Memnon knew that what the governor of the citadel said was true. He also knew that he could offer no immediate help to bolster the defense, or even provide hope of succor if Mithrines did fight. Still, he had a greater duty to the empire that went beyond saving one city, especially one that was doomed to fall to the advancing Macedonians.
“Could you at least hole up in the citadel and deny him that for a few days? You could open the gates to the city and give him Sardis in return for sparing its people, yet still retain your honor as a soldier and perform your duty as a soldier of the empire.”
“And you would march to my relief?” asked Mithrines, knowing the answer would be negative.
Memnon sighed, sat down on the stone bench beside the fountain where Mithrines had received him, and lightly shook his head.
“So I thought, old friend,” said Mithrines knowingly. “So I thought.”
“Then at least come with me, Mithrines, you and those strong enough to march. I need all the veteran soldiers I can gather.”
Mithrines drew himself up, clasped his hands firmly behind him to further straighten his stance and looked down at Memnon. “To do so would be to abandon my post, Memnon. Somebody has to offer terms to Alexander, and somebody has to take responsibility for the people. I will not run away. This is my city. My family is here. If I stay, perhaps I can keep them safe.”
“I understand. You are a good man; a man of honor. If my family were here...”
“Look,” said Mithrines quietly, gently. “I know you are a solid old soldier and all that, but after how the satraps treated you at the river battle...well, do you think maybe you should just...you know...go home?”
“Home?” replied Memnon in surprise.
“Yes, old friend. Home. To that lovely wife of yours, and your children. Go bundle her up in your arms and get her and the rest of your family away from here. Away from this war. After all, you've done your share of fighting. By the gods, you've done my share as well, and more than most of the satraps. Most of whom, by the way, are falling all over one another to see who can be the first to render proskynesis...”
“And you think I should do the same?”
“No! No! I know better than to even think let alone say that! You are too proud, anyway. All I am saying is that this ship is sinking – so go leap overboard and swim ashore. Let the rest of these miserable slaves fawn and grovel. You go get your lady. Then go away someplace safe. Or at the very least, take her to safety and go tell Darius what is really going on out here.”
“Part of me wants to do just that,” sighed Memnon. “I long for her every day...and every night,” he sighed. “But Darius...”
“Look,” Mithrines said, putting his hand on his friend's rather broad but slumped over shoulders, “I know Darius gave you an order...”
“No!” Memnon shot back, suddenly rising to his feet. “The king did not give me an order - he gave me a command! And I don't just mean that he commanded me to defend this part of Asia – he put me in charge...”
“But didn't the satraps ignore that order? Didn't they supersede – even outright steal your 'command?' You've done your job...”
“No. I haven't,” replied Memnon forcefully. “And even if the satraps desert the king, I can still fight. I will still fight.”
Mithrines sighed, but nodded in understanding. “Then you must do what you must do. Me, well...”
“I know, old friend, I know. Well then, can you at least spare me a string of fresh horses, and let me ask for volunteers from the garrison to go south with me?”
“Of course. Where are you going next?”
“Ephesos. There are two companies of solid, Greek, heavy infantry there.“
“They won't be nearly enough to hold the town,” observed Mithrines.
“No, but there are a lot of exiles from Greece, and even from Macedonia, there. And it is a port, a good one. I have sent word for the fleet to gather there. Besides, Ephialtes is already there, training men and strengthening the fortifications. Once I get there I can raise more money to hire more troops, and I will, even if I have to strip the gold from the Temple of Artemis!”
“Well, good luck with that, my friend. I will try to buy you a little time – not by fighting, of course, but perhaps by feasting Alexander and his generals. I understand they like to drink, and I will offer them enough wine to drown them and their whole army. Maybe if the Macedonians go on a three-day drunk it will give you a better head start,” he added with a smirk.
“That would help,” said Memnon gratefully as he stood up, adjusted his armored, and gathered up his cloak. “And at this point, any help would be appreciated.”
Memnon and his small entourage galloped out of one end of the city as Mithrines rode north to make his offer to Alexander. The governor and several of the town fathers accompanying him were intercepted by Alexander's scouts, who escorted them back to where the king was riding, about eight or nine miles from the city. The governor, to his surprise, was welcomed and welcomed warmly, once he had made the intention of his mission known. Mithrines had hoped to buy Memnon time by dragging out the negotiations, but Alexander would have none of that. He talked as they rode south. It was not until they reached the Hermus River, about an hour's quick march from the city, that Alexander called a halt. Mithrines had convinced him that the Macedonian king would be welcomed as a liberator, and if he and the army were to parade through its streets, a pause was needed to allow the long marching columns to form up in proper array. Alexander made good use of the time to dictate messages to his scribes. He appointed governors and garrison commanders to areas which he had conquered or which were in the process of submitting to his rule as he drove deeper into the empire. He examined reports of supplies, unit strengths, and the progress made by his deputies at home as well as information gathered by his agents abroad.
