“I tell you, friends,” the man said in addressing a quartet of rather well-attired men who were seated on a circular bench, “there is a correlation between regular exercise and the ability to move without pain as we get older. I think it lubricates the joints and gets the bodily fluids flowing. It even helps keep the mind sharp. You, sir,” the man added, motioning to Klemes to come closer, “you look like a man of learning. Do you not agree?”
Klemes, never shy about offering his opinion even when it was not asked for, did not hesitate to respond.
“I do agree. Just because we get older doesn't mean we should stop coming to the gymnasium,” he added. “If anything, I think that it is when we stop coming to the gymnasium that we truly get old, not just older.”
As Klemes became drawn into their conversation, he learned that he was amongst fellow physicians, two of whom had also studied at the academy of Hippocrates in Cos. He was soon drawn into their camaraderie, and not only lost track of the time but would have forgotten his purpose in coming to the wrestling school, gymnasium and baths had not one of the men suggested the time had come when a good soak would do them all well.
Aristophanes had, similarly, fallen in with a group of young athletes who showed him equal welcome. Just as exercising the mind brings men closer together, so too does exercising the body, and once such common ground is found, guards are let down and talk on one subject inevitably leads to another, and another. By the time that Ari and Klemes had each finished bathing, they had each gathered bits and pieces of the kind of information that Dimitrios was seeking. It seemed that one general of note, Memnon of Rhodes, was gathering forces at Miletos, a city not far down the coast from Ephesos. Although Memnon was a Rhodian Greek himself, Klemes learned, he had married well into the Persian nobility, and was committed to the defense of the empire. Even more important, however, as Aristophanes had heard, was that he had once been a hostage of King Phillip's in Macedonia, where he had come to know and loathe a particular prince of the royal house.
That prince, one of the wrestlers had told Ari, was now king of Macedonia.
17
Miletos
The Theater
With so many small vessels plying the Ionian and Carian coast, Dimitrios, Klemes and Aristophanes had little trouble procuring passage on a southbound ship. Just as Ephesos was the great harbor of Ionia, so was Miletos, the principal roadstead of Caria. Both were Greek cities. Both had at one time or another risen up against the Persian empire. Both now once again sported the winged Ahurumazda above their gates, as both had come to realize that resistance to the empire was useless. Both, however, had also learned that the empire preferred to discipline rather than destroy. Both thus had been spared, after a ceremonial sacking, of course, yet each also had been treated more like disobedient children than treasonous rebels. Both now once again prospered as centers of trade – of which the imperial governors took a hefty bite.
Miletos was rich in history and lore, as the great Herodotos himself had remarked and written. Originally from the comparatively nearby city of Halicarnasos, Herodotos was raised on stories of the glory of Miletos, for in his day it was the greatest of all of the Greek cities of Asia. This city at the mouth of the Meander was the mother of three score colonies ranging from the shores of the Euxine Sea to the coasts of Sicily – and perhaps beyond. Its ancient glory was reflected and kept alive on the stage of its massive outdoor theater, upon whose stage annual performances of Phyrnichos' “The Capture of Miletos,” (or, variously, “The Sack of Miletos”) were sponsored by the satrap as a not-so-subtle reminder of the futility of rebelling against the empire. Today, however, a rather different kind of dramatic performance was being staged in the great amphitheater.
“Who is that plumed peacock upon the stage,” Klemes asked his brother as they entered the vast arena. “I have never seen such an over-sized crest on a helmet before. If the weight of it doesn't pull him down, I imagine a gust of wind would fill it like a sail and topple him to the ground.”
“Shhh!” Shushed a stranger, who grabbed the physician by the arm. “That is Ephialtes of Athens, commander of the garrison and a general in the armies of the Great King. He is a warrior of great renown and...” the man added much more quietly...”he has many guards about the theater. So I would mind your tongue, traveler.”
While Klemes was being scolded, and warned by the stranger, Dimitrios was busy looking about the theater. Its stone benches were filled with every assortment of fighting man he had ever heard about, and more. Young men, old men, men of middle age. Many bore scars, although whether these were gained from battling or brawling, Dimitrios was uncertain. Probably from a bit of both, he thought. Most wore some bits and pieces of battle gear, although much of it appeared even more battered and worn then the men themselves.
