A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  There was more muttering from the Roman line, men shifting warily from side to side, glancing at their neighbors. Then, abruptly, an older man in the first rank threw down his sword. Slowly at first, then more quickly, the rest copied him, and someone shouted, “We’ve no love for Carthage, sir.”

  Ptolemy had been waiting for that moment. He waved his file leaders forward to move among the unresisting Romans, collecting their weapons and then herding them away. The brigadier himself moved to join Cassius, who looked bleakly at him, then down at Domitius’s body.

  “This should never have happened,” the tribune said quietly. “Ptolemy, Alexander had better keep the word I’ve given them, or I will have to kill myself.”

  Ptolemy glanced warily at the younger man, but Cassius’s face was oddly composed, showed no sign of after-battle hysteria. “He’ll keep it,” he said. “You did right.”

  “I hope so,” Cassius said softly. “I pray so.”

  A Choice of Destinies

  Chapter 13:

  Carthage, early autumn (Hyperberetaios), 32 imperial (324 B.C., 429 A.U.C.)

  It took some weeks for the camp to recover from the Carthaginian attack. First and foremost, in that climate, there were the dead to burn. Alexander made the sacrifices, his face set and angry, then returned to the camp perimeter to supervise the repairing of the palisade, seemingly oblivious to the thick smoke that swept from the pyres across the camp. Hephaestion, who had lost only two men in the raid—the cavalry had hardly been involved at all—made his own sacrifices, then retired to his tent, ordering his slaves to close all the tent flaps. Even with them all laced tightly shut, the smoke penetrated the tent. Hephaestion choked, dragging his blankets across his nose and mouth.

  The wind shifted at last, blowing the smoke inland away from the tents, but he could still almost taste the stench. He sat up and fumbled in the darkness until he found the half-full wineskin, and drank eagerly. Even the good Macedonian wine was unable to erase the vileness; he spat the mouthful into the dirt at his feet, and collapsed back onto his cot, pulling his discarded tunic across his face.

  By the time the last of the pyres had burned itself out, Cassius, aided by Ptolemy as consul, had begun the nasty job of weeding out the real conspirators among Domitius’s men. Alexander, his first anger past, was inclined to be lenient, and Cassius did nothing to discourage him. The few active conspirators—centurions and junior officers all—were executed. The rest were formed into a special battalion, to earn the king’s trust if they could.

  Once the field fortifications were repaired and strengthened, the camp returned to the routine of the siege. The penthouses moved forward, filling in broad sections of the ditch while the stone-throwers once again bombarded the walls. Diades turned his attention now to the innermost wall, concentrating the fire of one siege tower on the tower that flanked the spot where the aqueduct had crossed the walls. Other engines attacked the wall itself, and by the end of the month, the inner wall was missing a long section of its parapet. One tower had been beaten into uselessness, and a second had fallen in a spectacular slide of stone and mortar.

  Alexander watched the engineers’ progress with satisfaction, and, after the tower’s fall, ordered Diades to concentrate on the wall beneath it and the section of the outer wall in front of it. The year was growing old, and it was time to end the siege. The Friends agreed—the inland cities could only supply so much food—and gathered daily in the king’s tent to plan the final attack. If a big enough gap could be made in the outer wall, a full brigade could be fed through the breach, and sambucas—engines that bore an enclosed scaling ladder—could be brought up to the inner wall, to get the army into the city. The two engineers considered the plan, murmuring to each other in half-sentences, then agreed that, yes, it could be done. Diades returned to his siege towers to supervise the aiming of the new bombardment, and Charias went inland again to collect timber for the sambucas and for battering rams.

  As the engineers labored, Alexander summoned Nearchus from his camp opposite the harbor to join the rest of the Friends for a final conference. The king’s plan was a dangerously simple one: to get most of his men into the city by means of the sambucas, and then drive directly for the Byrsa, Carthage’s citadel. Craterus shook his head.

  “I don’t like it,” he said bluntly. “We need a diversion.”

  Alexander nodded. “Such as?”

