“Oh, by the gods, stop it, stop it Ephialtes! There are damn few men whom I can rely on as it is. I thought you were one of them. If you truly believe this city is lost, then lost it is. We'll just have to salvage what we can. Can you help me with that? Can you?”
“Yes, I suppose so, lord...”
“You suppose so or you can? Which is it, Ephialtes?”
“I can...try. I can at least try. What would you have me do?”
“If you can't keep order in the city, then at least make sure you keep secure the port and the citadel. Admiral Autophradates is bringing the fleet here,” Memnon explained. “When he arrives, have him strip the arsenals of everything he can load aboard his ships. Whatever he can't, he is to burn or dump into the sea. Surely you can hold things together long enough for him to do that, can't you?”
“I will, or I will die trying,” said Ephialtes, recovering his composure a bit.
“I don't want you to die, and not for that,” sighed Memnon, once again impatient at the Athenian's dramatics. “Do your duty. Hold out long enough to let Autophradates do as I said, and then get the hell out of here. I want you on the last boat out of town – and by that I mean the very last boat- and alive, and with whatever men you can take with you.”
“And then what?” asked Ephialtes.
“Miletos. Tell Autophradates to shift his fleet to there. I will meet the both of you at Miletos. The governor there, Hegesistratos, is a mouse of a man but he is my mouse, and a capable if fidgety rodent at that. I need a day and a night at my estates to the east of here, enough time to get my wife and children to safety, and then I will ride hellbent for Miletos. See if you can buy me some time, any time at all, to put that place in order. Can I depend upon you, Ephialtes? Will you buy me the time to get my wife and children away?”
“Yes, my General,” said Ephialtes, raising himself to his full height, back straight as a spear and chest out proudly. “I will.”
If Memnon had all but given up on Ephesos, it still remained the goal for Dimitrios, Klemes, and Ari – and for the captains and crews of the two Persian vessels they had encountered while fleeing the slave camp. Getting there, however, was becoming less and less certain.
The Phoenician officer in command of the Persian scout vessel was sparing no effort to go there, but a squadron of Alexander's ships was not far behind – and was closing. The officer, Abibaal, had raised the sail in order to give his exhausted rowers a chance to rest. The wind, however, was not cooperating. The breeze was steady but not strong, and it was all he had to work with. His oarsmen were professionals, veteran sailors all, yet they were only human, and could only be driven so far without a break. Klemes joined two others of the crew who moved about the rowing benches, handing out cups of sour, watered-down wine, chunks of stale bread and handfuls of wrinkled olives. It was not much, although it was all that could be done aboard the cramped wooden warship.
“Captain Abibaal,” asked Dimitrios as the two peered out over the stern at the oncoming Greeks, “is there no way to increase our speed? Can't you throw your supplies or something overboard to lighten our vessel and allow us to go faster?”
Abibaal laughed at the soldier's suggestion. “What cargo? Other than a few skins of wine, there is nothing to throw. We are a scout ship, not a merchant man or even a trireme. We don't even have a ram!” he added with a knowing laugh. “We are built for speed as it is. That is our only real weapon. We are meant to find the enemy and then race back to the flagship with our news. The only extra weight we are carrying is, well...you, and your friends. Are you offering to jump overboard?” he added with a smirk.
“No, I guess not,” replied Dimitrios. “But perhaps I could relieve one of your oarsmen?”
That really made Abibaal laugh.
“What's so funny?” asked Dimitrios, offended and puzzled.
“That would only slow us down even more. My dear soldier, my men work as one. They move as one. They live for their oars. To substitute you for one of them would only throw the others off their timing and pace. Besides, I don't care how good you are at carrying a spear and a shield, for even the strongest soldier would falter after a quarter of an hour at the bench. It is not just a matter of muscle, but of stamina – and of timing,” he explained, then added, with a smile, “but thank you for offering. I am sure you meant to help.”
“Is there nothing, then, that I can do?” asked Dimitrios.
