do agree with your decision to send your family
and the hostage Hephaestion into exile. May I suggest
Sparta as a place of refuge for them? Its King Agis
is a fair and honorable man; he will protect your
family and Hephaestion from any intrigues that might
drift their way from mutual enemies you and Alexander
likely have together among the Hellenic League.
Sparta may be too independent and contrary for all our
likings, but it is a state of honor and tradition--the
most neutral of the Hellenic League--so long as they
are not interfered with.

Do not trust Athens or anyone representing her, Your
Majesty; it is a den of career politicians, all of
them ever jockeying for their personal power and
prestige--their hatred of Alexander is nothing
compared to their own self-serving lusts. With Thebes
firmly on Alexander’s side, thanks to Hephaestion’s
doings, there remains only Thessaly under the sway of
some Lyncestians--and perhaps maybe Corinth to the
west--to ally themselves to Athens. Demonstenes can
make no honest promises of aid, King Darius; he is a
fermenting cancer in your court and should be evicted
from it, along with his troublemaking fellow Athenian
turncoat Charidemus. My sources tell me that Athens
has lost a great protector in General Amnytor of
Eordaea, who has recently learned of his son
Hephaestion’s abduction and Athens’ possible
complicity in the matter. Athens is not worth your
time and effort to court, or even force yourself to be
civil to; it is rapidly becoming quite friendless and
doomed. I also recommend that you don’t bother
sending any more envoys to Crete; it is a lost cause
to you, mostly due to the influence of Alexander’s
friend and admiral Nearchus, who is a native son of
that wretched island. Another of Alexander’s lackeys,
Antigonus, holds Anatolia like a tiger with a steak
between its fangs.

I continue as Your Majesty’s loyal soldier. Have no
fear that I will defect to the Macedonian ranks; I
couldn’t even if I wanted to for he is my mortal
enemy; I remain sworn to kill Alexander with my own
hand. If I can’t kill him at Halicarnassus, I will do
so at Tyre or die in the attempt.

With regards,
Memnon

*******************************************************
--end of chapter 24--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War Chapter 23

2005-10-29T16:57:29Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (23/WIP)
Writer and Chief Liar: A. Lias
Summary: Cleitus has business in the Macedonian camp,
and remembers some things.
Disclaimer: This didn't happen. It is Alternate
Universe stuff from Planet A. I don't own anybody.
There are some intentional misspellings in the
dialogue of Arrhidaeus to denote mispronunciation of
words.
Ratings: NC-17 or R
Pairing: a young Alexander/ Hephaestion (moderators
please note: The ages of the characters aren't given,
but they are NOT under the age of consent). They're
just a couple of timid old hens by this time.
Warnings: Slash. Too much cogitation on the part of
Cleitus.
Archive: Anywhere you wish, just no direct e-mail
links to me, please.
Feedback: On or off list.
******************************************************

CHAPTER 23:

CLEITUS:

The King took the news about Eumenes a lot better
than I’d thought he would; I had feared he wouldn’t
want to risk alienating his Secretary’s large and
generous family. But one could hardly argue with
absolute proof of Eumenes’ treachery: I found several
letters from various Persian satraps hidden in
Eumenes’ baggage wagon. Our own spy in the Persian
Courts, Betis the eunuch slave-trader, has finally
been able to reach our camp and confirm what
Hephaestion had suspected all along. No wonder
Eumenes’ family could afford to donate so richly to
the campaign against Persia--all the gold was coming
right back to them through Eumenes’ network of
couriers.

Alexander sent back orders for Antipater to execute
the rest of that family, and confiscate their wealth
and holdings. I don’t know whether all Eumenes’ kin
are guilty--but a distant King can’t afford to take
any more chances. Nor do I believe we’ve seen the
last of internal spies with Eumenes dead: He had to
have had allies in this. Although Eumenes was very
highly placed within Alexander’s hierarchy, he
couldn’t have done this alone without help.

Unfortunately, the documents incriminating Eumenes
were incomplete, and the information held in them
didn’t add to up a coherent whole: We still don’t
know exactly how much they’ve learned of the
Macedonian plans, and that much may be moot. While we
have seen Darius’ scouts and they have seen us, armies
of tens of thousands don’t move in secret. However,
there are several facts we have been able to glean
from the Eumenes affair, although they are without
sufficient detail to know much more than their bare
bones:

First, we know now that Hephaestion was targeted for
abduction long before the army left Macedonia--odd
that the enemy should take the risks of capturing him
versus simply going for the kill. There are fragments
of information that indicate his extraordinary looks
were of great interest to certain well-esteemed
individuals we can’t altogether identify yet, but more
unnerving is that his status as the King’s lover must
have been discovered. What OTHER private information
do they know about the King?

No one dares mention the name of Hephaestion to
Alexander, and he himself does not speak it aloud. We
wonder how much Alexander has indeed calmed as months
go by since Hephaestion was taken--and how much he is
shamming. He’s become withdrawn and remote from all
of us, even Ptolemy. Sometimes he will SEEM like the
Alexander of old, but everyone senses the deep and
profound changes in him as the weeks grind on without
his Hephaestion. We’re preparing to beseige
Helicarnassus, and everyone wonders what the King’s
orders will be; he’s spared no city yet--razing them
to the ground and selling the survivors into
slavery--but we now know that Memnon is in
Helicarnassus. What Alexander will do to the city is
anyone’s best guess. Without Hephaestion, Alexander
doesn’t sleep at all; we fear even the King can’t stay
awake forever without going mad.

Second and most troubling: It seems there is a plot
against Alexander’s life. Only the King, Perdiccas,
Ptolemy, Craterus, and I have accessed these remnants
of information we found in Eumenes’ possessions;
Alexander has given the four of us the strictest
possible orders to give no sign to anyone that we know
of this--we are the only four men he will trust at
present, with Hephaestion lost to us. In spite of
being this deep in Alexander’s inner circle, I doubt
we know a fraction of the intelligence Alexander has
chosen not to reveal to anyone; he and Hephaestion had
their own spies in the army and planted elsewhere, who
were known to and answered only to them. His Majesty
appears a great deal more interested in making toward
Persepolis to retrieve his lover than he is in a plan
to assassinate himself. We know nothing of its
particulars; there are only veiled references to it in
Eumenes’ papers.

