A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  “That should keep them out of our hair at least for a little while,” laughed Ari. “It will at least force them to keep their distance.”

  “Well done, young Theban,” said Captain Abibaal with appreciation and respect. “But I think you should go and find someplace to sit down and rope yourself in.”

  “Why is that?” asked Ari.

  “Because the storm is about to get a lot worse.”

  “Aren't you going to put in to shore, then?” asked Dimitrios as he looked to the southwest at the darkening sky and the rising waves.

  “Nope,” said Abibaal. “If we go to shore, the Athenians will just come and take us.

  “You don't mean you're going into that?” asked Dimitrios in a near panic.

  “Of course. It's our only hope. Besides, if we are to die, let it be at sea, battling the storm. We are sailors,” he added as he looked Dimitrios in the eye, “and if we are to die, we will die as sailors, not as slaves.”

  The captain of the Athenian squadron decided otherwise. He signaled the other vessels to come about and head for shore. There was no sense risking their ships. What they had failed to do, the storm would do for them. That Persian ship was as good as lost already, and her crew were dead men – or soon would be in that storm.

  35

  Miletos

  The Sacred Way

  As Ephialtes rode up the Sacred Way into Miletos, he was surprised to see how few soldiers there were, manning the outer walls. Neither the area around the Necropolis, on the rising ground below the city, nor the Old Citadel Hill, just to the south of the tombs, showed any signs of military activity. He knew both positions were the key to defending Miletos, as they controlled the base of the peninsula upon which the city was built.

  Ephialtes and his small escort were dusty, bone-weary and barely able to sit their horses, such was their exhaustion. They had had to ride long and hard to keep ahead of the Prodromoi, the elite force of light cavalry Alexander sent ahead of his armies to scout the territory. It had been a close-run thing to escape capture or death from these small but fierce bands of enemy horsemen – unlike that bunch of mounted infantry which protected Ephialtes. There were many times when Ephialtes and his men could see the Macedonian horsemen on a far hill or across a valley, but they knew better than to try to engage them, for where there was one band of enemy cavalry, others would surely be nearby.

  The gate where the Sacred Way entered the city was wide open. While there were sentries on station, they showed little interest in the Greek general and his party. The guards seemed both distracted and agitated. Those were clear signs of what Ephialtes knew from his recent experience indicated that the guards were more ready to bolt than to stand their ground. These were not determined sentinels, he realized, but restless conscripts only looking for an excuse, or an opportunity, to flee.

  Ephialtes knew Miletos quite well. Even if he had not, he needed no guide to point the way to the citadel. From its position on the rocky hill at the tip of the peninsula, the citadel was visible from every point in the city. As he rode through the South Agora, past the Nymphaion and the Delphinion, and up through the narrow streets, he saw few signs of martial preparedness. To the contrary, he saw other signs, clear signs of a people who, like the guards at the gate, had not resistance but surrender – or flight – on their minds.

  As he neared the fortress, the old general took some heart that at least the guards at the citadel appeared to be doing their duty properly. Even though the Captain of the guard detail recognized Ephialtes, the fellow mercenary officer went through the proper motions of asking him to identify himself, his purpose in coming to the citadel, and whom he wished to see there. The crisp, serious, and steadfast way in which the officer performed his duty earned him a smile from Ephialtes, along with a paternal pat on the shoulder.

  “It is good to see that there is at least one proper soldier left in Miletos,” he added with as much of a smile as the weary general could manage. “I need to see General Memnon immediately, but I would appreciate it greatly if you could see to the quartering of my escort and the stabling of their horses. They have had a hard ride from Ephesos.”

  “As have you, General, begging your pardon,” the young officer said with concern, dropping the formalities for a moment. “I can direct someone to show you where to clean up, have a meal, and perhaps a short rest before taking you to see General Memnon.”

  “That is very kind of you, Captain,” replied Ephialtes with a nod, “but there will be time for that later – not much time, I am afraid, but time enough. I thank you for your concern and for your kindness, but I must see Memnon, and see him now.”

  The young officer turned command of the guard over to a sergeant and personally escorted the old general into the citadel. Ephialtes, to his shame, began to shudder, involuntarily, for the change in temperature from the hot, sunny street to the cool interior of the stone fortress came as a sudden shock, and all the more so as he was hot, sweaty, and bone-tired from his long ride. The officer did not remark upon the general's state, but simply undid the fasteners on his cloak and offered it to Ephialtes, who accepted it with equal graciousness and with a nod of gratitude. It would not do to appear before his commander in chief as a shivering, dirty, and beaten old man. The cloak helped ease the shivering, covered the dust, and gave him a semblance of dignity as he entered the audience hall where Memnon had set up his headquarters.

  Memnon was moving toy soldiers and models of ships about on a scale model of the city and its defenses that was laid out upon a large table. The officers to whom he was explaining his plan, at first did not appear to notice Ephialtes, but did so once the young officer escorting him stamped his heavy boots on the stone floor, came to attention, saluted, and announced his arrival to Memnon's aide de camp.