There were a few accoutered head to foot in bright, shiny armor, from brilliant bronze breastplates that reflected the glare of the hot Carian sun to equally shiny greaves and helmets. These, laughed Dimitrios to Aristophanes, were “not real soldiers, but only rich
youngsters playing at soldier.”
“But they do look the part of some hero of Homer's,” replied Aristophanes. “See how they sparkle and gleam, and how tall and strong they stand.”
“They are nothing but bored young men of privilege seeking to find adventure and glory,” remarked Dimitrios. “Oh, some, perhaps, might not be too bad, but most I imagine are just seeking to escape from the tedium of a life where every want and need and wish was immediately fulfilled, and fulfilled by simply waving about their hand to a servant or their purse to some eager merchant or willing woman. Such men make for very bad soldiers, Ari...”
“And why is that?” asked Aristophanes.
“Because they are the kind that get other men killed, either because they cannot hold their place in the line or because some other well-meaning fool will try to save them in the midst of battle – at the cost of his own life. Don't look to them, Ari, but to the men over there, in the back rows. Those are fighting men – or at least they were.”
“You mean those seedy-looking, scruffy men stretched out on the benches? Ugliest bunch of brutes I've ever seen.”
“Ari,” said Dimitrios with a bit of a laugh. “The uglier the soldier, the better. It means they've been in a fight – and stayed until it was finished, and were still standing when it was over.”
“But look at them,” continued Ari. “No two are dressed alike. You've got men in open-faced pot helmets, and others in ancient helmets with noseplates and cheek guards. There are men wearing cheap armor that hasn't been hammered and fitted properly, and others whose gear looks like it was handed down from their grandfathers. And that bunch over there,” he added, pointing at a particularly dirty bunch, “all they've got are hides and felt caps, like mountain men.”
“And don't miss those boys over there, with the boiled leather armor or with linen shirts,” added Klemes mockingly.
“Those linen shirts have several layers, glued together, with metal plates in between,” interjected Dimitrios. “They're flexible, light and will stop just about anything other than a direct thrust. We should talk to some of them,” continued Dimitrios, “they will know what is really going on here at this muster.”
Dimitrios and Ari made their way through the crowd, looking for a space to sit. Although Ari's leg had healed fairly well, he could still only walk for relatively short periods, and it had been a long trek from the port through the heart of the city to the great theater.
“Sit here and rest a bit, my friend,” Dimitrios said as he pointed to a space at the end of a row. I'm going to ask around and see what's up.”
“Isn't that fellow up there, on the stage, Memnon, the general you wanted to meet and offer your sword to?”
“Apparently not,” interrupted Klemes, who had followed a few steps behind his brother and Ari. “But he is raising mercenaries for Memnon, as that fellow I met in Ephesos told me. That other lad who accosted me as we
came into the theater confirmed it. He put out the call for soldiers, and they answered. Some of these men are so desperate, it seems they will sign up just to get a hot meal and a new cloak. It seems many of them are so poor they have been living in caves, or have been reduced to playing highwaymen or have become common thieves.”
“What?” gasped Ari in disbelief. “How could anyone hire men such as that and think they would fight?”
“Those are exactly the kind of men who would fight – and fight hard, at least as long as they are properly led,” said Dimitrios. “Men like that know what it means to be hungry, tired, cold and with only a friend or two to watch their back. This is not like the militia at Thebes, Ari,” added Dimitrios. “We were in our beds in the morning, in the field at noon and back home before nightfall, or knew we would be in a few days at most. Most of these men have no homes, let alone beds. They know little of comfort. No, Ari, these are just the kind of men the Great King needs – and just the kind we are looking to join up with.”
“Yeah, if you say so,” replied Ari. “But if these are the men this Memnon fellow needs, why did he send this old goat to blather on about things. Just where the hell is this Memnon?”