“We must tear this camp apart to find the assassins,
Sire!” Perdiccas has shouted at the King as loudly as
he’d dared (which wasn’t much more than a whisper as
the five of us sat around a map table).

“I’ll have the bastards grinning out their throats!”
Craterus seconded the motion.

“No,” Alexander said in that tone of his that brooks
no argument. We hope he’s quieted down enough after
the Granicus to think more rationally now. “We
haven’t enough information to act yet. We don’t know
if this threat is serious, or just wishful thinking on
the part of some idiot in this twisted daisychain.; we
don’t know if any attack would come from within or
without our own ranks. Parmenion and Philotas have
identified most--if not all--of the Parthian spies in
our midst, and there is not one among them I don’t
believe we can’t put to good future use with
dissembling of our own. No, my friends, we will
pretend we haven’t learned any of this information.
After all, no one but Cleitus saw how Eumenes
died--and he has been wise enough to bruit it about
the camp that the Secretary came down with a fatal
case of dysentery in Persepolis. This rupture in
their chain will force the traitors to change their
tactics without due planning--and such will expose
them.”

“But in the meantime--what about your safety,
Alexander?” Ptolemy asked as a brother, not as a
general, his concern for his King mapped out on his
face as clear as the sun at noonday.

“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,
brother.” Alexander can smile like a crocodile. “If
I increase the guard around my person by even one man,
I reveal I know of their plot so they’ll be free to
plan themselves a different one.”

“Such recourse is perfectly reasonable, Sire,”
Ptolemy has to admit. “Please forgive me for
questioning your judgement.”

Alexander slapped his half-brother’s arm, a glimmer
of the old Alexander in him. “This is the time and
place to speak your mind, Ptolemy.”

Then the stone walls slam down and the flinty look
comes back into his golden eyes. “Report everything
you hear to me. You are all dismissed.”

He turns his back to us; the audience is over.

Craterus remains with the King while the rest of us
leave the tent. I go to troop the lines and see what
I can see. The infantry is restive; they’ve gotten
Alexander’s taste for blood, and a walled city like
Halicarnassus is a sitting target to make their mouths
water; stationary forts are testaments to folly and we
will see short work of this one.

I find Parmenion’s young son Hector in the makeshift
paddock just beyond our tents. He continues to guard
great Bucephalus and Hephaestion’s prized stallion
Pegasus. Bucephalus could use a rasher of oats and
barley, but he’s had to make do with foraging on
desert grass; his usually lustrous black coat is dusty
and dull. Pegasus is thin and gaunt these days,
looking more like an old wagon horse than the young
steed of war I know him to be.

Also with Hector is Alexander’s other half-brother
Arrhidaeus. The poor halfwit has seen little of his
royal sibling these days, and he’s confused because
Alexander had always made time for him before. Hector
is a kind and patient lad, and hasn’t had the heart to
shoo the idiot away as most of us do, so Arrhidaeus
has attached himself to the boy and the horses. He
has a wooden horse to play with, a hollow toy with a
removable panel in its belly so that small soldiers
can be hidden inside and the Trojan War re-enacted on
a child’s level.

Arrhidaeus smiles broadly when he sees me coming;
for some reason I can’t figure, he’s always liked
me--I’ve certainly never encouraged him. I see
Phillip’s disappointment whenever I look upon this
unfortunate royal son, and it still hurts after all
this time to think of the dead King yet so close to my
heart. The halfwit gets to his feet and comes
stumbling up to me from the paddock; Hector looks
relieved to have a moment’s peace from him.

“Cletus! Cletus!” Arrhidaeus calls cheerfully.
“Black Cletus! Look at this!”

He thrusts a doll at me. It’s a crudely carved
wooden toy, with bits of a horse’s mane to form its
long hair. “I have a Phaston, too, and I can kiss him
whenever I want! I’ll let you kiss him, too!”

Unwilling to upset the simpleton, I quickly kiss the
doll. This satisfies Arrhidaeus and he stuffs the
doll in his robe. “Alzander lost his Phaston. I
told him he could kiss mine if he wanted to, but that
only made him cry. Why Alzander cry, Cletus?”

“He’d only gotten some sand in his eyes, Arrhidaeus,”
I reassure the idiot. Alexander is his only comfort
and protection here at camp and I don’t want to make
his little world any more insecure than it already is.

“Pretty ponies!” Arrhidaeus points at Bucephalus and
Pegasus.

I smile in spite of myself; a sane man could hardly
call the giant Bucephalus a pony. “Where did you get
your ‘Phaston’ doll, Prince Arrhidaeus?”

“Heckor made it for me! I see Alzander kiss Phaston,
so I want a Phaston to kiss, too!”

Parmenion’s youngest son gives me a sheepish grin. I
shrug, and and nod to the lad. “His Majesty would
have me thank you for your kindness to Prince
Arrhidaeus.”

The boy is embarrassed now, so I leave him to his
care of the horses and the idiot, thinking of the
first time I, too, saw Alexander and Hephaestion
kissing. They were only children, but Alexander was
always extremely affectionate and Hephaestin always
loved him. It happened that Phillip saw it, too.
“Mark me well, Cleitus--they’ll be lovers as soon as
they’re old enough!”

I had misgivings about that at the time, given
Hephaestion's cruel past. How could he ever love
anyone? He certainly hadn’t forgotten his narrow
escape from the altar of Dionysus if one took into
account his still-frequent nightmares and bouts of
screaming. Once I came to the child’s bedside and
said to him, “You must master these night terrors if
you are to become a soldier and an officer. Your men
must not see you show fear, even of demons as horrible
as these. Dream of good things, Hephaestion. Dream
of the glory you will reap someday as you ride at the
side of the Great King your Alexander is going to be.”

Hephaestion never screamed in his sleep again.

I was relieved a few years later to hear that he had
discovered girls with a vengeance--at least Olympias
hadn’t scarred him for THAT. The Crown Prince
naturally had to follow suit, ere one of lower rank
could be said to have trumped him, and soon they were
cavorting among the maidens like Phillip in his
younger days.