  Upon hearing his friend's name, Memnon suddenly stopped what he was doing and glowered at Ephialtes.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Ephialtes? You should be in Ephesos, where I left you, holding the city against Alexander.”

  “There was nothing left to hold, General,” Ephialtes said with a penitent bow. “The garrison fled, the city watch deserted, and the mob ruled the streets. I know I have failed you, General, but please understand that there was nothing I could do. My staff and I barely escaped with our lives, and have ridden hard to get here to make the situation known to you. I felt that it was my duty to report my failure to you, in person, and as soon as possible.”

  In a fit of anger, Memnon smashed his fist down on the table, sending some of the toy soldiers and wooden model buildings clattering off onto the floor. “Then that means Alexander will be here soon – and a lot sooner than I want him to be. As you may have noticed when you rode in, Ephialtes, this city is in no way ready to withstand a siege.”

  “Yes, General,” said Ephialtes in agreement. “There don't seem to be many men on guard, and no sign of anyone building new fortifications.”

  “That's because there are no men to do so,” muttered Memnon.

  “But what of Thymondas and his men? That's a thousand good men, men you said you would need here and thus could not spare for Ephesos,” asked Ephialtes. “If they are not here, where are they?”

  “That, my old friend, is a damn good question. The earth seems to have swallowed them up. I've had scouts out looking for Thymondas for the last three days. I need him and his command here, and even sooner than I had thought. Without them, we have no hope of putting up even a token defense of the city, let alone holding out against a siege. I truly needed you to buy me some time at Ephesos. Didn't the Admiral lend you men to secure the city?”

  “No, sir, he did not,” said Ephialtes, swallowing hard. “He could do nothing, such was the state of things. The best he could manage was to load what supplies and naval stores he could take aboard his ships, but there was no sense to remaining in the harbor. The marines he landed were barely able to hold the port long enough for him to set fire to the remaining stores and sheds before he
ading back out to sea.”

  “Well,” said Memnon still quite angry, “if the fleet is not in Ephesos, and it is not here, then just where the hell is it?”

  The storm had scattered the Persian fleet, and with the winds coming hard from the southwest there was little chance of making for Miletos as Admiral Autophradates had planned. So he did the next best thing he could think of, to seek the shelter of the straights between the island of Samos and the mainland, near the Mycale Peninsula. Any vessels sailing south for Miletos would normally pass through these straights, rather than waste time sailing around the big island, or so the Admiral believed. With a good, sheltered beach and plenty of fresh water nearby, Mycale would make for a good place to reconstitute and reorganize the fleet, and to still support Miletos from the north.

  Nicanor also knew of the straights, and for the very reasons that his Persian counterpart Autophradates went to Mycale, he avoided them. He had landed troops on Samos, where they had been welcomed as liberators by the mostly Greek inhabitants. With the island as a base, he managed to get most of his navy around Samos and into the bay of Miletos, without having to fight his way through the straights of Mycale. His fleet was now between the Persian navy and its bases, and well situated to set up a blockade of Miletos.

  It was not just Memnon who was surprised his fleet was no longer at Ephesos. That came as quite a shock to Captain Abibaal as well, as his battered ship and her exhausted crew saw Macedonian banners wafting from its battlements. Before any of the warships in the harbor raised sail, the Captain quickly turned his vessel about and headed down the coast to the south.

  “Where are we going now, Captain,” asked Dimitrios.

  “South. Since Ephesos has clearly fallen to Alexander, our fleet must be somewhere to the south. Miletos, most likely. That is the next major port – unless they've kept on going all the way to the big naval base at Halicarnassos. Either way, we'll head for Miletos first. I can set you and your friends off there if you'd like, even if I have to keep heading south.”

  “Is that where you think we might find Memnon?”asked Dimitrios.

  “That is where I would go,” said Abibaal, “but then again, I'm a sailor, not a soldier, let alone a high and mighty General like Memnon. You should at least be able to find out his whereabouts from someone there. But relax, Dimitrios. We still have many days and nights to go – and I have to get this ship up on a beach and dry her out for a day. She is already feeling sluggish, having taken on so much water.”

  “I wouldn't do it too close to Ephesos, not with the Macedonians already there.”

  “Don't worry, soldier boy,” Captain Abibaal said with a little laugh. “I know this coast much better than they do. I know lots of little coves and inlets where we can hide out for a day or two. So don't worry. You're as safe aboard Captain Abibaal's ship as you would be in your own home!”

  “That's of little comfort, Abibaal,” sighed Dimitrios.

  “Why is that?” asked the Phoenician Captain, suitably perplexed.

  “Because I don't have a home any more. Alexander burned my city to the ground.”

  36

  Miletos

  In the Shadow of the Old Citadel Hill

  If there was a race to see whose army and navy would reach Miletos in strength first, Alexander was winning it. His admiral, the Navarch Nicanor, and the fleet were already there, and had established a forward base in the bay, on the island of Lade. A squadron of Prodromoi scout cavalry had already taken possession of the Old Citadel Hill, from whose heights they could look down upon the city. If anyone so much as moved about the city, let alone set about building fortifications, the scouts would see them – and would let Alexander know about it.