Rest did not come easy to Alexander, nor did he need as much as most men. Whether driven by his spirit, his pride, his ambition, or the demons his mother had called upon to resurrect (or at least revive) him at Pelion, Alexander was almost perpetually in motion. The young Macedonian king was a machine that came to a stop only when absolute exhaustion – or absolute intoxication – forced such a stop upon him. Thus, after a few hours of pacing back and forth and dealing with administrative details, he grew impatient with the halt at the river.
Mithrines may have given up the city, but he was still able to find ways to detain and distract the young conqueror, as he had promised Memnon. He personally conducted Alexander on a tour of the city, and then escorted him through the gates of the triple-walled citadel and up to the top of its battlements. Alexander was so impressed with the majesty of the fortress atop the city's acropolis that he began to talk about building an altar there to commemorate his victory and to give thanks to his father.
“It would indeed be fitting to raise an altar here in honor to your father,” agreed Mithrines, who sought any opening that would keep Alexander occupied. “I believe we have some coins with King Philip's likeness on them that we could use as a model for...”
“Not Philip!” said Alexander angrily. “I said it was to honor my father – Zeus, the king of the gods!”
As if on cue, the sky suddenly grew dark, and with a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning, the heavens opened up.
“There! You see!” yelled a delighted Alexander, “my father is pleased!”
“My mistake, Lord King,” said Mithrines, bowing deeply to hide the amused look on his face. “It is indeed a sign that Zeus, of course, is your father. Well, we have some excellent artisans here in Sardis, and if your majesty would give me a few days I am sure I could gather them together so that you could instruct them on...”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Alexander somewhat distractedly, “see to it at once. Oh, and I will need you to arrange for quarters and supplies for the new garrison. I intend to leave a battalion of Argives here to secure the city. Pausanias will be in charge once I leave, and Nicias will col
lect the tribute...”
“Tribute, my King?”
“Yes, Mithrines, tribute. Liberation does not come without a price, and we have a war to fund – and an altar to build! Don't worry, I am not greedy, nor is my father, Zeus. We will take some of that tribute in kind – provisions, weapons, armor, horses, and the like. I expect you to give my officers every assistance possible and, oh, by the way,” said Alexander, barely taking a breath, “there is one building in the city that I am particularly eager to see, and which I believe you have forgotten to point out in our tour of Sardis.”
“And what building is that?” asked a perplexed Mithrines.
“Why, the treasury, of course.”
31
The Hellespont
To the ships
The little scuffle with Klemes, Dimitrios, and the burly guard, was the spark that ignited the fire. The more guards that came running, the more prisoners rose up to get in their way. Knives came out. Swords were wrestled from the soldiers. Bonds were cut. Burning brands from the campfires became weapons – as did rocks, sticks, fists, feet, and teeth. It was a battle the captives knew they could not win – but days of mistreatment, abuse, and the anger at being treated as slaves rather than prisoners of war, fueled an explosion of violence – and one made more intense by the knowledge that, being sentenced to die as slaves, they had nothing to lose.
While the guards were hardly the cream of Alexander's army -they were more like a less desirable substance that also floats to the top- they were still soldiers. Armed, armored -at least in part- and almost equally unhappy about being where they were, the guards matched the prisoners in their exasperation and violence. Over the course of an hour scores of men went down, most for good, until the officers and a detachment of cavalry were able to restore order.
That hour was spent well by Dimitrios and Klemes, who made an ally of the confusion to free Ari, dash off to the shoreline, and find their way down the coast to a small fishing village. Stealing a boat was easy enough, and while neither Klemes nor Ari were of much use, Dimitrios, at least, had some inkling of what he was doing.
“I am no sailor,” he admitted, “but I have spent enough time crossing back and forth across the sea, buying and selling wine, that I was able to pick up a thing or two. You two can make yourselves useful on the oars while I handle the tiller.”
“Row? Row? Row your boat?” objected his brother. “The damn thing has a sail, so why the hell do we have to row?”
“Because if we raise the sail, it will be too easy to spot us. Dark night, white sail – you figure it out,” responded Dimitrios.
“Yeah, that,” agreed Ari, “and the fact that you do not know how to actually, well, sail.”
“I'll figure it out,” grumbled Dimitrios, acknowledging that his friend was right.
“Oh, great,” said Klemes, straining at the oars. “It's dark, we don't know where we are or where we are going, and the man at the tiller has no idea how to sail the ship. What could possibly go wrong?”
“There doesn't seem to be any food or water here, either,” added Ari, “so you can add that to your list.”
“We'll manage, we'll manage...somehow,” said Dimitrios, who tried to be reassuring, but came off as something quite the opposite.
“Well, we know that Asia is on our left,” interrupted Ari. “So if we keep Asia to our left, we will eventually get somewhere down the coast where we can find a friendly garrison and a proper ship, right? Alexander probably hasn't been able to gobble up all of the ports yet, right?”
“Let us hope so, Ari,” said Klemes, “let us hope so, or this is going to be the briefest escape in history.”
