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  Alexander is dead. Does it matter if I'm odd? We're going to be slaughtered in a foreign city, just like the Magi said. It's the dice. You roll enough and you lose.” The wine was very, very good. It came to me that perhaps it had been meant for the King. Perhaps it was poisoned. There had been that tale about.

  I looked into the dregs. Nothing to see. The flickering light made shapes on the surface, curled like an octopus in the bottom of the cup.

  Glaukos touched my hand gently. “Drink up, my friend,” he said.

  I did. If it was poisoned, I was past caring.

  I drank with him while the night came in through the windows, while the lamp sputtered and died. Silence settled over the palace. Glaukos talked on and on, making less sense. “Elephants,” he whispered one last time, and lowered his head on his arms.

  Poisoned, I thought. Of course.

  From the far side of the room there was a rustle in the darkness. Two green eyes regarded me steadily. A great gray cat paced out of the shadows.

  “Death,” I whispered. I thought she spoke to me, words I didn't understand.

  And night took me.

  I woke to morning coming in through the window, and the loud annoying sound of Glaukos’ snores. My head throbbed, and on the table were five-toed paw prints in red wine.

  The King was still dead.

  I was still alive.

  Praise for the Novels of Jo Graham

  “Graham's spare style focuses on action, but fraught meaning and smoldering emotional resonance overlays her deceptively simple words.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “…A refreshingly different approach to a legend we only thought we knew.”—Locus

  “A bittersweet saga with enough action, romance, and intrigue to entertain and enthrall.”—Romance Reviews Today

  “A plausible premise, superb characters, a plot that originally extrapolates from classical literature, history, and mythology—all make for a first-class, very readable novel.”—Booklist (starred review)

  “Although most readers will be aware of Cleopatra's sad fate… the journey, and the vivid descriptions of life in the cosmopolitan city of Alexandria, make this book well worth reading.”—Kirkus

  “Charmian's shy hopes, failures and devotion to Cleopatra and Isis make her one of the most memorable ‘witnesses to history’ to emerge from fantasy in quite some time.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Drawing her inspiration from Virgil's The Aeneid, debut author Graham re-creates a vivid picture of the ancient world, a mysterious place in which gods and goddesses speak to their chosen.”—Library Journal (starred review)

  “Graham makes her world come truly alive, as the best writers of historical romances have always done.”—scifi.com

  “Graham… has packed the novel with exquisite detail, bringing to life a time long gone.”—The St. Petersburg Times

  “Inspired and relentlessly entertaining… an auspicious debut.”—Realms of Fantasy

  “Hand of Isis should cement Graham's place as a rising and strong voice in historical fantasy fiction.”—Sacramento Book Review

  by JO GRAHAM

  Black Ships

  Hand of Isis

  Stealing Fire

  Copyright © 2010 by Jo Wyrick

  Excerpt from Black Ships copyright © 2008 by Jo Wyrick

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,

  no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted

  in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system,

  without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Orbit

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

  www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First Edition: May 2010

  Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group. The Orbit name and logo

  are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons,

  living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For my daughter Beth,

  who has taught me the meaning of courage

  In what immortal deeps or skies

  Burned the fire of thine eyes?

  On what wings dare he aspire?

  What the hand dare seize the fire?

  — William Blake

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  THE KING LIES IN BABYLON

  THE CARIAN

  ASHES

  KHEMET

  DREAMS AND NIGHTMARES

  UNDER THE MOON

  COMPANION

  THE HEART OF THE BLACK LAND

  A CLEVER PLAN

  WINGS OF FIRE

  LADY OF THE DESERT

  HOT EMBERS

  SACRED FIRE

  HETAIROS

  ROSES

  BAGOAS

  THE GATHERING STORM

  ALEXANDER'S LEGACY

  THE BATTLE OF CAMEL'S FORT

  THE DESCENT OF KINGS

  THE OPENING OF THE MOUTH

  RIVER GODS

  THE BARGAIN OF THE PTOLEMIES

  SOTHIS RISING

  PEOPLE, PLACES, AND THINGS

  FOR FURTHER READING

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  extras

  meet the author

  interview

  reading group guide

  introducing

  THE KING LIES

  IN BABYLON

  The King was dead. Alexander lay in Babylon, in the palace of the Persian kings, upon the bed where he had died, and I killed a man across his body for no reason that made any sense.

  The melee had come even here, to the death chamber.

  “To me! To me!” shouted Perdiccas, his head bare and his face shining with sweat. He claimed he was the heir, that Alexander had pressed his ring into his hand.

  Others said it was meant for Krateros, who was not here.

  And there were other claimants, of course. His body was not cold.

  I took a step back, the blood running down the channels of the blade as I shifted into guard, rivulets of warmth across my knuckles. The King's legs were bare below his chiton. If he had been decently covered, the cloth had slipped in the fighting. One drop fell from my blade and glistened on a golden hair.

  The young eunuch had fallen across his torso and face, shielding him with his own dead body. At least I presumed he was dead. He was still as death, his back bared to the swords about the bier.

