Cassius studied the king dubiously, less reassured than he wanted to be. Then Alexander’s face changed, and he added, “Even if I were in the habit of sending allies to their deaths, would I risk one of my best generals with them? Or have you forgotten Ptolemy’s your consul?”
Cassius shook his head, his doubts fading. “No, King Alexander, nor did I truly think you intended our deaths. But when you make plans without us, it’s no wonder these rumors get started.”
Alexander smiled, rather grimly. “But I’ve made no plans for your people without your knowledge, I assure you. Nor will I—and you have my word on that.”
“Thank you, King Alexander,” Cassius said, and meant it. This was the Alexander he had hoped to see, the man of honor, one he would follow almost blindly. With that promise to back him up—and regardless of what Domitius did or said—he himself would keep the legion in line. “With your permission, then, I’ll take my leave. It was a long ride, foraging.”
Some version of the conversation had spread to every corner of the camp before sundown. Hephaestion, dining alone with the king that night, waited until the wine bowl had made its rounds before broaching the subject. Even so, Alexander grimaced angrily. “Gods below, is that all over the camp already?”
“I’m afraid so,” Hephaestion answered.
Alexander grunted, staring into his wine. “I don’t like lying,” he said after a moment. “And I don’t like having to lie.”
Hephaestion frowned, uncertain of what the king meant—the informant had given the broad outline of the conversation, but no specifics. Alexander glanced at him, and smiled tightly. “Cassius asked me outright if I had planned to send his people over the wall without proper support, and I told him I would not.”
“I don’t see that that’s a lie,” Hephaestion began.
“He asked me,” Alexander went on, still with that humorless smile, “if such a thing had been suggested. What could I say to that?”
Hephaestion nodded, but before he could say anything, the king went on, “And I have been thinking about it, at least about ways of getting rid of Domitius. If Craterus had just kept his mouth shut, it could have been arranged discreetly. But once it was mentioned in council…” His voice trailed off in disgust.
Hephaestion eyed the other warily. That sort of solution was more like Philip than Alexander, the sort of thing that Alexander scorned to consider, calling it unworthy of him. Alexander knew it, too, and didn’t like the change. Hephaestion said aloud, “We can deal with Domitius, Alexander. You don’t need that kind of solution.”
“I hope not,” Alexander said, but his expression eased a little. “Because I will do it if I have to.”
Hephaestion said, with all the confidence he could muster, “You won’t.”
The Macedonians took the first wall just after the full moon of Panemos. The attack had been well prepared, the ditch at least partially filled in places, and spanned by portable bridges in others; the Carthaginians made only a tentative counterattack and retreated behind the shelter of their second, much stronger wall. In the meetings of the Hundred, it was declared that, if it had taken the great Alexander three months to break the weakest wall, the Macedonians would surely starve before the city did. This was partially bravado, and the more pessimistic oligarchs branded it as such: Alexander had succeeded in setting up a regular trade with several of Carthage’s former allies, and was now in no danger of starving. But if he was well supplied, so was Carthage. The city’s wells were deep, and supplemented by massive cisterns that had not yet been touched. The Macedonian fleet had been unable to impose a complete blockade, and supplies still arrived, if irregularly, from the Iberian colonies. Already the new Carthaginian admiral, inspired perhaps by the execution of his predecessor for his failure to break out against the Macedonian fleet, proposed to dig a second exit from the inner harbor, on the other side of Cape Carthage from the main exit. The Hundred rejected the plan as currently unnecessary, but looked favorably on the admiral for suggesting it.
Outside the walls, Alexander moved to consolidate his gains. Parts of the earthen wall were demolished and used to fill in the ditch; a few sections, notably those nearest the gatehouse that guarded the main road south, were left intact, though modified, to help deter any sortie. It was a long, slow job, the soldiers under constant fire from the inner walls. The engineers did their best to provide protection for them, both by building more of the protective penthouses and by maintaining a constant counterfire from the siege towers, but neither could be completely effective. Losses mounted slowly.