After about three days of rowing and sailing down the coast, the three friends spotted a pair of warships coming up from the south. As that was the direction of the Persian controlled ports, Dimitrios assumed they would be Persian, and he was at least partly right. As they were brought aboard the lead vessel, Dimitrios learned that the ships were manned by Phoenicians, who made up the majority of the crews of the Persian fleet.
“What can you tell us of the Macedonians,” the commander of the vessel asked his new guests. “Are there many ships of theirs up ahead?”
“A small fleet, Captain,” replied Dimitrios. “Mostly transports and a few supply ships.”
“Any warships?” the Phoenician officer asked.
“Not that I saw,” replied Dimitrios, “but then again, it was dark and, frankly, I wasn't counting ships – just trying to get away from them.”
“Well,” the Phoenician captain said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, “perhaps we should go have a look then?”
“What! We just came from back there!” Klemes groaned. “We need to put as much water as we can between us and them. We need to go in the other direction, to a friendly port.”
“Oh, and you will, my friend, you will. I promise,” said the officer reassuringly. “We are based at Ephesos. We will be rejoining the squadron there...but first, we go back up the coast. Those are my orders. The squadron commander wants to know where the Macedonian fleet is, and where it is heading. So until we find it, we keep going north.”
The two Persian warships did just that for the rest of the day and into the next, stopping only at night to beach the vessels and rest the crews. About midday on the second day, Aristophanes thought he spotted a bank of clouds on the horizon.
“Those aren't clouds,” a Phoenician sailor who overheard him said. “Those are sails. Lots and lots of sails...and I don't think they are ours.”
Dimitrios looked in the direction his friend and the sailor were pointing, and made his way aft.
“Commander,” he said as he found the officer in charge. “You know how you said you would head north until you found the enemy fleet?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Well,” Dimitrios said as he pointed to what Ari had thought were clouds, “I think you've found them.”
32
Ephesos
Blood in the Streets
Blood quite literally flowed through the streets of Ephesos. The Greek exiles who had been running the city for years were never beloved, and their treatment of the natives of Greek heritage as some kind of second-class Hellenes did not endear them to the general populace, nor did their reputation for corruption. The news of Alexander's victory at the Granicos encouraged some elements of the oppressed citizenry to rise up, a decision further encouraged by Alexander's agents and the gold they funneled to the opposition leaders. Government officials, wealthy exiles, and anyone against whom common folk carried a grudge were ambushed on the streets or dragged from their homes by gangs of toughs. Mobs gathered to ransack businesses and government offices, and then scattered as soldiers arrived to restore order. Instead of a fortress set to withstand the might of the Macedonian armies, Memnon found a city in turmoil, and one ready, and even eager, to open its gates to welcome Alexander.
Ephialtes had done his best, but with only two companies of veteran hoplites and the city watch at his command, it was all he could do to keep the navy yard and citadel secure. His frustration and anger were eclipsed only by his humiliation at having failed to do as his commander, Memnon, had ordered.
“I relied on you, Ephialtes. I needed you to strengthen this place for a siege, and instead what do I find? Chaos!” shouted Memnon angrily as he met with Ephialtes in the citadel. “Utter and complete chaos! Do you know that my escort had to fight its way through the streets to get me here?”
Ephialtes, visibly shaken and thoroughly chastised, did not offer any excuses. “I am sorry, General. I have failed the empire, and I have failed you. That you yourself were at risk in the streets only...only...”
“Enough of that. We need to regain control of the city. How many men have you mustered?”
“Not enough, lord,” admitted Ephialtes gloomily. “I offered a rich bounty, but for every Daric I offered someone else offered two. No sooner would I arm and equip a man that off he would run at night, ta
king his weapons with him. I even tried locking men into their barracks at night...but in the morning all I would have would be broken down doors and beaten up guards to show for it. Memnon, I do not know what to do. This city is lost, and I do not know how to get it back.”
Memnon was speechless. Was this the proud Athenian general who had fought at Chaeronea? Who had accepted exile in Persia rather than take a knee to Alexander? The man who had offered to stand and die at the Granicos, even knowing defeat and death were all but certain?
“Perhaps if I had more men...”
“There are none,” grumbled Memnon.
“What of Thymondas, at Miletos. Last I heard, he had gathered nearly a thousand men.”
“...and they are needed there,” Memnon replied. “Especially now, especially if we are not going to be able to defend Ephesos as we had planned.”
“It is all my fault, lord,” said Ephialtes, who drew his sword and handed it, hilt first, to the general. “I have failed you. I have no option but to lay down my command. I ask only that I be allowed to march in the ranks, as a simple soldier, so that I may at least in some small way retain my honor.”
“Damn it, man, put away your sword!” said Memnon angrily. “There is no time for this sort of thing. There is no time for such theatrics, Ephialtes. You Athenians,” he sighed, “it is always about the drama with you, isn't it. You were once a city of soldiers and sailors, but now it seems you are all just philosophers and playwrights. I don't need some grand gesture fit for the stage, Ephialtes. I need an officer I can depend upon.”
“I fear I am no longer that man...”
A Captain of Thebes Page 20