But I knew Alexander wouldn’t be content with that.
He was in love with Hephaestion, who seemed quite
ignorant of the Prince’s desires for quite some time.
It was with both amusement and trepidation I looked
forward to the inevitable day they would become less
ignorant.

They had just begun to grow their first beards when
it came. I was hunting in the Royal Park, tired of
chicken dinners and craving venison. I had spied a
fine stag and was busy aiming my bow at him--when the
Crown Prince suddenly came running up to me in the
wood, frightening off my quarry, along with any other
game in a five-mile radius.

“What IS it, Your Highness?!” I growled at him, the
anticipated taste of deer evaporating on my poor
tongue.

“I’ve killed him, Cleitus! I’ve killed him!”

The frantic, terrified Prince made little sense at
first, then I was able to learn enough from his
weeping and babbling to realize that something had
happened to Hephaestion. I made Alexander take me to
his friend, and found him in a little bower the Prince
had made of moss and furs.

I kneeled to examine my lord Amyntor’s young son, and
had to restrain myself from laughing at the panicked
Prince. “Hephaestion is alive, but he has fainted,
Your Highness. He’s bleeding rather badly,
however--did you do this?”

“It’s not supposed to be . . . like . . . “

“We need to take you both back to the Palace.” I
wrap Hephaestion in the furs and swing him up in my
arms.

“We CAN’T go there!” Alexander cried. “Not like
this!”

I stopped walking. The Prince was right. I looked
at him, so young and fearful. I had never seen
Alexander like that, never scared of anything. “I
keep a small hut on the edge of the woods, Your
Highness. We’ll go there, and no one else need know
of it.”

Alexander nodded gravely and marched along beside me
as we went to my cottage. I have always liked to have
a little place where I can be alone--or bring company,
if I so choose. I told Alexander to make a fire while
I put Hephaestion to bed, then when our tasks were
accomplished, I sat the Prince down and said, “The
young lord just needs a little time, Highness. He
will be all right in a couple of days, and we will
rest here until then. Would you deign to tell me how
this happened to him?”

The Prince looked up sharply at me. “You KNOW how
this happened, Cleitus. I need not explain myself to
you.”

I smiled as gently as I could. “Have you ever tried
this sort of thing with another boy, my Prince?”

He turned his head. “No,” he said simply.

“I hear you have both been among the young girls.
Haven't you learned anything?”

Alexander’s look was one of pure confusion. “I had
thought it would be . . . like . . . with women.”

“In many ways, it is. But there are differences,
Your Highness. A boy does not provide his own
lubrication as a woman does--you must prepare for
that. A little olive oil on your finger first, then
use the oil and your fingers to stretch your male
lover’s entrance to receive you. Then you must take
care not to tear him inside; some young men can be
very fragile.”

“Perhaps I’m not as fragile as he is, then, and he
could take me--”

“You are a Prince and someday you will be a King,
Alexander. A King does not permit himself to be
penetrated.”

“So you never--with my father--?”

Ah, what an observant little Prince he was!

“Never, Alexander. A King is no one’s boy, and he
will never take the part of a woman. He may fuck as
he pleases, but he will never allow anyone else to
fuck him. It’s unseemly for a King to allow another
to dominate him in any fashion--even in the bed.”

He listened closely to me, absorbing everything I had
to tell him. I did NOT tell him that Hephaestion
would be more difficult to make love to than most men;
I could never bring myself to divulge the horror Queen
Olympias had done in the name of her filthy god
Dionysus--but I did instruct him in how to make love
to a man, as well as some helpful tips in the taking
of women.

Hephaestion recovered from Alexander’s clumsy maiden
attempts, and it was a long time before they finally
became intimate. It apparently happened when they
went to Thebes together, and Hephaestion turned the
city to the Macedonian call and saved it from the
destruction Phillip and Alexander had planned from it.
They returned from Thebes as lovers in the truest and
finest sense, soul mates as well as sexual partners.
There was no comment in Pella; everyone assumed they’d
been fucking for years, but I knew better, and I
thanked the gods (except Dionysus) that Hephaestion
had healed that much. No one could have guarded the
young lovers as closely as I did. By that time,
Phillip had been murdered, and I had sworn to see
things aright as he had. Blessed be!

******************************************************
--end of chapter 23--
******************************************************

A Dishonorable War Chapter 22

2005-09-11T05:23:59Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (22/WIP)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything real. But this is
an Alternate Universe so I own everything in IT.
History, etc, is exactly and whatever I say it is.
Summary: Let's go down to the lab, and see what's on
the slab!
Warning: Dead people. No smut. Bad comedy.
Pairing: None
Rating: Probably about PG-13 because of talk of dead
people.
Archive: Anywhere you like. Just no e-mail links to
me, please.
Feedback. Public; positive feedback makes me happy.

Chapter 22:

Mazeus:

It’s late when I finally roll out of bed and go
looking for Bessus. I had to have my nap before I go
to all the trouble of seeking out my crazy kinsman.
He wasn’t present earlier today when Darius and his
war council met, so I guess I should tell him what’s
going on--just in case he doesn’t have a bunch of
spies around (which I doubt).

He’s converted part of the palace dungeon to a
strange set-up he calls a “laboratory”, or “lab”, if
he’s not in the mood to talk, and spends much of his
time there. Because it’s an unpleasant and stinky
part of the palace, no one bothers him in his sanctum.
I get used to the stench after walking down several
levels and dark corridors--who knows, the place might
look better with a few curtains, spritz around a
little rosewater . . .

“What’s this?” I ask when I pop my head through the
door, pointing toward a strange hard, clear substance
with brown liquid bubbling in it over a strange blue
flame that comes from a metal pipe in the floor.

“I call it ‘tea’--I just invented it. Have some.”
Bessus is wearing his long white robe with buttons
again, the one with the chest pocket he can keep his
writing stylus in, along with something else he calls
a “slide rule” for doing “calculations” with.

“No--I mean--what’s it IN?”

“Oh, that’s GLASS. I invented it a couple of months
ago by firing common sand at very high temperatures.”

“What’s ‘temperature’ mean?”

He snorts, and combs through his lush beard with his
bejewelled fingers. “Never mind--you wouldn’t
understand it, you cretin.”

