“Memnon? Memnon! Did you hear what I asked?” spat Arsites, who was obviously annoyed at having to ask twice. “Were you off dreaming of your Barsine, again,” he jibed, “or are you plotting once more to betray the empire, as your brother did not so many years ago?”
Those remarks drew a laughter from the other governors and generals, especially Spithridates, the satrap of Sparda, the domain that included Caria, Ionia, Lydia and Lycia, and in whose palace in Sardis they had been supposed to meet – until Arsites ordered a change of venue. “Could you blame him, Arsites? We have all seen the lovely Barsine. She is a rare beauty, and is fit not only for a royal bed but a royal throne...”
“...and as such is wasted on this Rhodian Greek soldier of fortune,” snarled Arsames, who had come the farthest, from distant Tarsus, capital of his satrapy of Cilicia, to attend the war council. It was not that Arsames had any reason to be jealous of Memnon because of Barsine, for his own wife was also famed for the beauty of her face and figure, as well as for her political acumen and influential ties to the imperial court. Arsames looked down upon all Greeks as inferiors, and, as such, unworthy of marrying a woman of pure Persian blood like Barsine.
The trio of satraps, three of the most powerful men in the Persian empire, were not the only ones present with Memnon at this council of war. Several of the lesser nobility hovered about, as well as two men who avoided the gaze of their betters and stood in the shadows in the corner. Each represented their masters, the officials known respectively as the Eye of the King and the Ear of the King. Expert gatherers of intelligence who fed information to the palace and ferreted out disloyalty, they said nothing, were asked nothing, but were denied nothing. A whisper from either of them could ruin a career – or end a life, even that of a satrap, let alone a hired general. Memnon shuddered at the very thought of them, for while he knew he was loyal to Darius, the new King of Kings, he also knew that he would always be suspect because of his brother's rebellious past.
Spithradates, a blood relative of the Great King, Memnon knew, was especially wary of giving him command of a large army. Besides, Spithradates, just like the other two, wanted the credit for vanquishing Alexander once the young Macedonian landed. Each of the three satraps, and each of the lesser nobles, boasted of how they would seek out Alexander for personal combat. Each described in great if fanciful detail how they would be the one to cut off the boy king's head, which they would then present to the Great King on a silver platter.
Memnon had no such delusions. He had no time for them. There was simply too much else to do and to worry about, if Alexander was to be stopped, let alone sent packing back across the straits.
“We should gather the Persian fleet, my lords, and blockade the Hellespont,” suggested Memnon. “We have twice the number of ships they do, and we are united in command and in our cause. The Macedonian fleet itself is small, and is augmented by squadrons from many other cities. Most of those cities hate and distrust each other and all resent being bullied into taking orders from a Macedonian admiral. We close the Hellespont and this war is over before it begins. Alexander won't be able to cross into Asia, and we can mop up the advance guard up at Abydos at leisure.”
Arsames barely let Memnon finish speaking before making known his opposition to that plan. “Do you know what it costs to put even a single trireme or quadrireme into the water, or keep it on station for a month or two or three?” he asked in a way that ensured all knew his question was put rhetorically. “Why incur such an expense to prevent a Greek landing? That won't end this war. It would just mean spending hundreds of talents to keep a fleet in the water, and for months or even years. No, let him come across. Let Alexander and his whole army come over to our shores. It will be like letting a herd of sheep march themselves into the butcher's yard.”
All of the other Persians in the room, except for the two in the shadows, shouted their support for Arsames and seconded his view.
“Yes, let him come. We shall teach this Macedonian boy what war is all about,” boasted Spithradates.
“That boy already knows more of war than you do, Spithradates, or any of you,” objected Memnon. “He has spent his whole life learning about, training for and preparing for war – for this war. He was still but a boy on the day he won victory for Philip at Chaeronea, and did it leading from the front. He beat tribe after tribe in the north, then marched south and took Thebes when it revolted. He razed it to the ground and cowed the rest of Greece into submission. Alexander knows about war, and has no need of being schooled in it by amateurs like you.”