  Craterus scowled, and Hephaestion hid a smile. Nearchus leaned forward suddenly, reaching for Eumenes’s stained map of the city. “There’s a sea-gate,” the admiral said, spinning the map so that the others could see and pointing to a spot two stadia north of the Byrsa, “here.”

  The generals considered the map in silence for a moment, and then Ptolemy said, dubiously, “That’s just below the steepest face of the Byrsa, isn’t it?”

  Nearchus nodded, and Perdiccas said, “That doesn’t matter, if it’s a diversion you want.”

  Alexander said, “We’ll do it. Amyntas, your brigade and Cassius’s troops will land at the sea gate.” He glanced at the admiral, who answered promptly, “I have the ships.”

  “Good.” Alexander studied the battered map a moment longer, and said, “Simmias, Ptolemy, Polyperchon, your men will defend the sambucas until they reach the innermost wall. Craterus, Perdiccas, your brigades—and the hypaspists, Neoptolemus—will be responsible for moving the sambucas to the wall, and making the first assault. I’ll lead one battalion of hypaspists myself and take overall command of that first wave. Hephaestion, you’ll take the mercenaries and secure our communications.”

  The cavalry commander nodded. His own men would not be of much use in this attack; he was merely grateful to be given any command.

  There was not much more discussion. The generals reviewed the plan twice more, adding refinements here and there, but beyond that there was little more to do. One by one, they rose and took their leave, until only Hephaestion remained. He looked questioningly at the king.

  “Stay.”

  The cavalry commander leaned back in his chair, gesturing for more wine. After the page had disappeared again, Hephaestion said, “What will you do when you’ve taken Carthage?”

  Alexander sighed and looked away. After a long silence, he said quietly, “Destroy it.”

  Hephaestion waited, and then, when the king showed no signs of continuing, asked, “Why?” He could guess at any number of reasons for Alexander’s decision—anger, hatred, revenge, strategy—but he could not see any one of them in the king’s face.

  Alexander said, “First, I can’t arrange a lasting peace any more than I could with Tyre. Second, Carthage and its harbors can dominate this half of the Inner Ocean, and I still don’t have the fleet to counter that. Third—” He glanced sideways at the cavalry commander and smiled wryly. “I haven’t forgotten Balacrus.”

  Hephaestion nodded thoughtfully. The Carthaginians had been within their rights to kill the scout, but the memory of the mutilated bodies sickened him. Alexander still felt responsible for that death and always paid his debts: the destruction of the city would be suitable payment, regardless of the strategic considerations.

  Reading his friend’s thought, Alexander said, “No, that’s not all of it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life scrabbling along the African coast—which I would; these people won’t surrender—and I’m going to have enough problems holding together Persians, Medes, Macedonians, Greeks, and now Romans, without adding Carthaginians to the mix.”

  “And if we’d come to Carthage first,” Hephaestion asked, “would we be sacking Rome?”

  The king looked away again. “It didn’t happen that way, did it? So why ask?”

  “And after Carthage is destroyed?” the cavalry commander asked. “What next?”

  Alexander said grimly, “We return to Alexandria in Egypt, and set my kingdoms in order.” He saw Hephaestion’s sidelong look and added, “No, we will not go east, into India; that’s ended, I know.” Hephaestion touched his shoulde
r in sympathy. Alexander rested his head against the other’s hand. “I must leave that final corner of the world unconquered if I am to hold what I have. Ammon spoke truly: The die is cast.” The king wept.

  Hephaestion slipped from his chair to kneel beside the king, embracing him. He could guess most of the king’s thoughts, and fought to find the words that would comfort him. At last he said, “Achilles wasn’t a king, he could choose his death. And you are not Achilles.”

  There was no answer, but gradually the king’s weeping eased. He leaned against Hephaestion’s shoulder, saying “Be careful tomorrow, my friend. I will need you more than ever, now.”

  Hephaestion tightened his hold again. It was dangerous, even hubristic, to answer that, but he said anyway, “I’m always careful, Alexander. And I’ll always be there.”

  It was enough. Alexander returned the other’s embrace, then pulled gently away, visibly turning his attention to the next day’s fighting. If Carthage was to be the last of his great campaigns, he would end it gloriously.