“Well,” said Abibaal, “if you have an in with Poseidon, now would be the time to petition him with prayer.”
“But you cannot petition the lord of the sea with prayer.”
“That is not how we sailors see things. So, since there is quite literally nothing more you can do, and as you are, frankly, becoming a distraction, how about you humor me and go pray, or at least go through the motions. After all, it couldn't hurt.”
Dimitrios, having nothing else to do, began to do as the sailor had asked. Within a quarter of an hour the sky began to darken, and the wind began to pick up. As the clouds gathered, the rumble of thunder and the flash of lightning announced the storm. Most of the pursuing Greek squadron turned about and headed for the shore, but three of the lighter vessels kept coming ahead, despite the wind, and the rain, and the lightning.
“Well now, that is something,” Abibaal whistled as he looked first at the clouds, then at Dimitrios. “I thought I was only joking, but I guess you do indeed have an in with Poseidon. But hang on, soldier,” he added with another laugh, “there are still three of them after us, and with this wind, well, hang on, because it is going to be a bumpy ride!”
33
Ephesos
Chaos
Ephialtes did his best to comply with Memnon's orders, but the harder he cracked down, the wider and deeper the cracks became. The arrival of the fleet brought temporary solace, but once the navy began to pull out, all hell broke loose – among his own men. Fearful of being abandoned, Ephialtes' Greek mercenaries abandoned their posts and made a rush for the port. They seized a pair of merchantmen and forced the captains of those ships to take them to safety. There was no question of following the fleet, not after such an insurrection, as they would be treated as deserters and worse. Where they went from Ephesus, no one knew...but wherever they went, they would be of no use to Memnon.
Ephialtes had tried to hold his men together, promising that he would get them to safety, but when the fleet began to pull out, panic set in. When the mercenaries ran, the city watch melted away. With no more than a squad of men still loyal, and the mob running rampant throughout the city, Ephialtes decided that he could follow at least one of his orders – that to stay alive. With a grim visage and a weary stride, Ephialtes and his small band made their way to the stables, and with a string of spare horses in tow, rode out of the city, hoping to reach Miletos before Alexander's own cavalry blocked the way.
“They're still gaining on us, Captain Abibaal,” said Dimitrios. “I guess my prayers didn't work as well as we needed them to,” he added with a strained laugh. “Is there nothing else we can do? Can our rowers pick up the pace?”
“They are about dead at their oars as it is, my friend,” replied Abibaal with a concerned sigh.
“Well, their rowers can't be any better off. They must be just as tired as our men.”
“Not if they are Athenians, as I am beginning to suspect they are,” the Phoenician officer responded. “Alexander demanded Athens supply him with a squadron of their best and fastest ships. Those may be some of them.”
“Aye,” agreed Dimitrios. “Athens has always had the best oarsmen. They serve their fleet at the rowing bench the way men of property serve as hoplites. I met such men when I was in their city, before coming to Asia.”
“Then you know what we are up against, my friend. I would bet on my crew over any other ship in our fleet, or in that of any of the Greek states – except Athens. In a race on the water, my father told me, if Athenians are involved, always bet on Athens.”
“The
n why don't we just raise the sail – the wind will be equal for us both.”
Captain Abibaal laughed. “Well, it is a good thing that I am in the navy and not you, soldier. The wind is coming from our southwest quarter. It would only drive us back toward them. So, no sails. To raise sails means capture and slavery, or worse. If we row well, we live. If not...”
Despite the wind, the waves and the rain, the ships giving chase did not falter. Every hour they came just a few ship lengths closer, and if the enemy were indeed Athenians, the Phoenician captain knew that he and his crew could only delay the inevitable, not prevent it.
As the waves got stronger, the rowing became even more difficult. Dimitrios saw how a crashing wave would put the oarsmen off their timing. Some were nearly washed overboard and had to grab on to their comrades or their benches, and whenever even one oarsmen did so, all of the others on his bench and those behind and in front of him would falter and have to reset.