  No one was more conscious of this than Glaucippos, a close friend and benefactor of Governor Hegisistratos, and one of the richest and most influential merchants in Miletos.

  “He is going to get us all killed,” said Glaucippos in a hushed voice.

  “Who is?” said his dinner guest, Hegisistratos, playfully.

  “Memnon, that's who!” answered his host. “We are all going to die! All of our goods will be taken from us and our children sold into slavery. We cannot defend our city against this Macedonian.”

  “I already sent word to Alexander that I was willing to surrender the city,” said Hegisistratos with a shrug as he took another sip of wine. “But then Memnon showed up. He does not have many men, but they do control the citadel, so what can I do?”

  “You can do plenty. Look,” said the corpulent merchant, pointing his greasy finger at the governor, “you still have some men who are loyal to you, and only you, and there are others whose loyalty can be bought, or at least rented.”

  “Go on,” said the governor, this time taking a lengthy drink from his wine cup.

  “I will go to see Alexander myself. Me, and a few of the other more worthy citizens of the town,” explained Glaucippos. “We will tell him ours is an open city, a peaceful city, a neutral city. Greeks, Persians, Macedonians, anyone, can come and go as they please. They can trade at the port, repair in the harbor, buy and sell in the agora, and have anything they want. Of course there will be a price to be paid, but I am sure we can come to some arrangement. After all,” added Glaucippos, “isn't having a friendly city in his rear worth more than one he has to attack and garrison? All he has to do is agree to honor our status as an open city and he will have just that. Then we will all be safe and well...and so will our goods.”

  “Why should Alexander agree, when he can have the place for the asking,” laughed the governor. “Spilling a little blood doesn't seem to bother this young king, or any king. And Memnon, well, Memnon,” said Hegisistratos with a chortle, “why should he agree, either? Maybe he doesn't have enough men to hold the city, but he can hold the citadel, and deny it as well as the port to Alexander. He'd never agree to an open city. Besides, what's in it for him if he does? And don't say gold, because this is one general who can't be bribed. With his wealth, and estates, and family connection, the only thing that could sway him would be glory – which he will not get by turning over the city to that nasty little Macedonian pup.”

  “That's where you come in, my friend,” said the merchant to the governor quietly. “While I am off making my presentation to Alexander, you and a few of your loyal men...well...you know...”

  “You want me to kill Memnon? Kill the man whose authority came from the hand of Darius himself?”

  “Oh no, no, no...nothing of the sort, nothing like that,” Glaucippos assured the governor rather coyly. “Just, well, keep him out of the way for a day or so...Keep him occupied, or detain him somewhere where he can't interfere. Or bundle him off to a ship and send him off somewhere. You don't have to kill him, no, no, no, nothing like that, no, no...well, unless, you know...” he added with a wry smile.

  The governor looked down into his wine cup, swirled the contents, and took a long, deep drink. “You think Alexander would agree?” he asked. “If he does, the price I will be paying for my...err...services...will be very high...”

  “...but imagine what it would cost you, and all of us, if he storms the city and turns it over to his men to sack,” replied Glaucippos. “Saving the city – and our personal fortunes – would be more than payment enough in itself, don't you agree?”

  Later that night, long after the governor and his wealthy host had collapsed in a congratulatory and drunken stupor, a long, narrow column of men quietly marched along the coast and up to the city. They took great care to be as silent as possible, even wrapping cloth about their feet to muffle the sound of their tread. The main gate was open and waiting for them, their coming having been made known to only a select few in the city. With as little sound as possible, they marched into Miletos. The column made its way deep within the city, squads and companies peeling off to the left and right as per the plan. Three of the men, however, kept on going to the citadel. The gate was open, and they were ushered inside without ceremony or challenge by an
officer who had been told they were coming.

  That officer was Memnon. He shook the hand of the first of the three men to enter the citadel. That man was his nephew, Thymondas, and he had brought with him a thousand sturdy, veteran, and, most important of all, loyal fighting men.

  As Captain Abibaal's ship passed through the straits between Samos and the mainland, he was relieved to finally see a few friendly ships on the water. Scout ships, like his own, as well as a thickening collection of merchant vessels, increasingly crowded the sea lane as he sailed south. The storm had passed, and the winds had turned fresh and favorable. His oarsmen welcomed the restful boredom as the few hands who tended the sails did their job. That boredom lasted only until they turned the headland in the shadow of Mount Mycale, as the mighty precipice cut off the winds that had filled the sails. Hands to the oars, they drove the ship forward to an easy beat, and into the roads where hundreds of warships and other vessels of every size and description were either at anchor or drawn up on the narrow beach.

  Dimitrios tried to count the ships but finally gave up. There were hundreds of triremes and scores of the big four-decker quadriremes. Towering above them all, however, were a dozen of the massive quinquiremes – huge battleships with crews of 400 or more, each ship mounting naval artillery and with upwards of 100 archers and other marines aboard. Captain Abibaal's tiny scout ship was dwarfed by these sea monsters, a point brought home as he rowed to and tied up alongside a majestic leviathan, what Dimitrios could only assume was the flagship of the Persian fleet.