“You sound like you are afraid of this beardless boy, Memnon,” chided Arsites. “Don't tell me that the 'great' Memnon who beat Philip's best general only a year ago is quaking in his boots because he must face this beardless boy? Don't worry,” Arsites continued, smiling an oily smile and raising a hand to stop Memnon from replying, “we will take care of him. Be grateful we are letting you come along to watch.”
The satraps and nobles then competed with each other in boasting of how brave and strong they were, of who could bring the greater and better forces to the field, and of how short and easy would this campaign be. Memnon steamed and simmered for as long as he could bear it, then blurted out “stop this blabbering! This is a council of war, not a drinking party. Prance and primp and pride yourselves all you like when back home in your lavish palaces, but...”
“But I am home, and this is my 'lavish palace,'” interrupted Arsites rather snootily. “And I and my guests are free to speak as they wish, especially when it is the truth.”
“But it is not the truth – only fantasy,” objected Memnon. “None of you have fought or even seen a Macedonian phalanx. It is a walking fortress – and one with sharp teeth and claws that reach out twice the length of your longest lance....”
“So?” said Arsites. “They are still only infantry, and peasant infantry at that. We shall ride rings around them with our cavalry. Our arrows, javelins and darts will decimate them from well outside the reach of those pikes, and then when they are weakened, we shall charge with our armored horse into their midst, split them apart and cut them down.”
“You forgot, my brave Arsites, that the Macedonians have cavalry – and fine cavalry at that. The Companions, the Thessalian lancers, the Thracian...”
“Pshaw!” said Arsames. “One Persian noble is worth three Macedonians, and we have twice, even three times their numbers of horse. What can they field, maybe four or five thousand mounted men – and half of them on those shaggy little mountain ponies? I have 2,000 cavalry of my own with me – each mounted on a mighty charger raised from the finest horse stock in the world! Spithradates,” asked Arsames as he turned to his comrade, “how many horse can you field?”
“As many as you, Arsames. My Hyrcanians are the finest horsemen in the empire.”
“And I can bring as many as both of you combined,” boasted Arsites, not to be outdone. “A thousand Phrygian horse and thrice that many from Paphlagonia.”
“Do not forget my cataphrachts!” chimed in Rhoesaces, Spithradates' brother, a lord of vast estates of his own. “I need but stamp my foot and up will rise a thousand fully armored men, each mounted on an equally armored horse.”
“And don't forget about my Cappadocians!” shouted another noble.
“Or my Bactrians!” added yet another. The chorus of competition ended in a heady cheer as the satraps and nobles assured themselves of a short war and its certain and glorious outcome. Only three men in the room kept a sober countenance. Memnon was one; the secretive men in the corner were the other two.
“Now, you see, Memnon,” chided Arsites. “There is nothing to worry about. And you have, what, about five hundred of your Greeks on horseback? They can come along for the ride – if they can stay on their horses, that is. I am sure we will find a place in the line of battle for them, on the far left, of course - if they are up for it?”
“Lords,” sighed Memnon. “If you won't stop Alexander from landing,
and if you want to use your cavalry, then use it properly. Use them to get around and behind the Macedonians. Cut their supply lines. Raid their camps. Burn everything in their path. Make a dessert out of the areas where they invade. Starve them, harry them, lure them deep into a dead country - and then bring them to battle when they are weakened and most desperate.”
“What!” Arsites shouted, rising so quickly from his chair as to knock it over, its cushions falling about the floor. “Burn my own lands? These are MY lands, Memnon. You want to burn farms, burn your own – oh, I forgot, yours are well to the south, down by Miletos. Well, the Macedonians won't get anywhere near them, but if you are so keen to see smoke and fire, go burn those. Unlike you, I'd rather fight to defend my land than burn it!”