I don’t know what a cretin is, either--Bessus was
always the smart one. He told me and Darius when we
were boys at lessons that if Aristotle spent as much
time studying botany as he did masturbating in front
of goats, the Greeks would come kick our hairy arses
someday. Bessus is always coming up with new
things--like leather gear for riding and staying on
horseback he calls “saddles and stirrups”. I know
it’ll never catch on, though; chariots are much more
comfortable.

“You really should get rid of these corpses, you
know.” I give one of the piles of dead slaves a
little kick; no wonder the air in this “lab” is so
putrid.

“It was an experiment. I’m going to autopsy the
bodies later.”

Whatever THAT means. “You’d better hurry--or even
YOUR nose won’t be able to stand it.”

I take a sip of the ‘tea’. “I liked that other stuff
you invented better--what did you call it--coffee?”

“Wait’ll you try the espresso.”

“What’s this?”

“Don’t touch that! I call it a ‘condensing flask’,
and I’m creating some new poisons.”

“Hence the stacks of dead slaves?”

“On second though, feel free to try some. Don’t drop
the condensing flask, though.”

Honestly, dear cousin Bessus can be such a pain in
the arse! Especially when he gets into these
“inventing” modes and doesn’t feel like hearing the
latest gossip. So maybe I’ve got a little over on
him; I’ll see.

“The royal spies reported to Darius today that
Alexander is camped outside Halicarnassus, and he’s
bringing in all this modern war technology like
catapults and siege engines.”

“Old hat. I invented those when I was twelve.”
Bessus isn’t impressed. He’s more interested in
studying a ‘beaker’ with red stuff in it (blood
maybe?).

“Well, you know how backward these Greeks are. All
they usually do is run around and paint naked people
on their pottery. I like our winged bulls better than
naked people, don’t you?”

I really DON’T--I do so LOVE naked people--but I’m
trying to get Bessus to talk to me when he’s not in
the mood for it. Just call me a devil, but I can’t
resist bothering people! “Speaking of naked people”,
I drawl, “have you seen the pretty Macedonian lately?”

Bessus just grunts, intent on swirling the
‘alkaloids’.

I try again. “Boring old Darius never lets ANYBODY
visit him, except those two Greeks from Alexander’s
war party who were visiting a few weeks ago. And I
hear our captive killed one and made out with the
other. Either way--what bliss!”

He’s ignoring me. Maybe he’s forgotten what a good
time we all had in the temple shrine with our sweet
hostage, but I certainly haven’t! “Too bad he didn’t
get addled in his captivity and kill that Cleitus
instead of our friend Eumenes. We’ll be hard put to
replace him.”

“Not a bit. Eumenes was only a stooge, and there
were several back-ups in the reporting chain.”

I take another sip of ‘tea’. “This isn’t that bad.”
I remark, letting the taste spread over my tongue.

“Although it IS a pity Alexander is going to raze
Halicarnassus. I always liked to summer there, and
I’m SURE he’ll burn my villa.”

“Let him burn whatever he pleases--he’ll never get
his lover back.”

“He’s making fine progress so far--we’ve lost almost
all the coast cities now. He keeps destroying them
and founding more of his infernal ‘Alexandrias’. Bel,
that man has NO imagination! What do you think of
calling a city Mazeusville, for a change?”

“I think you should shut up and leave--not
necessarily in that order.”

“Oh, Bessus, you’re such a spoilsport! Here I come
to you, ready to tell you the latest news and lust
over the Macedonian cosseted in the King’s
chambers--and all you want to do is stare at that mash
of leaves you’ve made in that beaker-thing of yours!”

“You have no news I don’t already know.
Halicarnassus is as good as torched. Alexander knows
Memnon is there. When that city falls, there’ll be no
reason for him to stay on the Coast unless Tyre gives
him trouble; he’ll march East to reclaim his lover and
reduce Persepolis to aches.”

“Demonsthenes came back.”

Bessus snorts, not interested.

“I know he’s a pompous windbag, but he’s been a big
help. It’s nice to have Athens on our side, and how
ironic that our succulent Hephaestion and his father
have always stood up for those lying posers--probably
some silly Greek honor thing. Although he was right
to put his heart on Thebes instead--as if THEY need an
excuse to go trash Athens. Oh, and what’s that you
were saying--you don’t think Alexander will get his
lover back even if he destroys our Empire?”

Bessus glances at the pile of dead slaves, then at
his ‘condensing flask’. “Even if Alexander
obliterates the whole of Parthia, he will never have
his beloved again.”

“You’re not going to kill the hostage, are you? That
would be SUCH a waste!”

“Agreed. No, it will be far greater torment for
Alexander to know that he has lost not only the body
of Hephaestion--but his heart and soul as well.
Whatever the cost in blood and bone, Alexander has
already lost that which he treasures most. He’ll die
in his despair and we’ll have crushed the Greeks
forever.”

“I like how you talk, cousin! It
always--inspires--me so!!!!!”

“Good. Now see if you’re inspired enough to drag
those corpses out of here. I think I’ll only need a
couple to autopsy, and I want to be alone now. I’m
preparing something very special for young
Hephaestion.”

“Can I have some, too”

Bessus laughs. “Mazeus, you don’t WANT any of this
brew!”

******************************************************
--end of chapter 22--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War Chapter 21

2005-09-11T05:23:29Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable Way" (21 out of About a Zillion)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: What's up back on The Western Front?
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I AM God according
to this story, though.
Warning: No smut. Just yap yap yap.
Pairings: None here.
Rating: G for Yap Yap Yap
Archive: Wherever you like. Just no e-mails to me
please.
Feedback: Public, much prefer positive. Discussion
appreciated.

Chapter 21:

Antigone:

When I first met Parmention while travelling to
Samothrace, I welcomed his company. I hadn’t REALLY
wanted to go practice those silly mystery religions,
but my mother insisted and set the ship captain to
watch me and ensure I got to Samothrace without
kicking up my heels and running off. But then
Nearchus and Parmenion came alongside our ship in
theirs, so I boarded their craft at their invitation
and bade Macedonia a gleeful good-bye, preferring the
company of real men to those silly Dionysian hens.
Everybody knows the revel for Dionysus is just an
opportunity for women to finally get away from their
husbands and have a little fun, but I think having a
husband would be much more fun than a gaggle of
drunken women.