“Memnon, it seems,” interjected Klemes, “is already on the march. As that man I was conversing with told me. Alexander sent his father's old general Parmenion back into Asia to set up a base for an invasion up north. Memnon beat Parmenion once before, back when Philip sent his favorite general over here two years ago. Memnon beat him then on the banks of the Skamandros River, up in the Troad. He was too late to stop the Macedonians from swallowing up a few small cities, but he soon made them spit most of their conquests out and run for the coast.”
“How do you know so much about that?” asked a perplexed and surprised Aristophanes.
“Because I listen,” sighed Klemes. “The gods made us with two ears and only one mouth for a reason. And when I do open my mouth to speak, it is to ask questions, so that I might learn something. You would do well to do the same yourself.”
“Well,” snapped Ari, “I did learn something today. That general has an unlucky name.”
“Yes,” sighed the physician, “I know. Ever since that goat herd Ephialtes betrayed Leonidas and his 300 Spartans by showing the Persians the way around the pass at the Hot Gates, that name has been anathema to all Greeks. But then again, for a man to bear the burden of that name, and hope that by his courage and accomplishments to restore its honor, well, that takes a special kind of confidence, a special kind of courage....”
“...and maybe a special kind of hubris...or...madness,” quipped Ari.
“That's enough of that, lads,” said Dimitrios. “If that fellow up on the stage is hiring men for Memnon, then we are in the right place. After all, if Memnon is the one who beat Philip's best general two years ago, then he is surely the one the Great King and his satraps will turn to stop Alexander. They'd be fools to do otherwise.”
18
Dascylion
Palace of the Satrap
“You forget your place, Memnon,” said the man in the glittering silk robes, as he pointed one of his ring-bedecked fingers at the Greek general's face. “You may be married to a Persian princess, and a proven and loyal servant of the empire,” he said as he rose from his heavily cushioned chair, “but a servant you are, and nothing more. It is we, the satraps and our nobles who will say how this war will be fought, not some...some hireling Greek!”
Arsites, satrap of Hellespontine Phrygia, had refused to come to Sardis, the administrative capital of the satrapies of Asia Minor. His province to the northwest, along the shores of the Hellespont, was already crawling with Macedonians, although most had stayed close to the coast, rather than move inland. What few raiding parties Parmenion had sent inland had been quickly, easily and bloodily dealt with by Arsites' cavalry, of which he had thousands at his command. Instead of going to Sardis, he sent word for all of the other satraps, high-ranking nobles, chieftains and great landowners to gather at his own palace in Dascylion, not far from where the cavalry of both sides were engaged in their sanguinary, teasing dance.
Dascylion had been built as a pleasure pavilion on Lake Manyas, and was lavish to the point of gaudy as its rich décor attested. On one side of the palace was the lake, upon which a few small fishing boats bobbed and a handful of female bathers frolicked behind a long, tall silk curtain that was raised to keep out prying eyes. On the other, inland side was the paradeiza – the meticulously planned and lovingly maintained garden, in which a hundred species of flowers and as many of small trees, ferns and bushes thrived and were maintained by the care of a small army of gardeners. Clear, clean paths of glazed brick guided visitors and guests as they recreated themselves upon its walks, all to the sound of gurgling fountains and songbirds – whose wings had been clipped so they could not leave this paradise in which they were imprisoned.
Despite its sublime grace and rich furnishings, for the governor this paradise was much more than an indulgence. It was his satrapial palace, and behind its light and glistening exterior were thick walls of brick and stone, with massive wooden gates that could be shut and barred to keep those inside safe and secure from any unwanted guests. Like the Persian Empire itself, Dascylion appeared to be an inviting place of dazzling, delicate and undefended beauty, ripe for the picking, but, at its core, it was strong, powerful, dominating and, when its master was provoked, deadly.
Into this glorious death trap Memnon marched, attired in his most splendid and gleaming armor, cape flowing behind, horsehair plumed helmet of shimmering bronze in hand and heavy leather boots pounding. Sycophantic attendants of the satrap ran to meet him, seeking to slow him down so that they might see to his needs, relieve him of his burdensome war gear and sit him somewhere to take refreshment while waiting to be announced. Memnon would have none of that, and parted his way through them with no more effort than if they had been branches of ferns blocking his path on the paradeiza's bricks.
