A military man, they argued, would be better able than any woman, let alone Olympias whose grasp of martial affairs was so far from the practical that it bordered on the fantastical, to put down any insurrections, such as had occurred in Thebes. Although Alexander was loath to part with any of his father's veteran commanders, he settled on General Antipatros to guard his base in Greece and Macedonia. For that purpose he raised a second army of 12,000 infantry and 1,500 loyal cavalry to ensure that his orders would be obeyed – and that Athens, and his mother, would be held in check.
From Macedon Alexander marched his army east across the mouth of the River Strymon, and after three weeks on the road he entered the camp at Sestos, on the European side of the Hellespont across from Parmenion's stronghold at Abydos. The crossing of the main army he entrusted to Parmenion and to Admiral Nearchos, who had mustered eight-score warships and innumerable merchant vessels to carry them across the straits. Too impatient to sit and watch, let alone deal with the petty details of moving over 35,000 men from one shore to the other, Alexander directed his sailing master, Menoetios, to prepare the royal trireme for a separate journey. Menoetios would take him across the straits and down the coast a bit to make landfall not with the army, but on a beach beneath the ruins of ancient Troy.
“Why don't we just go over with the rest of the army,” Alexander's beloved friend and companion Hephaestion asked. “That is our proper station.”
“Nonsense, Hephaestion,” replied Alexander, giddy with excitement. “Old Parmenion can handle that. He is good with the details, and what's more, he likes that sort of thing. Like when he moves blocks or toy soldiers around a map when he talks strategy. The crossing will be just like that – only with real men and real ships. Leave him to it. We have more important business to attend to, you and I.”
“What could possibly be more important than invading Asia?” asked Hephaestion incredulously.
“Troy,” replied Alexander rather matter of factly.
“Troy? Troy?” Hephaestion queried. “There's nothing there but ruins. You of all people should know that, you read that damned book every night, over and over and over...”
“Precisely. And that is why it is so important that we go there, to the tomb of Achilles, the hero of that war. We're related, you know...”
“Alexander,” sighed Hephaestion. “You know that is just something your mother made up, right? There is absolutely no way anyone can be certain that they are descended from somebody who lived what, 800 years ago, if he lived at all. Homer could have just...”
“What? Made him up?” responded Alexander with genuine shock and disbelief in his voice – and in his eyes, which had gone wild with the talk of Troy and Achilles and Homer. “The Trojan War was real, everyone knows that, and so was Achilles. Everybody knows that, too. And that hero's blood runs in my veins. I am Achilles reborn – and you are my Patroclos!”
“Hmmm, Alexander, you know that neither of them came through that story alive, don't you? And that Achille's friend Patroclos died first...”
“Yes, Hephaestion! And he gave him such a funeral, with a great pyre, and games and...”
“Well if it’s all the same to you, Alexander, couldn't we be somebody else from the story. You know, like somebody that survived the war and came home to tell about it? That Odysseus fellow, well, he was pretty heroic, and noble, and smart, coming up with the wooden horse and all that and...”
“And then he died of old age,” said Alexander rather sourly. “Is that what you want for us? No, my friend, we are like Achilles and Patroclos. Our lives will be like theirs; stars that burn briefly and brightly and then fall into the sea, remembered forever for their great deeds, forever young...”
“He do go on a bit, don't he,” the sailing master remarked under his breath to Hephaestion. “You know there is no nay saying him, not when he gets his blood up like that. It's all her doing, but you knows that. You knows that better than most I suspects.”
“But I don't really want to die young, even if it means I do get a nice funeral,” Hephaestion replied, speaking low so Alexander wouldn't hear. Not that the young king was listening anyway, as he was off in a world of his own, spouting verses from Homer. “After all,” mumbled on Hephaestion, “what good is somebody holding a celebration in your honor if you can't come?”
Alexander, of course, got his way – as he always had his entire life, and especially now that he was king. Menoetios watched as the king and his friend and some of their Companions built a small stone altar on the European shore, then as instructed set a course across for the Troad. Alexander did not wait for the ship to reach the shore. As they came close to making a landing, the king hurled a javelin off the bow and then leapt overboard into the surf. All the way to the beach he kept shouting something about Achilles, and how he would take the hero's sacred armor from its resting place and wear it as his own. And then there was something about claiming Asia with his spear, but Menoetios could not make out most of the words, as they were drowned out by the crashing of the waves onto the shore. Hephaestion shrugged his shoulders, pulled up the ends of his cloak and dutifully followed. After all, what else could he do?
“Can't very well let Achilles go off on his own, now, can I?” he said as he got off the ship. “What kind of Patroclos would I be if I did?”