Nearchus is wonderful--a gentleman in spite of his
rough looks--but he’s a little too old for me. Of
course Parmenion is a LOT too old for me, but he
introduced me to his dashing son Philotas, and we’ve
been together ever since. I love travelling with the
army; I like to fancy myself a camp follower (even
though Philotas provides me with my own wagons,
baggage, and slaves), following my man across new
lands and having adventures all the way--it’s so
romantic!

I must confess that Parmenion and Philotas have
changed a lot since I met them. Philotas, especially,
used to boast that King Alexander would be nothing
without him and his general-father; how they did all
the work, planned all the strategy, and did all the
fighting while Alexander just strutted around claiming
all the glory. Philotas would tell me that his father
was the real power of the Macedonian army, while
Alexander was just a puppet king for them, and I would
laugh with him, amused at his bragging to try to
impress and woo me. I never spoke to anyone of these
things because in my experiences at ANY royal court,
one’s tongue can remove one’s own head as fast any
sword.

My lover and his father stopped their dangerous talk
when Alexander risked his own life in the river to
save the youngest son Hector. Parmenion and Philotas
never imagined a King would do such a thing--almost
throw his own life away for the sake of a mere boy
taken along on the campaign as a favor to his old
father. It was an abrupt change in them. Then the
brother between Philotas and Hector died of a fever in
the Arian desert, and Alexander stopped the army’s
progress for several days to hold a proper noble
funeral for him. Everyone knows the King is utterly
consumed with retrieving his stolen lover Hephaestion
from the Parthians, so it was a huge surprise that he
took such time away from this goal to honor a minor
son of one of his generals.

Parmenion and Philotas were touched beyond measure.
I saw them weeping together after the funeral when
they were mostly alone, heard them praise the King
between themselves, and pray for him. They were
different men when the pursuit resumed--no more did
they brag about their own roles in Alexander’s
triumphs. They seemed to become more serious about
their duties to him, too, and I know they have made
uncovering the traitors against Alexander their
highest priority.

Cleitus returned from the Persepolis to give us some
scant news of Hephaestion--along with the late
Eumenes’ mule. No one expects Hephaestion to be
killed by the Persians, and so he still lives in limbo
in their hands at Persepolis--too dangerous a captive
to hold and too valuable to release. It is a terrible
dilemma the Parthians have made for themselves in
abducting the beloved of a Great King--perhaps only
Darius himself can comprehend what a heinous thing has
been done if not by him, then at least in his
name--and how he will suffer for it.

I had never perceived Alexander as a supremely
vindictive man--until the past few months. Even
Parmenion and Philotas expected him to “liberate” and
simply control the crucial Greco-Persian port cities
to his logistical advantage--whereas he has deemed
them Parthian sympathizers and razed them all, leaving
engineers, veterans, the veterans’ families, and
construction detachments to rebuild the sites as new
Alexandrias. When he has finished Halicarnassus and
Tyre to ensure no aid coming for Darius from the West,
he will move East. We hear Babylon is an abandoned
shell of a city; it will surely be burned before
Alexander leaves it. My lover and his father had
thought Alexander would rule Parthia and create a
great empire--but it seems the King only wants
destruction and death on the widest possible scale; he
wants nothing from Persia except its blood and ashes.
Parmenion believes this reflects an absolute change in
the King’s attitude since Hephaestion was taken from
him.

Alexander has become a stranger to all of his
officers. He no longer banquets or makes merry with
them. He may attend officers’ mess on occasion, but
usually takes his meals in his own empty tent. He
doesn’t drink anymore--or no one sees any sign that he
even sleeps. Ptolemy said Alexander told him he wants
all his wits for killing the filthy barbarian Persian
pigs as they deserve.

There has always been more than one
Alexander--general, King, conqueror, scientist,
engineer, strategist--but the Alexander who was a
human being by virtue of his all-encompassing love for
the beautiful Hephaestion is gone. The royal creature
that remains with us is not human, and I hear it
fearfully whispered in many quarters. It can be
suicide to disagree with the King, as a few foolhardy
souls have demonstrated--especially in matters
pertaining to the appropriate punishment of all things
Persian. He recently sank a dagger in the shoulder of
his dear friend Perdiccas for innocently mentioning
the name of Hephaestion to him. Perdiccas wasn’t
badly wounded, and certainly doesn’t hold his injury
against the grieving King, but we have all been
warned. No one dares talk about Hephaestion in
public; the King himself never speaks of him to any of
us. Parmenion believes Alexander will converse on
some level about Hephaestion when in private with
Ptolemy or Cleitus, but never in any assembly. The
ignorant onlooker might think Hephaestion has ceased
to matter to the King, but we all know differently:
Alexander grows ever more bitter and furious with each
day Hephaestion spends out of his arms, and he is
determined to bring the blackest miseries of Hades to
the surface world.

Cleitus showed Parmenion several documents he found
in the saddlebags of Eumenes’ mule after the secretary
was murdered in Persepolis by Hephaestion. (Eumenes
always hated horses; he said mules were far more
sure-footed, but many of us suspected he role a mule
because they weren’t really as fit for battle as
horses). There are some evidences in the documents,
but none are definite.

The only thing that is certain is a plot against the
King--who seems to be ignoring it. Parmenion and
Philotas are watching several high-ranking individuals
in the camp on possible charges as spies, but they
must be certain and have irrefutable proof before they
bring their suspicions to the King. Philotas thinks
Alexander of Lyncestis, commander of the Thracians, is
up to no good; he’s always giving advice and “lessons”
to his idiot page Dimnus and the other silly young
pages, who seem to be turning to him more and more
since the King has no time for them. But the
Lyncestian hasn’t access to the kind of intelligence
the Persians seem to be acquiring--there are traitors
even higher in rank and they cannot be named until no
one can defend them.

Nearchus has gone to Anatolia to confer with
Antigonas in this matter, travelling alone without
even an escort so that no one may hear his suspicions.
He believes Demonsthenes (now in Persepolis) is
stirring up trouble in the Hellenic League in the
interests of Athens. It is odd to encounter such a
large hornets’ nest without first hearing the buzzing
of the hornets’ wings, but something is up on the home
front.