  “Push them back!” Perdiccas screamed. It seemed he was winning.

  I stood, sword in hand. No one came near. I had no reason to attack anyone.

  A man went down, and Perdiccas and two others rushed the doorway. They pressed them out into the hall. I heard the dying man choking out his life, but I did not move. Who should I belong to? Perdiccas? He was well enough, but had never given me a word. Krateros, who had laughed at men who married foreign women and called their sons bastard?

  My master was already dead.

  And so I stood above the bier, listening to my breath harsh in the close air.

  Outside, the sounds of the fight were becoming distant. Perhaps Perdiccas had pushed them back to the receiving hall, or toward the bathhouse.

  The lamp guttered. The fragrant oil was almost gone. Soon the stench of death would fill the room.

  The young eunuch moved. I saw him breathing shallowly. Having no reason to kill him, I cleaned off my sword on the fallen cloth, stepped over the dying, and left the room.

  I found Glaukos in the kitchen. He had three pots of wine before him, and an onion. The knives and food lay on the table. The servants had been preparing a meal when they w
ere frightened away.

  Glaukos looked up at me, and his eyes were red. “Come to kill me, then?”

  I sat down heavily on the bench. “Why should I do that, you drunkard? The world is in ruins, and you're at it again.”

  “You'd do best to try it,” Glaukos advised. “No reason not to.”

  I poured a small amount into a clay cup and took a sip. It was good strong Bactrian red, dark and rich, entirely unwatered. I expect it had been intended for the King's table.

  “Elephants, he said,” Glaukos said. “The King wanted elephants. I said there was no way I could get elephants. You could talk to him just like that. I said no elephants, and what was he asking me about them for as I never had anything to do with elephants in my life. ‘Glaukos,’ he said, ‘I know you can get them for me.’ ” He refilled his cup, tears running down his face. “So elephants it was.”

  “I don't want to hear about your accursed elephants,” I said.

  “When I showed up with those four elephants on the banks of the river…”

  “Shut up about the elephants!” I said, and knocked the cup from his hand. It broke in fragments across the floor, the red wine stain spreading.

  Glaukos blinked at me. “That wasn't friendly,” he said mildly. He got up with the slow, purposeful movements of a man who is already drunk, went over to a shelf on the wall, and turned, holding another cup.

  I stalked out of the kitchen.

  The hallway was silent. If the battle had passed this way, it was gone now. Aimlessly, I wandered the corridors. In the receiving hall, the golden ornaments were stripped from the throne, a little carved table lying on its side. I went down the corridor that led to the bathhouse.

  “Halt! Who's there!” I heard a shout, and the more important sound of a bow being drawn.

  I stopped. The voice was familiar. “Lydias of Miletus,” I said.

  “Ah.” He stepped into the space between the bathhouse doors. I could see four or five men beyond him, some in their harness, in reasonable order. “Take your hand from your sword hilt,” he directed.

  I did. “Artashir,” I said.

  He was a Companion though he was armed with a bow. Persians learn archery very young, and I thought it wise not to doubt he could use it, when the point was aimed at my breast.

  “Are you friend or foe?” he asked.

  “Of whom?” I said.

  Behind him the bathing pool was blue and clear. The King had spent most of his last days here.

  “Of us,” Artashir said, with only a slight hesitation. He was tall and angular, younger than I, with a closely trimmed beard in the Persian fashion.

  “I am no enemy of yours,” I said. Truth, I hardly knew the man. We had not been in the same place until after Gedrosia, and then I had not made friends.

  “We are holding the bathhouse,” he said.

  “For whom?”

  “For the King,” he answered.

  I laughed, and even to myself sounded overwrought. “The King is dead. You will hold the bathhouse for all eternity.”

  Artashir straightened, his dark eyes suspiciously bright. “Then that is what we will do. We will wait for our orders, as Companions should.”

  “Wait and rot then,” I said, and turned and walked away.

  No arrow hit me in the back.

  I could hear the battle sounds coming from the stableyard, but I had no desire to seek it out. My sword was too heavy in my hand, and the deserted palace too empty. In the anteroom to the receiving hall papers were spread, letters and dispatches, all the business of empire waiting for the King's hand. The lamps burned on in their fretted holders. In the courtyard beyond, the fountain played. I half expected it to be frozen, droplets suspended in midair. Surely the sun should not set, the droplets fall.

  I wandered back to the kitchen, where Glaukos still was.

  He looked up blearily from the table. “Come back, have you?”

  I shrugged. “Nowhere better to go. Best to die with a friend, I suppose.”

  “That's the way,” Glaukos said, moving over and pouring for me. Half the unwatered wine splashed out of the cup, his hands were that unsteady. “Always thought I would die with you.”

  I raised my cup in salute. “To death, my friend Glaukos. Death and an eternity amid the shades.”

  Glaukos raised his cup and looked at me over it, blinking. “You know, you've been a bit odd since Gedrosia, Lydias.”