The Carthaginians mounted a number of small-scale sorties as well, slipping out from behind their walls to attack the siege towers and the Macedonian fortifications. Each time the battalions detailed to protect the towers drove them back, but two days after the new moon of Loios, a determined party slipped out of the northern sea gate and made their way through the marshy ponds to attack the penthouses. Polyperchon’s brigade, which had responsibility for that part of the siege line, was caught napping, and the raiders succeeded in setting fire to two of the structures before they were driven back. A third penthouse caught fire before the men of the neighboring brigades could douse the flames, and all three were badly damaged. Surveying the wreckage in the brilliant morning sunlight, Diades shook his head, doubting that he could salvage more than one.
In this timber-poor country, that was a hard blow. Alexander rubbed his stinging eyes and glared irritably at the distant walls. He had fought the fire with the rest of the army, first organizing a bucket brigade and then moving in to smother the last of the flames with his dampened cloak; he would bear an ugly scar on his left arm for some weeks, where a smoldering beam had struck him. “Do what you can,” he said grimly, and moved on to arrange for a gang to go inland in search of wood for the repairs.
Despite Diades’s pessimism, the engineers were able to make some repairs, and the search parties were able to acquire—everyone was careful not to ask for details—a wagon-load of cut timbers. The attack proceeded with only a week’s delay, the soldiers beginning the monotonous, dangerous job of filling in parts of the ditch that fronted the second wall. They came under attack at once from the wall itself, and the catapults were unable to provide adequate covering fire.
If the siege towers were moved to point-blank range, the stone-throwers on the lower levels were powerful enough to rip the battlements right off the top of the wall itself—but point-blank range was two hundred feet further in toward the city, closer than any of the siege towers now stood, and less than three hundred feet from the ruined outer wall. The problems of protecting the towers from a determined assault were obvious, and it was equally obvious that, if the towers were to be moved in, the Macedonians would have to commit themselves to two or three specific points of attack. The Friends’ agreement ended there, Craterus arguing for a further delay and perhaps a diversionary attack from the sea, the engineers pushing for a chance to demonstrate what their machines could do, the other infantry commanders demanding some sort of increased support for their men before proceeding with the attack. Alexander listened to everyone and then announced that the towers would be moved closer. He dissolved the council and walked to the siege lines to survey the possible points of attack for himself.
Caterus, seeing the king’s intent, headed there himself, and others of the Friends copied him. By the time the king’s party had reached the palisade and ditch that surrounded the camp just outside the two-stadia range of the Carthaginian catapults, the council had effectively reformed itself. Alexander gave them a sardonic look, silencing any attempts to renew the argument, and continued on toward the nearest tower, keeping its bulk between himself and the walls.
At the king’s approach, Charias slid down the ladder from the tower’s lowest floor and came forward to greet the king. He was unarmored, and nearly naked, his tunic falling loose from one shoulder: armor was unbearable in the heat of the enclosed tower.
“How goes it?” Alexande
r asked. The officers hung back a little, not quite out of earshot, unwilling to approach further without an invitation. They were careful, however, to stay behind the protection of the tower.
Charias shrugged, wiping greasy hands across his already filthy tunic. “Well enough, sire. A snapped cord this morning on one of the sixty-pounders, but we’ve got it back in service now.”
As if to underline his words, there was a shout from within the tower, and one of the lower shutters rumbled open. That was followed almost at once by the unmistakable thrum and crack of a sixty-pound stone-thrower. Charias turned at once and shouted up at the tower, “Sighting, Philip?”
After a moment, a figure waved from the railing at the edge of the second story, then cupped a hand to his ear. Like Charias, he was nearly naked, his tunic clinging to his body.
“Sighting!” Charias shouted again.
“Just below the parapet!” The figure shouted back. “First wall! Raise it?”