I wish Hephaestion was here. He would get to the
root of this matter immediately, and we would not need
fear the most familiar face is that of a spy and an
enemy.

*****************************************************
--end of chapter 21--
******************************************************
all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play make jill a dull girl

A Dishonorable War Chapter 20

2005-09-10T04:12:25Z

I don't own them. This fic belong to A.lias so please don't give comment. Enjoy!

Title: "A Dishonorable War" (Part 20 out of Hades Only Knows)
Writer: A. Lias (Chief Liar)
Summary: It's getting thick over in Persepolis.
Pairings: Darius and A Couple of 'Ho's
Warning: There be slash here.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. I wish I did.
This is Alternate Universe stuff. It didn't happen.
I wish it had.
Archive: Anywhere you like. Just no e-mail links to
me, please.
Feedback: Public, would appreciate positive comments
and discussion a great deal.

Chapter 20:

Darius:

It’s rather a surprise to be greeted at the door by
Bagoas and the words: “You shouldn’t be here! I’m
going to tell your mother!”

What has my mother to do with where I go in my own
palace? I had hooded myself to come to these
apartments from the ones I’ve taken because I didn’t
want to stir notice, but Bagoas didn’t recognize me,
and now he’s waggling his finger at me as if I was an
errant girlchild.

Amused, I pull my head covering away, and the young
eunuch almost faints. He does fall onto his face and
grovels in terror. “Your Majesty!” he cries.
“Please forgive this humble slave--he didn’t see your
glory in the dimness of the light! Please don’t kill
me!”

It’s the first thing in ages that’s made me laugh.
Loyal little Bagoas--afraid I could ever do him harm?
I start to reach out to him, then remember such a
casual gesture would frighten the poor creature. “Be
at ease, Bagoas. Don’t forget I’ve given you to Lord
Hephaestion--it would now be his decision to put you
to death--not mine.”

The boy turns his pretty tearful face up to me.
“Forgive me, Majesty?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. As long as your master
is pleased, I have no quarrel with you. And how fares
our guest these days? Please stand, do!”

Bagoas gets to his feet, surprisingly without
grace--by his standards. “My lord is as well as can
be expected, Majesty. He has asked me to arrange an
audience with you for him.”

This is news to me; I haven’t seen the hostage since
that dreadful public affair the court was holding with
him soon after his arrival here--I’ve meant to, but
there hasn’t been time. “You haven’t requested such a
meeting on behalf of your master. Does this mean
you’re neglecting your duties to him?”

“I’ve been afraid, Majesty.”

This causes me to frown--which results in more
quivering and genuflecting from Bagoas. “What have
you to be fearful of, little one? Are you not in my
own apartments? Haven’t you heard from my own lips
the orders that your master is not to be bothered or
molested by ANYONE on pain of death? What are you
afraid of when I’ve given you both my personal
protection?”

Bagoas wrings his slender fingers together and weeps
profusely.

I’ll get nothing out of him until he dries up.

“I would see your master now. Is he up to receiving
company?”

Bagoas bows low. “I was just giving him a massage,
Majesty. Please wait while I assist him to dress--”

“I’ll see him now.”

“Yes, Majesty!”

Bagoas hurries to open an inner door of the
apartments for me. I remember with great fondness how
wonderful it feels to receive a massage from the
strong and clever hands of Bagoas. It’s the least I
can give the Macedonian--I appear to have stripped him
of all other rights and possessions. A score of my
own Immortals guard him constantly; I hear he’s made
several escape attempts, but the Immortals are far too
many for him. Oddly, I see Bagoas still wearing his
little dagger--the prisoner has reportedly not once
tried to take it from him--although I’m sure he could
do so with utter ease. Perhaps he has sense enough to
realize Bagoas is his one comfort here, and there is
no reason or advantage in frightening the poor eunuch
for such a tiny pigsticker.

I find the Macedonian lying nude on his stomach,
stretched out on a narrow table Bagoas uses for
massage. Bagoas hastily drapes a silk throw over his
bare back, hips, and legs, but the Macedonian doesn’t
move a muscle at my entrance--except to open one eye.

“Greetings, Lord Hephaestion,” I tell him.

The barbarian still doesn’t move. He gazes at me
with those strange blue eyes for a moment, then says,
“Who are you?”

“This is His Majesty, Darius of Persia, King of
Kings--” Bagoas starts in.

“You are lying, Bagoas.” The Macedonian speaks
without inflection; I can’t gauge what he’s thinking.
“This is no Great King. A Great King wouldn’t come to
the likes of a foreign captive in his hands. He would
have me bound and brought to him to chains,
blindfolded that my savage’s eyes could not behold his
glory. Again, man, who are you?”

I try hard not to smile. “Ordinarily you would be
quite correct, young man. If circumstances were not
what they are, I would have you dragged on your knees
before my throne and thrust upon your face at my
feet.”

“What circumstances could cause a Great King to
forget the proper protocol?” he sneers at me.

By Bel’s good humor, I am enjoying this! How I wish
things were different, and this man and I could call
each other friend. I haven’t seen such spirit in
years!

“Nothing causes a Great King to do anything he does
not wish, young man. You would do well to remember
that. I am here because I choose to come. I have
concerns far beyond trifling etiquette.”

The Macedonian curls onto his side and dips his
handsome head. “Please forgive my testing you, Your
Majesty. I had to assure myself that you are no
imposter.”

I gesture that I would sit, and Bagoas dithers around
the room until he finds a chair he deems worthy of my
resting my royal bottom upon. “I would expect
nothing less from you, Lord Hephaestion,” I tell him.
“I must talk with you now.”

Hephaestion looks at me, unsure for a moment, then
puts his head back on his arms.

“I hear you’re not well, Prince of Eordaea, Athens,
and Thebes. Now I see for myself it’s true--you’re
not thriving as I’d like you to.” I can easily tell
his health is gradually faltering. His eyes are
inhumanly bright and glassy, his skin is flushed and
clammy; he’s being consumed from within by a slow
fever.

“The company of my King sustains my soul, Majesty.
Without him, I have nothing and am nothing.”

He’s telling me the truth--as he perceives it; his
love is his badge. He’s wilting for lack of this
love; it’s as necessary to him as the air he breathes.
A grievous wrong has been done here--a noble hostage
will die unless he’s returned to his lord. “He will
come for you, Prince Hephaestion.” I find myself
wanting to give him hope, in spite of my position and
his.