21
The River Granicos
Ephialtes' Command Tent
Being once again among a fellowship of hoplites, Dimitrios felt almost at home, or at least more at home than he had been at any time since, well, he had been home. That home, of course, was no more, and if he was to ever return to Thebes and rebuild it, then the man who had torn it down would have to be defeated, humiliated and, if the gods allowed, killed. Dimitrios prayed every night that the gods would grant him that pleasure, or to at least allow him to be there when Alexander was brought down. With a company of 100 trained, disciplined soldiers to command, Dimitrios believed that if his prayers had not yet been answered, at least they had been heard. All the more so when Ephialtes asked for a volunteer to lead a scouting mission across the river.
“The Persian scouts have told us where the Macedonians are encamped, and how many of them there are. What they have not been able to confirm is whether Alexander himself is with the army. They could not get close enough to see if the young king is there yet. Furthermore, their reports as to the lay of the land between us and the Macedonians are a bit lacking. Perhaps that is because they rode around the enemy camp, and saw things only from the perspective of men on horseback. You, Dimitrios, are a foot soldier like me. I want you to scout out the terrain from a foot soldier's perspective. I need to know where my phalanxes can maneuver and where they cannot. Oh, and one thing more...”
“Yes, General?”
“I want you to go where no Persian, let alone a Persian on a horse can go. I want you to go into that camp, mingle with our fellow Greeks and find out everything you can about them. Will they truly fight for a king who oppresses their cities? How dependable and how loyal are they, really?”
Dimitrios hesitated a moment to let the general's words truly sink in. Then he drew himself up as straight as a spear, nodded his head slightly and offered a formal salute as he replied “You can count on me, General. When do you want me to go?”
“Around dusk, Captain. So you will have enough light to find your way out of our camp and to the outskirts of theirs. Once it is dark, you can find a way to get among them, but I want you back here in the morning, a little after dawn. That way you will have enough light to see the river from their side as well as ours.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Yes. Don't get yourself killed. You are to be my eyes and ears tonight, not my sword arm. You will get a chance to be that soon enough.”
“We're going to go where and do what!” exclaimed Ari. “Does your brother know about this?”
“First of all, Ari, this is not a 'we' but a 'me' – well at least me and a couple of the other me
n in the company. You and Klemes are to stay here, and that's an order.”
“And do what, primp and paint ourselves like some damn Persian noble?” said Klemes as he entered the tent he shared with his brother and Ari. “Or shall I grab a jar of olive oil and a cloth and oil up your shield, so the blazon shines? We came this far together, and what, at the first sign of any real trouble you think we're going to let you face it alone?” he said, adding a dismissive and intentionally unpleasant sound that was something less than a laugh yet more than a curse.
“Klemes, my brother. This is reconnaissance mission. A purely military matter, not a medical one. I don't need to put you at risk.”
Klemes glowered at his brother, giving him a look that was both a sign of disagreement and disapproval. “We've all been at risk since that day Alexander came to Thebes, so don't give me that nonsense. Besides, if you are going to sneak into a camp and try to get soldiers to talk, what makes you think they will talk to some soldier they don't know. Now, a physician, well, everybody talks to a physician. Everybody has something they think is wrong with them. A blister to pop, a boil to lance...you know soldiers. Now you, of course, they would be immediately suspicious of, asking questions about this and that. But me, well, I'm just a simple medical man, a kindly old physician trying to make a few coins plying my trade, so why would I be interested in the bigger picture?”
“And me, Dimitrios, I can be very helpful as well,” chimed in Ari. “With my limp everyone will know I am not a soldier, so I can just wander about like a servant. Give me a couple of jugs of water and wine and I can go just about anywhere and no one will notice me, or think twice about me even if they do.”
“But...but...”
“No 'buts' about it Dimitrios,” said Klemes sternly. “It is settled. We are going with you and that is that.”
As the sun began to set, Dimitrios, Klemes, Ari and four hoplites from their company set out from their camp behind the long hill on the eastern side of the Granicos River. None wore armor, carried shield or spear, or were otherwise encumbered. Each carried a short sword or small knife, some bread and cheese and a few olives, and not much else. The four common soldiers were there primarily for support, and to set up a position where Ari, Klemes and Dimitrios could fall back to once their mission inside the camp was complete. At worst, they would be a rear guard to buy the others time to get back to the Persian side of the river, should there be any trouble.
As they passed the Persian lines, the men struggled to scramble down the bank of the river. The bank on their side, although only about neck-high, was fairly steep, and had they been in full battle kit would have presented a formidable obstacle to go down, let alone climb up. Dimitrios made note of that in his head, as he did also of the lay of the river itself. While not deep enough to do more than slow down a horse, in most places it was thigh or waist high to a man on foot. The river bottom, moreover, was sandy and littered with stones, which made for difficult footing.
“I know this is not much of a river – I've fished in streams bigger than this” jibbed one of the four soldiers. “Still, though, I wouldn't want to try to keep formation marching through this and up that bank, let alone if someone was waiting for me on the other side with a forest of spears,”
Dimitrios nodded in agreement. This was the kind of thing the Persian cavalry scouts had missed as they casually splashed through it on horseback. It was the kind of information that battle plans are made of, and just the sort of small detail that Ephialtes would appreciate.