The number of attendants thickened before him, but then slunk away before his bull-like demeanor, unable and now unwilling to slow, let alone halt, his steady march. The general knew the way into the heart of Dascylion almost as well as he knew the corridors of the many imperial palaces of his friend and liege, Darius, and without ceremony or pause burst through the silken drapes that separated the satrap's private audience chamber from the great hall.
Inside were a gaggle of perfumed, silken-robed men with rouge on their cheeks, kohl around their eyes and exquisitely coiffed and oiled hair and beards. To the unknowing eye these effeminate sybarites appeared to pose just the opposite of a threat. But as Memnon so well knew, their attire, just like the gardens and silk drapes of the palace, were but a show. For behind the rich clothes and gaudy makeup were men of iron and steel, elite horsemen who built and ruled an empire, and who were as ferocious as lions and as dangerous as panthers.
“Ah, the king's pet Greek soldier has finally made his appearance,” said the host, Arsites, in a slithering tone that managed to not only insult Memnon but was meant to show him – and the others - who was really in charge. “Come join us around the map. I was just explaining where we will meet this upstart barbarian kinglet in battle, and how we will drive this brazen pup back into the sea from which he came.”
“But that is not your decision to make, nor do you have the authority to make such a plan, let alone give such orders,” said Memnon angrily as he slammed his helmet down upon the map, making the little wooden models of soldiers and horses jump. “The Great King himself gave me the responsibility of protecting the empire against the Macedonians...”
“Yes, Memnon. He did. Two years ago, when he put you at the head of 5,000 of your fellow Greek hirelings,” said Arsites with a snake-like slither to his voice. “And you still have command of them – but only of them,” he added, the timbre of his voice gradually changing from soothing insult to one of unchallengeable command. “You have no authority over our soldiers, our subjects... or
us!”
Memnon gritted his teeth. Though Greeks born in Rhodes, he and his brother had risen fast in the empire. That brother, Mentor, had married well and won many battles for Persia – then threw it all away when he backed the power-play by his father-in-law Artabazus, at the time satrap of the same province of Hellespontine Phrygia,that Arsites now ruled. It was after that failed revolt they had taken refuge in Macedonia, and where he had met King Philip, his frightening if stunningly beautiful Queen Olympias and their spoiled brat of a son, Alexander.
As Arsites continued to prattle on in his insulting manner, Memnon's ears tuned him out and his mind wandered to that time in Macedonia.
Memnon remembered how he had at first liked the boy. Alexander had an inquisitive mind. He had asked Memnon question after question about what things were like in the empire. How they lived, how they fought, how they governed. Alexander had learned much from his tutor, the scholar Aristotle, but much of what the man had taught the prince was so biased and wrong that it not only poisoned the lad against Persia but somehow made the young Macedonian believe that Greeks as a race were superior to the Persians. Memnon had tried to convince Alexander otherwise, but to no avail, such was the hold Aristotle and, especially, the queen had on him that he believed himself the son of a god, and destined to rule the world. There is no talking to someone once they buy into such drivel, and Memnon was glad when his brother convinced the Great King to pardon the family so they could return to the empire.
Mentor had earned that pardon by doing what the brothers did best – and had recovered a rebellious Egypt for the empire. Sadly, his brother had since died, but Mentor had left him his lands in the Troad, his fortune and, perhaps most important of all, his wife, Barsine. Memnon had fallen in love with her the moment he saw her, such was her beauty, her grace and her gentle heart. That she was also one of the few women he had ever met who could out-ride, out-think and out-argue his brother, or himself for that matter, only deepened his love. Had she been married to anyone else but his brother, he would have stolen her away or fought a duel to win her. But Memnon had remained true to his brother, despite the burning hunger that ate away at him for so many years. Mentor knew of his suffering, but also of his loyalty, so upon his death bed he had asked Memnon to take care of and to marry Barsine, if she would have him.
A Captain of Thebes Page 11