My prisoner pushes back his shoulders. “I’ve had no
news of my King’s progress in several months, Sire.
No one is permitted to speak to me of it. But it
seems to me that his course is obvious. Doesn’t it to
you, as well?”

“Don’t try to befuddle me, young man. Alexander has
his spies and I have mine. Let us cast the furtive
whispers aside and speak to each other as men--not as
King and captive.”

“As you wish, Sire.” My hostage relaxes his body,
and stretches out prone again.

“Continue your massage, Bagoas,” I instruct the
eunuch. “My business is with your master and not with
you, so please minister to him as you were doing
before my arrival.”

Hephaestion nods at his slave, and shrugs the throw
away from his body so that he is naked before me. I
enjoy the glow of his luminous flesh in the
candlelight. Far more pale than any Persian, slim
and compactly muscled from his smooth shoulders to his
narrow hips, down to his glorious thighs and calves,
he’s absolutely lovely--and he knows it.
Well-accustomed, I’m sure, to being the plaything of
royalty. Anyone less would be unworthy of his beauty.

“Your presence here creates great consternation for
me,” I begin.

“Of course it does, Majesty,” Hephaestion murmurs
into his arms. “I have pondered at length what would
be the best resolution to the matter.”

“Should I have you burned alive and your ashes sent
back to Alexander?”

Hephaestion smiles--he knows full well such a notion
is completely ludicrous--and would result in thousands
(or millions) of corpses he also knows I don’t want.
He doesn’t answer me, just moans faintly when Bagoas
kneads a particularly stiff muscle in his thigh,
throwing his head back so that he is lyig on the table
like a sphinx.

“I would consult your opinion in my proposed
resolution to the problem.”

“I am your servant, Great King.” Hephaestion closes
his eyes and sighs again for Bagoas.

“Alexander and I are too evenly matched,” I tell him.
“I have greater troop numbers, but his are more
experienced.”

Hephaestion only sighs in contentment as Bagoas works
on his lower back, just above his little hips. I’m
not certain if he even heard me, but I’m not about to
play his game to find out.

Ah, I find myself having learned the wisdom of a
lifetime in just a few short months!

I didn’t have the mind of a King before Alexander came
to my land--now that I’ve developed one, it’s too
late.

“My King Alexander would not have Your Majesty’s
blood upon his hands.” Hephaestion says after a few
minutes. “Regicide is for barbarians. Come and
reason with me, Sire. No royal blood needs to spill
for this dirt we stand on. The world is big enough
for both you and Alexander. One thing this humble
knight before you does know for himself, Great King
Darius: A peaceful accord can be reached between the
two of you.”

“And how might that happen, young man?” I ask,
knowing he’s lying in his perfect teeth: Alexander
has more than aptly demonstrated he’s no more
interested in peace than I am in the mating habits of
lizards. If he didn’t want to bathe in Persian blood
before, he certainly does now, given his actions
against my people since his beloved was taken from
him.

“First, let us agree upon the best means of safety
for your family, Great King--particularly your son.
Alexander bears no ill will toward them--or you.”

“Then why is he here?”

“Your Majesty knows the answer before he asks the
question. The crimes of Xerxes upon Greece must be
set to rights.”

“Ancient history. And hasn’t Alexander accomplished
that, as he’s choked my rivers in blood and rotting
flesh, and dead ichor permeates my ground?”

“I don’t know if my King is satisfied yet, Your
Majesty. Even so, his primary aim is to ensure that
Parthia doesn’t invade Greece again. Perhaps if he
didn’t consider you a threat to our country, he would
set his sights elsewhere.”

He’s lying again, but I’m rather enjoying this play
of cat and mouse with him, even though he’s much
better at it than I am. “Upon a Western Empire,
then?”

“Who knows what lies toward the sunset, Sire? My
King is quite curious as to the sources of all the
four winds.”

I’ve had an erection since I came into this room.
Actually, the sight of my sweet Bagoas always makes me
hard, but watching him touch this beautiful young man
is having its own effect on me; I stay seated so that
they won’t see what it is (although I’m willing to bet
the barbarian has already calculated it). So I
continue our charade of my soliciting his advice; we
both know it’s all farce. “What would Alexander
accept as a peace accord?” I ask him.

“Acknowledge Alexander as your liegelord, Your
Majesty. He will spare your life and return your
throne to you so that you may continue to rule as his
ally in Persia. Give him tribute and manpower as he
asks it of you, and he will vouchsafe the survival of
your son to rule after you. He will marry your
daughter Statiera and unite his kingdom with yours,
then together you and he will look to other nations to
yoke, and all the world shall be belong to Greece and
Persia. He will give sons to young Statiera and mix
your blood with his for all the ages to come.”

Such a polished little liar! He’s so good at this!
Of course he doesn’t refer to me as the puppet king
Alexander will reduce me to should I sue for peace--he
dances around the dreaded word “abdicate” which
neither of us will say aloud. And of course he knows
I can no more accept Alexander’s terms than he can
accept mine. One of us must die. There is no other
way between the Macedonian King and me.

But perhaps I CAN save those dear to me, and to
Alexander, as well . . .

“Alexander spared my family to show me not only his
power--but his compassion,” I tell Hephaestion. “A
war that treats a man’s loved ones as spoils is a
dishonorable war, and whatever ultimate outcome should
happen, Kings must conduct themselves with honor.
Perhaps Alexander could consider a like gesture from
me as a token of the respect and goodwill I bear him.
I will make of you a living treaty between myself and
your King: You will be released, and given an
appropriate horse and command of your Immortal guards
as you escort my wife and family to a neutral country.
From the western provinces of my empire, you will see
them and yourself by ship to a land of safety, and
remain in exile with them as their protector until all
is settled between Alexander and me. That he and you
will--should I fall--be husbands to my daughters,
restore my son to the throne of his ancestors, and
make my mother comfortable in her old age? Can you
speak for Alexander in this matter?”

“I can, Sire, and it is agreed.” Hephaestion nods.
The game is over, and who knows now where and when it
ended? I certainly don’t; my offer is spur of the
moment, but sincere--and it would solve a LOT of
problems I’m having at the moment. “I shall need
proper Greek clothing so that I can be recognized
better.”