The seven men – a lucky number for a Theban, as Dimitrios intended when he decided on the size of the scouting party – reached the western bank with less difficulty, as it was lower and less difficult to climb than that on the Persian side. Again, thought Dimitrios, this would put the Macedonians at yet another disadvantage if they did come across the river. The Persians would have the higher ground.
As darkness fell, the seven found themselves guided to the Macedonian line by its campfires. The picket lines, however, had not quite yet been set. Leaving his four soldiers behind a low rise just outside the lines, Dimitrios, Ari and Klemes scattered and fell in with some of the foraging parties who were returning to the camp with wood, water and whatever else of use they had scrounged from the nearby farms and countryside. Few of the men in those parties paid any notice, weary and burdened as they were. Most were thinking about what they would eat for dinner and how long before they could tuck in under a blanket or cloak for the night.
For many of those men, however, there would be little rest. Dimitrios right away recognized the signs of a camp on the eve of battle. The Macedonians and their allies were furiously at work sharpening the blades of their pikes, long spears, swords and javelins. Others were repairing and oiling up the leather straps for their shields and other gear. Officers and file leaders were busy inspecting their progress and offering encouraging words – and issuing threats they hoped they would never have to make good upon to those who might be slack in their duties or show a lack of courage in the coming fight.
After moving about for an hour or so, Dimitrios was certain he had learned what he had been sent to find out. It was time to go, time to get his information back to the general, who would have precious few hours as it was to make their own army ready. Dimitrios looked around for Klemes and Ari. Surely they, too, would realize that they would have far less time to mingle, to listen to complaints or otherwise discern the mood of the troops, than Ephialtes had thought they might have. The answers to his questions were obvious.
Alexander, moreover, must surely be here, for why else would the camp be in such a state of readiness? Parmenion would not attack on his own, not after having had his wrist slapped last week by the Persian cavalry, which had chased the Macedonian's advanced guard back almost into their own tents. That was at another river, one of the many annoying watercourses the Macedonians had to ford on their march from their landing beaches inland. The Granicos, however, would be even more difficult to pass, thought Dimitrios, especially with an entire army defending the far bank.
But coming forward they would be, and a lot sooner than Ephialtes thought. The general needed to know for certain if the Macedonians would be coming in the morning, and from what he saw after only a few minutes, it was more than apparent that this army was not only going to fight for Alexander, but was actually eager to do so. Just from picking up bits of conversations here and there as he walked about the outskirts of the camp, he could gauge the mood and the morale of the soldiers, Greek, Macedonian and others. Their mood was almost festive, as they boasted a little of the glory they would win, and a lot about the riches they would loot in what they believed would be an easy victory.
“The Persians not only dress and paint their faces like women,” he heard one soldier joke, “but they fight like them, too. Scuttling about on their pretty ponies, plinking their little toy bows to shoot arrows at us rather than stand and fight like men, in a shield wall.”
“Those Persian nobles bring their harems to war!” another laughed. “Think of all of those women, and of all of the silks and jewels and gold in their tents! We'll go back home rich as satraps and with harems of our own!”
This, thought Dimitrios, is an army drunk not on wine but on a headier brew – greed. So certain were they of victory that they were already counting the treasures they would scoop up. Alexander and his officers had done their work well. Even if they might have their doubts about winning, they had made certain that their soldiers had no fear of defeat, only of not getting their fair share of the booty there would be to grab.
Dimitrios spied Klemes at a nearby campfire, administering to the blisters of one rather large soldier whom, by his look, appeared to be from Boetia, not far from his own native Thebes. Klemes saw him as well, and acknowledged his brother's signal that they should make their way back to their meeting point. All he needed to do now was to find Ari...whom he saw kneeling on the ground with some others, rolling dice out of a cup onto a cloak they ha
d spread out on the ground. Ari, it seemed, was not only gambling, but winning. That, Dimitrios knew instinctively, was going to be a problem.
“Put up your money, me lads, or make room for those who can!” shouted Ari as he picked up the cup and shook the dice with glee. “Last man to plunk down a coin is a Spartan!” he joked, which got a big laugh for, as everyone knew, there were no Spartans in this army. They had stayed home, pleading that old excuse about religious festivals and ephors and oracles and all that. Not that they were the great warriors they had boasted of old; Thebes and its General Epaminondas has put the lid to that old legend in their grandfathers' time.
“Read 'em and weep, men,” chortled Ari, as he gathered up his winnings yet again. “Read 'em and weep.”
Even before he reached the scene Dimitrios knew what was about to happen. One of the gamblers all but jumped to his feet, fists clenched and uttered the demand that every loser at dice since the days when savages first threw the knucklebones of dead animals and enemies across the dirt floor of a cave had uttered before:
“Let me see them dice!”
A Captain of Thebes Page 13