  The sun rose very red the next morning. The army, knowing perfectly well that they faced a hard fight, chose to take that as a good omen, and the king was careful to do nothing at the morning sacrifice that might change their minds. After the ceremony, the officers began chivvying their men into place behind the sambucas or in the screening force alongside them.

  Alexander crouched in the mouth of the first sambuca, bracing himself against the side and lip of the compartment as a team of slaves worked the capstan. The entire structure, essentially no more than a hollow wooden tube balanced on a wheeled carriage, shuddered slowly upward, tilting to match the walls’ height as the counterweighting stones in the rear compartment overcame the weight of the ten men waiting in the bucket. As the sambuca rose, Alexander caught a brief glimpse of the soldiers waiting nervously in the shelter of the siege towers: they would follow the first wave to hold the breach and the ruined wall.

  There was a warning shout from the engineers below, and the sambuca seemed to drop a few feet as the ratchet locked into place. Alexander steadied himself against the edge of the bucket and glanced back at the men who shared the compartment with him. They were all volunteers, of course, hypaspists of the spearhead battalion, chosen for their proven skill. Attarhias, the sheep-nosed battalion commander, grinned back at him and said, “We’re ready, sire.”

  Alexander nodded and glanced back down the hollow column of the sambuca to the engineer crouching among the gears and levers of the carriage. “Now!” he shouted, and waved broadly. “Let’s go!”

  The figure—Charias—waved back and jumped down off the carriage. Alexander turned back to face the walls, bracing himself against the rim of the bucket, and drew his shield across his body. The others did the same, huddling behind their shields. The sambuca shuddered into motion, the bucket bobbing up and down against the ratchet despite the restraining blocks. Alexander dropped to his knees, clinging to an inner rib. The others did the same to keep from being thrown free or tossed back down the hollow tube to the carriage. The sambuca jerked abruptly, and tilted to the right, throwing one of the hypaspists against Attarhias’s knees and nearly knocking him off his feet. Alexander risked a glance around the rim of his shield and saw that the sambuca’s wheels were sinking in the imperfectly packed rubble that filled the first ditch. Below, Charias screamed orders and insults at the hypaspists, and with a superhuman effort the soldiers heaved the machine forward again onto solid ground.

  The Carthaginians chose that moment to open fire from the final wall. Arrows, javelins, stones and heavy bolts from the catapults crashed like hail against the sides of the sambuca, and there were shrieks of pain from the men ranged along the side of the carriage, where its bulk offered no protection. A metal bolt ripped through the bucket, tearing open the hide facing between two of the reinforced beams, and lodged harmlessly in the wooden floor. There were letters stamped on its broad head, and one of the hypaspists stared at it, lips moving as he sounded out the words.

  The Carthaginians fired again. It was a volley of arrows this time. Some of them left trails of smoke as they flew. Attarhias cursed softly, and the others looked uneasy. The sambuca had been wetted down before the attack began, but the wood would dry out quickly.

  Alexander ducked as something flashed past his head and he turned just in time to see a hypaspist slam his shield down on a fire arrow, smothering its flame. “Well done,” the king said, and the trooper grinned, but the others stared nervously back down the hollow beam, waiting to see if any of the other arrows would catch.

  Then the sambuca reached the wall. A mass of Carthaginians balanced on the ruined parapet, one of them extending a long beam as though to fend off the sambuca. The beam was much too light to stop the massive engine, but a hypaspist lurched to his feet anyway, clutching a Roman javelin.

  “Get down,” Alexander shouted, “save your weapons.”

  The trooper ignored him, balancing against the last irregular movements of the sambuca, and flung his javelin wildly. Then Attarhias dragged him to his knees, and the lip of the bucket slammed against the wall. Alexander gave the war cry and swung his sword at the nearest Carthaginian. The roof of the bucket was in his way, shortening his stroke. He checked his next blow and pushed forward with his shield, shoving a Carthaginian off the parapet to the ground fifty feet below. The sambuca trembled, the lip of the bucket bouncing against the wall as the rest of the hypaspists swarmed up the ladder after them.