Only the quick intervention of Spithradates prevented Memnon and Arsites from coming to blows, although others goaded the northern satrap to do just that.
“I think we are done here, gentlemen,” said Spithradates. “We are agreed. We will marshal our cavalry and march north. Arsites, I presume you will call up the local levies as well? Not that we will need them, of course...and, oh, Memnon, do bring along your Greek infantry. Those indolent mercenaries of yours might be of some use – perhaps they can guard the camp and the baggage train?” he said half-joking, half-insulting. “By the way, just where are your vaunted Greek infantry lazing about these days?”
19
The Meander River
On the road to Sardis
“You mean we have to walk all the way to Sardis...and maybe to the Hellespont? Damn it, Dimitrios, I'm a physician, not an Olympic runner!”
“I said march, not just walk, and definitely not run, brother,” Dimitrios replied with a laugh. “Besides, Ari has found a wagon to carry my gear, and anything else that needs carrying. We wouldn't get far loaded down with armor, helmets, spears, swords and shields now, would we? I am sure you can hitch a ride with him.”
Klemes chuffed and, a bit embarrassed, mumbled an “Oh. Well, thank you,” which made his brother Dimitrios laugh even more. “After all, as a captain of one hundred, I merit a wagon or at least a cart of my own, and a small staff.”
“So, that is what I am reduced to, is it,” said the physician haughtily, raising himself to his full height in an effort to be able to look down upon his brother. “Mere 'staff?'”
“No, brother dear, not at all,” said Dimitrios reassuringly. “Every company commander has been given a stipend over and above his pay to hire what we call 'extra-ordinaries.' Some of the captains pocket the money or use it to hire on a private whore for the duration, but most of us know better. Investing in a physician, a cook, and an aide to help with the paperwork saves a lot in the long run. So, you, of course, are the physician – and not just for me, but for the company as well...”
“Surely Ari isn't going to be the cook, is he? Man can't boil an egg let alone...”
“No, Klemes. I would not inflict that on either of us. There are plenty of women who will be following along behind us, along with sutlers, farriers, bakers, blacksmiths and peddlers of all sorts. We will have no shortage of opportunities to hire what we need as we need it...or of propositions to decline...or accept,” he added with a wink.
“Such a child you still are, Dimitrios,” Klemes commented with a brotherly scowl. “You act like you are going off on a jaunt for some fun, rather than marching to war. Bah!”
“No, I'm not,” replied Dimitrios quite seriously. “I know what is at stake, and what is coming – more than you do, Klemes. Trust me, I am not taking any of this lightly. It is not some lark in the park we are about, but it is also not a funeral parade...”
“Well it is, for some of us...”
“Yes, sadly, it is. But, hopefully, not for you or me or Ari. So let yourself smile a bit, okay, brother. You do remember how to smile, don't you? You just lift the ends of your mouth up like this...” he added as he used his fingers to force Klemes face into something akin to a smile.
“If you say so, Dimitrios. But tell me once again, how is it that you were chosen to be a captain?”
“Pure luck, Klemes – or perhaps fate. I was standing in one of the lines to sign up when Ephialtes himself came strutting along, looking over the shoulders of his clerks to see how they were coming along, and damn it if he didn't recognize my shield.”
“Why were you carrying your shield in line, brother?” asked the doctor.
“Because it has the symbol of our city – the club of Heracles – emblazoned on it. I thought if there were any of our other fellow Thebans about they might see it and come over...”
“And did they?” Klemes asked quite somberly.
“No,” replied Dimitrios quietly. “If there are any of our people about, either they did not see my shield or just ignored it.”
“But Ephialtes didn't ignore it, did he?”
“No, brother. He didn't. The general came over and asked me if I was truly from Thebes or if I had just found or stolen the shield. That's when he invited me to his tent.”
Dimitrios then related what had happened in his meeting with Ephialtes, the man responsible for raising the mercenary corps at Miletos.
“Were you in Thebes when Alexander attacked it,” Ephialtes asked Dimitrios.