“Bagoas will have any garb made for you that you
could wish.”

“And I will take Bagoas with me, along with your
family.”

“Bagoas is a gift from me to you. He’s yours to do
with as you please.”

“Then may I give Your Majesty a gift? I have nothing
to my name here except my heart, which I pledge to you
and yours.”

“ALL of your heart, young man?”

“That bit of it which doesn’t belong to Alexander, I
give to you, Great King. When I was young, my father
taught me that my heart has four chambers--one to love
the gods with, a second room for one’s King, and then
for one’s family and last for one’s friends.”

And he tilts back his face to accept the kiss I’m so
desperate to press upon his lips. How long since I’ve
been able to enjoy the body of a loved one? My wife,
so long away and now unavailable to me as she nurses
her new baby.

The heat of his body is alarming, his kiss is
scalding. It’s unnatural, just as the strange blue
glow in his eyes isn’t human. I’ve heard tales of
this Hephaestion, and of Alexander, as well--that they
aren’t altogether mortal men--and feeling his arms
encircle my neck as I gather him close--I wonder if
there might not be more to them than meets the eye.
This barbarian boy has outwitted me and trounced me at
every turn tonight, but I don’t care because I want
him. Bessus has warned me that he is as dangerous as
a cobra and perhaps my cousin is right and this
Hephaestion is more than the mere manchild I find
nestling in my arms but I don’t care don’t care don’t
care. I’m a dead man, I know it, and my guts tell me
it’ll happen sooner than later. There’s no escape for
me but in the sweetness of a prisoner, and the irony
of it all almost sobers me as I continue to drown
myself in him.

I don’t know how we made it from Bagoas’ massage
table to the great bed I used to sleep in, but somehow
we’re coupled together in the silk. The barbarian
watches me carefully as we tryst, taking his cues from
me. Of course he’s accustomed to following the whims
of his King, as is only proper. But it’s easy for
both of us because I’m desperate to touch and taste a
willing, loving body. He needs only to be beautiful
in his preternatural heat and allow me access to his
flesh; I fall upon him with such passion I fear
frightening him at first.

Hephaestion is apparently well-acquainted with the
demands of ravenous Kings. His response to me is
genuine and touching, offering himself to me like a
lamb. I kiss him again and again and again, revelling
in him, falling in love with him because what else can
one do given an angel like this? Maybe he is indeed
the Angel of Death, the Herald of Death, as Death
Himself burns my cities and looks inexorably Eastward.

The Angel of Death stifles his cries as I slip an
oiled finger into him.

I stand nearly seven feet tall, and am a large
man--in all ways. Even with the oil, I could kill
this carefully-used, relatively inexperienced
plaything of the Greek King.

He cries again, frustrated but becoming afraid. He
asks if I’m displeased with him. Darling one, I could
never be displeased with you, but a few sweet moments
aren’t worth the price of your life. I want you to
live, Angel of Death. My days are numbered, but yours
aren’t, and I would have it no other way.

“Come, Bagoas,” I growl, causing both young men to
flinch. “You must help us.” I reach out to the
eunuch keeping vigil beside the bed, and draw him
close. Bagoas realizes our dilemma at once, and
settles lightly beside us.

“Master, I will be the intermediary between you and
the Great King,” he reassures the barbarian, who
suddenly appears confused and a little frightened. “I
have done this many, many
times--with many different people. I will not be
hurt, so please don’t fear for me. I could never do
evil unto you, dear Master, I would rather die a
thousand times than hurt you.”

The Angel of Death bites his lower lip, and gives a
brief nod of assent.

Bless you, child--for all you’ve suffered--for all
you have yet to suffer--despair is no match for a
heart as true as yours! You are made strong in your
frailty, and the more you are defiled, the more pure
you become! No wonder Alexander adores you so! Your
worth is beyond price!

Hephaestion’s eyes glaze over with tears. When he
blinks, the tears escape and flood over his high
cheekbones. “Bagoas, I’m so sorry!” he apologizes to
the eunuch. “All this time--I thought eunuchs
couldn’t--I never meant to torment you--!”

“It’s all right, Master,” Bagoas croons, comforting
his master as he slides his thin body between the
Macedonian and me. “No one expects you to be an
expert on eunuchs. It’s the will of the Great King
that I pleasure you, and I am an expert in the art of
pleasing my lovers. Have no fear of us, please. Give
yourself up to Great King Darius’ wishes, my Lord. He
would honor you now.”

Bagoas gently moves his master onto his stomach, then
softly sings to him as I prepare him fully. This
seems to ease his fears a bit, and he eases himself
carefully into the Macedonian. “Are you all right?” I
ask. “Please tell me the instant anything causes you
pain.”

But he seems able to take Bagoas, long and slim as he
is, and calms as they settle into a comfortable
rhythm. It’s more difficult for Bagoas as I carefuly
breach the tight ring of muscle in his ass and join
them in their union, moving myself along atop both of
them. I’ve had Bagoas many times in the past and he’s
no stranger to lovemaking, but I could still do him
considerable harm at my size.

Bagoas gasps, and I feel him come as enter him;
having so much sex all at once is too much even for
him. I reach under them to take the Macedonian in my
hand; he’s ready to come, and mewling like a kitten in
his extreme pleasure. A few hard strokes, and he
comes for me, spilling hot seed over my fingers and
crying out in release. So hot it seems to burn my
hand.

They’re exhausted now, and lie limp like a pair of
newborn puppies, the little slave and the Angel of
Death. I quickly find my own climax in Bagoas, and
pull out to sit back on my heels and look at them.
It’s too bad I can’t die now, just gazing at them; I
would die with beauty spread before me.

I give the hostage a deep kiss on his full lips,
lingering as I would; he seems dazed and satiated.
“If I never see you again,” I whisper, “I apologize
for taking you prisoner against your will; I want you
to know that it was not done on my orders or with my
knowledge.” Then I give Bagoas a loving pat on the
bottom, and take my leave of them.

*****************************************************
--end of chapter 20--
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all work and no play makes jill a dull girl all work
and no play makes jill a dull girl all work and no
play makes jill a dull girl