  On the wall itself, the hypaspists locked shields and pushed forward, striking almost blindly at the Carthaginians crowding around them to clear a space for their fellows. Then the first of Neoptolemus’s men reached the top of the sambuca and poured out onto the wall, driving back the Carthaginians. There was a cheer from further long the wall as the second sambuca reached it, and then the third was in place as well, hypaspists and Foot Companions streaming up the ladders and onto the wall. Gasping, Alexander steadied the next man who stumbled out of the bucket, and turned to look for the stairways that must lead off the wall. Neoptolemus, who had been in the second sambuca, made his way along the crumbling wall to join the king.

  “Orders?” he asked, quite calmly.

  Alexander pointed to the nearest stairway and the Carthaginian troops—Greek and Libyan mercenaries—rushing forward to block the Macedonian advance. “As before. I want to reach the citadel by nightfall.”

  Neoptolemus nodded, studied the situation for a brief second, and was gone. Alexander hesitated a moment longer, glancing back over his shoulder at the dead ground between the walls. His own Greek mercenaries moved forward in good order, ready to hold the breach against any counterattack. The king smiled, satisfied, and headed down the nearest stairway to join his men.

  The suburbs, pleasant villas set in well-tended garden land, stretched for some seventeen stadia between the main walls and the rising ground of the city proper. The Carthaginians fell back slowly among those now-abandoned villas, disputing each house in a series of bloody skirmishes. As the hypaspists faltered, taking heavy losses, the Foot Companion brigades moved forward to replace them, and made better progress as Perdiccas’s men finally forced their way through the sea gate. Some time in the mid-afternoon, the Carthaginians fired the northernmost part of the suburbs, driving the few slaves who had not fled with their masters into the Byrsa out of their hiding places among the empty houses. They, and various valuable animals unaccountably left behind, complicated the Macedonians’ efforts to deal with the fires. Hephaestion was hard pressed to send Alexander the reinforcements the king needed to keep the fire from trapping his men. By nightfall Alexander’s men controlled about a third of the city, though they had not yet reached the city proper, and Perdiccas’s men held most of Cape Carthage itself, below the Byrsa. But the cost had been high.

  The king sat with his back to the ruin of someone’s garden wall, wineskin at his feet, staring into the center of the bonfire the pages had built. His officers sat or sprawled nearby, soot-
streaked faces blank with exhaustion. One of the pages brought a loaf of bread, but the king waved it away, too tired to eat. Neoptolemus was asleep, so wrapped in his cloak that he looked like a rug someone had rolled up and tossed away. Craterus sat beside him, helmet off, chewing methodically on a handful of olives. Across the fire, Hephaestion leaned against a broken pillar, gathering the strength for the dangerous journey back to his own men. Feeling the king’s eyes on him, he smiled mechanically, but said nothing. Ombrion squatted by the fire, idly tossing bits of grass into the flames. Ptolemy and Charias sat together, the bodyguard rubbing methodically at his wounded leg as they talked in low voices.

  “The thing now is to link up with Perdiccas,” Alexander said, as though continuing an argument, “and then take the Byrsa.”

  Neoptolemus stirred in his sleep, and Craterus prodded him fully awake.

  “I know your people took the worst of it, Craterus,” Alexander went on. “But I need to make contact with Perdiccas.”

  The brigade commander nodded grimly. “They’ll do,” he said. “They’ll do.”

  Alexander nodded. “Polyperchon, your men will link with Hephaestion and hold our lines of communication. Craterus, the rest of the Foot Companions are under your command; join with Perdiccas. Neoptolemus, the hypaspists will push on with me to the Byrsa. Charias, you said you brought the rams in already?”

  Charias nodded. “And the men to mount them,” he said, with some pride.

  “What about prisoners?” Hephaestion asked.

  Craterus sneered, and Alexander said, “I’ve no objection to taking prisoners—if they’ll surrender.”

  “So that’s the way of it,” the cavalry commander murmured, then shrugged. “As you please.”

  Ptolemy said, “We’ve taken nothing but slaves and mercenaries. The rest don’t seem to want to surrender.” He looked quickly at Alexander. “Did you get a chance to speak to that old woman we found?”