“Yes. I led my company of hoplites against him, just as I had two years before that.”
“So that means you were at Chaeronea?” Ephialtes asked.
“Aye”
“I was there, too. With the Athenian contingent. Sad, brutal, bloody day. So, let me guess, you came here to get even with Alexander?”
“Something like that, general.”
“So two thumpings by the Macedonian imp weren't enough for you? You looking for a third?”
“No, general. This time I want to do the thumping. Me and my brother, and my friend.”
“Oh, so there are three of you then,” smiled Ephialtes. “I've heard the tale of seven against Thebes, but so, what, now we've got 'three for Thebes' is it?”
“I wish there were seven of us, or seven hundred, general,” replied Dimitrios. “And of the three of us, I am the only one capable of bearing arms. My friend still limps and suffers from a wound he got fighting the Macedonians outside the city, and my brother, well, he is a physician, and took some sort of oath as he calls it to do no harm to others or something like that.”
“Well, I can use all the good men I can get,” nodded the general. “And if you look around,” he said, gesturing with his hand to the mob of soldiers lining up to make their mark with the clerks, “there don't seem to be a lot of 'good' men around. I could use someone who could mold at least some of them into something resembling a fighting unit. You say you were a captain of Thebes? Well, now you are a captain of Persia – or at least of Memnon's mercenaries. Pays four times what the common soldiers get, plus a bit on the side.”
“Thank you, general, I won't let you down!” Dimitrios replied enthusiastically and with gratitude.
“See that you don't, Theban. See that you don't.”
“Four times what a common soldier makes, eh?” said Ari as he approached his brother and the physician. “And just what does a common soldier make in this army, anyway?”
“About five obols a day, or whatever that is in Persian coin. And out of that you have to buy food and drink and whatever else you need, for the empire doesn't provide rations for free. Although at least there is a supply train, with wagons full of grain and olives and salted fish, so if there isn't a local town to sell food, we can buy it from the wagon train.”
“I guess I can get by on five obols a day, after all, I didn't come here to get rich,” chimed in Klemes.
“Yes, well, Klemes,” said Dimitrios, looking down at his feet and shuffling about in the dirt, “you aren't going to get five obols a day. You're not a soldier, so you don't work for Ephialtes or for Memnon, or the empire.”
“Then who do I work for,” the physician shot back. “Please don't tell me that...”
�
��Yes, brother,” smiled Dimitrios. “You work for me.”
20
The Hellespont
Alexander's Camp at Sestos
While Persian satraps, nobles and generals conferred on how and where to fight Alexander when he came across into Asia, the young Macedonian king was already preparing to do just that.
Alexander had spent the winter in Macedonia, holding feasts, hosting games, making sacrifices and, of course, marshalling his forces. He had amassed over 30,000 infantry and 5,000 cavalry for the invasion of Asia. His trusted, veteran Macedonians, Thessalians and Thracians, however, accounted for fewer than half their number. About a third were made up of assorted barbarian and other mercenary forces. While not all of the Greeks who made up the remainder were as enthusiastic for the crossing as either the Macedonians or the mercenaries, there was little overt dissension in the ranks. What grumblings there were of being dragged north from their cities, Alexander calmed with promises of loot and glory – especially the later, although it was playing to their lust for the former that proved the more effective means of maintaining morale.
Olympias had tried but failed to convince her son to allow her to accompany him into Asia, for despite the power she held over him and had infused into him on his deathbed in Illyria, the young king was still very much his own man – and his earthly father's son. Rebuffed by her son in that direction, she used her wiles to suggest that she, as queen, rule over Macedonia and its Greek conquests in his stead. While Alexander proved less able at refusing her this request than the former, his generals were stronger at resisting her charms, spells, promises, bribes – and threats. No one general could ever hope to stand up against Olympias, but united they were able to weather the storm of her rage and to convince Alexander to leave one of their number in charge.
A Captain of Thebes Page 12