Charias waved his agreement, and turned back to the king. “If we could come within a stadion of the wall,” he began, “I could take that course of stones right off.”
Alexander said, “So Diades said. You’ll get your chance, don’t worry. The question now is where to try to break through.”
“With your permission?” Charias asked, suddenly formal. The king nodded. “I’d say the point where the aqueduct crossed the wall. They’ve torn down what was left of the watercourse, but no matter what they’ve done to strengthen it, that will be the weak point.”
“That’s very close to the main gate, isn’t it?” Alexander asked, frowning.
“About a stadion to the north,” Charias admitted. The king made a face, and the engineer added quickly, “But that will be the weakest point, sire.”
“I’ll take a look,” Alexander said, and swung himself up the ladder onto the tower’s lowest floor. The engineer followed nimbly, despite his maimed hand.
The interior of the tower was dark and stiflingly hot. The ceiling of the lowest floor was just high enough for the crew, who worked the capstan that turned the tower’s heavy wheels, to stand upright. Part of the capstan crew, which also provided the water carriers and guards when the tower was stationary, sat or sprawled along the railing, their armor piled against the walls. The various units took it in turn to provide the tower crews: these were Romans who watched incuriously, unmoving in the heat.
Alexander stepped over and around the sprawled bodies and pulled himself up to the second level. There the ceiling was higher to accommodate the eighteen-foot height of the heavy stone-throwers, and more light leaked in around the edges of the shutters that covered the catapult ports between shots. A pair of Roman soldiers, sweating and sullen, had just manhandled a sixty-pound stone into the machine’s sling. They stood aside while one of Charias’s engineers checked the elevation of the slider, and then stepped forward again to throw their weight against the levers that drew back the slider. The king did not stay to watch but pulled himself up the next ladder to the final story.
The machines were smaller there, a pair of true catapults and a lighter ten-pound stone-thrower, each attended by a two-man crew. The supervising engineer—Philip again—turned to welcome the king, but his words were drowned by the prolonged rattle of the shutter opening on the floor below. The sixty-pounder fired, and the entire tower shivered.
“Welcome, sire,” Philip tried again. “How may we serve you?”
Both the catapults were loaded and cocked, cords straining against the triggers. Alexander nodded to them. “Fire away, but then I want to take a look at the walls.”
Philip nodded, and gestured to the Romans waiting at the back of the tower. “Raise the shutters.”
Both troopers reached for the ropes that ran across the tower ceiling through a complex array of pulleys, and began to pull steadily. The shutters lifted slowly, and Philip said, “Hold.”
The Romans hastily wound their ropes around handy cleats, and waited, breathing hard. Philip said, “Fire,” and, as the sliders snapped forward against their frames, “Close.” The Romans released their ropes, and the shutters slammed closed again.
Charias rested his good hand against the nearest wall, frowning, then moved forward to test the shutter. “This is too dry,” he said, irritably. “What do you think you’re doing, Philip?”
The younger engineer looked away nervously, and said, “There isn’t much water left, sir. I was waiting…” His voice trailed off under the Greek’s stern gaze.
“Well, send for more,” Charias said, after a moment. He gestured to the nearest Roman. “Inform your captain we need water.”
The Roman said, almost insolently, “Right, captain,” and dropped down the nearest ladder.
Alexander’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Have you had trouble, Philip?”
The younger engineer said, not quite truthfully, “No, sire.”
The king eyed him dubiously, but said only, “Can you raise the shutter so that I can get a look at the walls?”
“Of course, sire.” Rather than order the remaining Roman back to his place, Philip himself hauled open the shutter halfway, so that the king could see out without exposing himself fully to Carthaginian arrows. Alexander leaned against the sun-warmed frame, staring out at the distant walls.
It was impossible to miss the gates, one behind the other, or the points where the aqueduct had passed through both walls. The Carthaginians had entirely cleared the ground between the walls; there was no advantage to be gained by striking at other points, and Charias could be relied on to know where a wall was weakest. Alexander gestured for Philip to close the shutter again—it fell with a resounding crash—and crossed to the railing. “Craterus! All of you, come up here.”