“Captain,” he said as he wiped the rain and spray from his face, “you said you did not want me at the oars because it would upset the timing of the rowers.”
“Yes, I did,” said Abibaal.
“Well then, how about if we do something to upset the timing of their rowers?”
“I would love to,” grunted Abibaal, “but how? I don't have any way of doing that.”
“But I do...or, should I say, my friend does.”
“What do you mean,” the Phoenician officer asked, trying to puzzle out what magic one of the Greeks might possess to hinder their pursuers.
“Do you have any bows on board?
“Yes, of course. That's about the only weapon we have besides our speed. Why do you ask?”
“My friend Ari, he is an accomplished archer. He won prizes at home, and ever since he was wounded in the leg, he has tried to become even better with a bow. Since he cannot stand in a shield wall with his injury, he can stand behind it and provide covering fire. If he could pick off a few of their rowers, that would break up their timing, wouldn't it? I mean they'd have to help a wounded man or move a dead one from their bench, or try to take cover...”
“It would never work,” Captain Abibaal sighed. “We are still too far away. We are well out of bow range.”
“Then let them come closer.”
“What?” said the Phoenician officer in alarm.
“Yes, slow the pace of our rowers so that the Athenians can close the distance. That will give your men at least a little break. Once in bow range, Ari can pick them off one at a time. There is nowhere for them to hide...”
“Dimitrios,” scowled the naval officer. “If we get close enough to fire arrows at them, don't you think that they might just have a couple of archers who could do the same?”
“No, not at all,” said Dimitrios with confidence. “They would be shooting into the wind. Ari would have the wind behind him. Trust me, Captain Abibaal. This is the kind of thing a soldier knows, and knows from experience. We just have to find the right distance where we can hit them and they cannot hit us.”
“And how do we do that?” asked Abibaal, suddenly very interested in the Greek officer's idea.
“Leave that to my friend,” replied Dimitrios. “That is not something for a hoplites or a sailor, but for an archer to figure out. Ari!” he said as he turned and shouted for his friend, “Ari. Get up here...and grab a bow.”
Part IV
Miletos
Western Coast of Asia Minor
Year Three of the Reign of Alexander of Macedonia
34
Miletos
Memnon Takes Charge
As Ephialtes was fighting a losing battle to bring order to and bolster the defenses of Ephesos, Memnon reached Miletos, and prepared to ready that city for war. That, unfortunately for Memnon and the Persian empire, was not to be an easy task.
As Alexander walked into Sardis, he sent out flying columns in every direction to secure the towns and smaller cities of Ionia, and to clear his own path into Ephesos. What Memnon had hoped to have been a roadblock to the Macedonian advance instead became a welcoming, if somewhat disorderly base. The Macedonians may not have had to fight to take Ephesos, but they did have some difficulty in restoring order in the troubled city. Even while the Macedonians were taking possession of the urban center and the docks, its angry populace dragged many a wealthy man from their homes, and stoned them to death while they ransacked their possessions, raped their women, and herded their children off to the slave pens – or worse. The fires set by arsonists, looters, and the departing Persian fleet alike, also took time and manpower to get under control, but by the time Alexander himself was ready to enter, things were calm enough for his victory march.
As Alexander gathered supplies in preparation for his move south to his next target, Miletos, Memnon struggled to make the city ready to oppose him. That was a job made all the more difficult by the governor of Miletos, a rather corpulent and oily bureaucrat named Hegisistratos.
“So you're telling me that you, too, have already written to Alexander with an offer to open the gates to him without a fight, just like Sardis?” roared Memnon as he slammed his helmet down upon the governor's desk.
“Yes, of course. What else was I supposed to do?” the man said, cringing behind the desk as if it were a fortification that could protect him from the general's wrath.