  “You're calling me odd,” I said. “Alexander is dead. Does it matter if I'm odd? We're going to be slaughtered in a foreign city, just like the Magi said. It's the dice. You roll enough and you lose.” The wine was very, very good. It came to me that perhaps it had been meant for the King. Perhaps it was poisoned. There had been that tale about.

  I looked into the dregs. Nothing to see. The flickering light made shapes on the surface, curled like an octopus in the bottom of the cup.

  Glaukos touched my hand gently. “Drink up, my friend,” he said.

  I did. If it was poisoned, I was past caring.

  I drank with him while the night came in through the windows, while the lamp sputtered and died. Silence settled over the palace. Glaukos talked on and on, making less sense. “Elephants,” he whispered one last time, and lowered his head on his arms.

  Poisoned, I thought. Of course.

  From the far side of the room there was a rustle in the darkness. Two green eyes regarded me steadily. A great gray cat paced out of the shadows.

  “Death,” I whispered. I thought she spoke to me, words I didn't understand.

  And night took me.

  I woke to morning coming in through the window, and the loud annoying sound of Glaukos’ snores. My head throbbed, and on the table were five-toed paw prints in red wine.

  The King was still dead.

  I was still alive.

  THE CARIAN

  Once there was a boy who lived in a city by the sea which had once been Millawanda of the mighty walls, long ago in the time Homer spoke of, when Troy fell and dark raiders patrolled the seas. He was a scrawny, dark-haired boy ten years old, and his name was Jio.

  Well enough, then. I cannot tell it like a poet. I am a soldier, and must speak much plainer.

  Once I was a boy named Jio, and I lived in the city of Miletus. My mother was a Carian, from farther south along the coast, with flashing dark eyes and high cheekbones, honey skin, and long, tapering hands. Her long hair fell in ringlets halfway down her back, and she was voluptuous and wild, prone to fits of ecstatic weeping for Adonis, and to dancing alike. Perhaps it was because she was the concubine of a man she did not like, but who indeed chooses who they serve?

  My master—my father—had a dozen sons, half of them legitimate, and grandsons nearly my age. He was a wealthy merchant of Corinthian stock whose fathers had been in Miletus four generations before I was born, but who spoke Greek in the house and considered himself a student of Attic philosophy. We spoke nothing but Greek, even in the women's quarters, because his wife would have none of it. Her children would not pick up bad habits this way. Her sons would be Greek gentlemen.

  I had all of my mother's wildness and none of her beauty. I climbed the garden trees and ate the fruit, escaped over the walls and wandered the city, going to the port and watching the ships come and go, dreaming of the day that I would run away on one of them, bound for Tyre or Sidon, Pelousion or Syracuse. I stood on the walls of the breakwater in the brisk wind off the sea, my arms spread like a bird, and dreamed of flight. I dreamed at night that the wind picked me up and I soared like Icarus, over land and sea, until all the world spread beneath my wings, precious as a tapestry picked out in bright thread.

  Away in Greece on the other side of the seas, Phillip, the King of Macedon, strove with Athens, and the Sacred Band fell on the field of Chaeronea to a prince of seventeen. The world did not yet know the name Alexander. I had never heard it, but already the wind was blowing, leaves flying before the storm that would come.

  My father always had
an eye for profit, like the canny merchant he was, and he was more than happy to trade with Macedon. Ships came and went to Amphipolis and Phillippopolis, their Macedonian captains received with wine and conversation that bordered on the treasonous. Yes, of course the Greek cities of the coast would like to be rid of Persian overlordship. My father spread his hands. But that was a futile dream, of course, unless some powerful ruler like Phillip could forge a new and stronger alliance. It might be a king like Phillip. After all, what city of Greece could accomplish that, and lift men like him up from servitude to barbarians?

  Barbarians, I thought. We are all barbarians to him, with his scrolls of philosophy that he probably doesn't understand anyway. We are barbarians, his lesser children. I could not read a word. The expensive slave from Syracuse who tutored his legitimate grandsons was not wasted on me. And why should he be? My world was the world of the city, running errands and dashing about, doing as the women wished and fetching them little things from the market, eluding the old eunuch who managed the kitchen and always wanted to put me to work peeling something or washing something. There was too much in the world to waste time peeling things.

  Of course sometimes when I ran off it caused consternation, and my mother and the others would go at it over my punishment. A few licks with a rod were not so very bad, and I bore them philosophically as the price of my freedom, but my mother would fall into fits and scream until the entire household was disturbed, leaping at the old eunuch and trying to claw out his eyes because he had beaten her son. I found it vaguely embarrassing.

  Often it went on until my father stepped in. He hardly saw me at all, but my mother's antics left him solicitous, calling for cool water and a dark room, bathing her face and hands and whispering endearments, lifting a cup of watered wine to her lips with his own hands while his wife fumed.

  Once when this happened, the old eunuch caught my eye. “Love is unfathomable,” he said. “And masters all, even kings.”