The officers who had been milling about below entered the stifling tower reluctantly, crowding into the upper story. The shutter was raised for the various officers to take a look—this time by the Roman trooper, moving smartly under Cassius’s censorious stare—and then Alexander said, “We’ll make the main attack where the aqueduct was.”
“That’s close to the gates,” Craterus said, and gestured for the shutter to be opened again, briefly. The unusual movements had attracted the Carthaginians’ attention. A few seconds after the shutter closed again, several heavy catapult bolts rattled against the tower’s side. The brigadier did not deign to notice. “But I grant the gate towers’re no different from the others.”
That was the only objection. Charias said, eagerly, “This tower’s best sited to move in. We can bring the one to the south, too.”
Alexander nodded. “Cassius, send for the rest of your men to help push.”
The tribune looked away. “These are Domitius’s men, Alexander. But I’ll send a runner.”
Domitius was unreasonably slow in responding to the king’s summons. When at last his men did arrive, they grumbled as they took their places around the capstan and along the back of the tower. At the shouted order, the capstan groaned, but the wheels barely moved. Alexander’s mouth tightened dangerously, and he said, “Can’t your men do any better, tribune?”
Domitius said, “They’re soldiers, not slaves.”
“Slaves’ work, is it?” Without waiting for the Roman’s answer, Alexander pushed through the crowd of soldiers to the ladder, pausing halfway up it to shout, “Come along, Domitius, if you think you can do a man’s job.”
Most of the legionaires had learned enough Greek to understand the king’s words, and Alexander’s voice had been pitched to carry. A ripple of laughter spread through the line and among the men on the capstan. Domitius flushed angrily and pushed his way in after the king. Cassius, swearing to himself, followed.
“Make a place for me,” Alexander said, and the Romans circling the capstan shifted to make room, grinning both at the king and at their own officers. Alexander hastily stripped off his armor, then took his place along the long beam. Both tribunes copied him, Domitius with an air of distaste.
“Slave’s wo
rk, Domitius?” Alexander asked again, and before the other could answer, shouted, “Now!”
The capstan turned then, very slowly at first, and then, as the men at the base of the tower threw their weight against it, more easily. With an almost human shriek, the tower’s wheels began to turn, and the whole structure crept forward across the empty ground. The men on the capstan raised a breathless cheer, cut off abruptly when Cassius shouted, “Save your strength, men, we’ve a way to go yet.”
Foot by foot, the tower moved ponderously to its new position. In the distance they could hear more shouting as the other towers got under way, moving in toward the new line. Cassius, gasping for breath in the airless chamber, lost count of the number of times he made the full circuit of the room, concentrating at last on the need to keep moving forward, to keep from falling under the feet of the men behind him.
At last, Charias shouted, “Enough!”
The men on the capstan stopped abruptly, stumbling against each other in sheer exhaustion. Cassius leaned forward against the bar, trying to gather the strength to climb down the ladder out of the tower, and was suddenly aware of Alexander leaning against the bar beside him. The king was soaked in sweat, hair plastered to his head, but his face bore an expression of savage pleasure. He fixed his eyes on Domitius, who had propped himself against the far wall, utter hatred transforming his face.
“King’s work, Domitius,” Alexander said, quietly, fiercely, and pushed himself away from the bar. “Come with me, Cassius.”
Cassius dragged himself upright, unable to suppress a groan, and followed the king. Alexander paused at the tower railing, still breathing heavily, and said, “He had better mend his ways, Cassius.”
He dropped down the ladder without waiting for an answer, leaving the tribune staring after him. Cassius stood at the railing for a long moment, taking deep breaths of the comparatively cool air, then, reluctantly, went back into the tower to talk to Domitius.
A Choice of Destinies Page 26