“You could do your duty, and prepare to defend this place as Darius has entrusted you to do,” bellowed Memnon. “The outer defenses are in such decrepit shape as to be unworthy of the name – and there is not a man on station to guard them! Just where is your garrison, governor?”
Hegisistratos cringed again, raised his arms as if to ward off a blow and replied “Here. In the city proper.”
“And just what are they doing in here when the war is coming from out there?”
“Keep...keeping order, General,” mumbled the oily haired man in the silken robe. “They are protecting the treasury.”
“You mean they are protecting you,” said Memnon in disgust. “You and the wealth you have made skimming off the taxes and tribute to his majesty. Well, at least we will have money enough to pay the workmen to shore up the walls, and to hire men to hold them.”
“You mean to fight the Macedonians, and here?” asked the governor in dismay and fear. “Why, why, the city will be ruined. All will be destroyed. All will be lost...”
“Yes, probably,” said Memnon rather matter-of-factly. “This city will not withstand the Macedonians, not for long.”
“Then why fight?” asked the governor incredulously. “Why fight if they are going to win anyway?”
“To buy time, that is why. To bleed them, to make them pay in blood, and treasure, and, most of all, in time. Time is our ally, not theirs. The more time we can give the empire, the more forces can be raised to come here and stop Alexander.”
“But...but...but where does that leave me...I mean us...”
“No, Governor, you meant 'me,' as in what is to become of you as we defy the young king.”
“Yes...yes...exactly...”
“Well, Hegisistratos,” laughed Memnon slyly, “it means you must become a hero. Or at least look like one.”
Through the power of his name and the force of his will, Memnon was able to convince the commanders of the local Persian and mercenary forces in the city to do as he ordered – albeit for a handsome price. He drew upon the authority given him by Darius to issue commands, and to delve into the city coffers to convince them with gold where words failed. His promise that the Persian fleet would be arriving soon instilled some hope in them as well. It also instilled in them the fear that if they did not do as Memnon bid, the fleet would enforce his orders, and do so with the kind of severity for which the empire was too well known.
When a forest of sails appeared on the horizon a week later, those officers, as well as Hegisistratos, realized that they had made the correct choice in doing their duty. The Macedonian army, according to the scouts Memnon had sent
out, was still many days march away. Now at least they could proclaim, and with surety, to the admiral that they were good, loyal subjects of the empire. At least that is what they were about to do, until they saw the designs on the sails.
A fleet had indeed arrived, as Memnon had predicted. But it was the wrong fleet.
While Admiral Nicanor and the advance squadrons of Macedonia and a dozen Greek allied cities set up their blockade of Miletos, a trio of scout ships continued their pursuit of a lone Phoenician vessel farther to the north. And they were closing in on their prey.
“Are they in range yet?” Captain Abibaal asked of Dimitrios and Ari.
“Let us see,” said Ari calmly as he drew back on the bow, raised it high, and let loose an arrow. The arrow splashed into the sea about a ship's length ahead of the pursuing Athenian vessel, whose officers did not appear to have noticed the single arrow coming down through the storm of sea and rain.
“Almost,” said Ari, as he notched another arrow and counted quietly and slowly to ten before launching it at his target. This time the arrow struck the enemy ship – but only in the prow. Again, the Athenians seemed oblivious, neither noticing nor even suspecting that they were now the quarry of those they hunted.
Again, Ari notched an arrow, counted to ten and let fly. This one caught an Athenian rower in the shoulder. As he slumped forward his oar shot up out of the sea, slightly throwing off the pace of those of his fellow oarsmen who had seen their comrade fall over. Ari fired three more times, twice hitting rowers, before the Athenians sent one of their own men with a bow onto the prow. Ari shot him before the man could take aim. Two more men tried to take the place of the fallen archer, but again, they too fell to Ari's fire. Unable to protect his crewmen, the captain of the lead Athenian pursuit ship did the only thing he could do – he stopped, backed oars, and tried to get out of range of the archer who was decimating his crew.
A Captain of Thebes Page 21