A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  “Maybe they call it the 'Southern Agora' because it is south of the citadel” suggested Aristophanes. “Or just 'south' of wherever they were coming from.”

  “Your leaps of logic never cease to astound me, Ari,” jibed the captain.

  “Ah, well, such is the curse of a classical education, eh?”

  “I had all the education I needed at home and in my father's business, thank you very much, Ari. The world was my school. While you were sitting on your ass under some damned tree in Thebes, I was off and about seeing the cities and islands where my father made deals for the wine he brokered. And my father, well, he made sure I learned to read the great books. You know, Homer and all that.”

  “Well, did this grand tour of yours teach you where to find a good meal?” Ari joked. “We've been walking around for an hour or more and I was famished before we started. You promised me a meal and a drink, so come on now, enough sightseeing. I'm hungry.”

  There were many stalls, and shops, and carts offering fresh or prepared foods throughout the agora. One shop that was particularly crowded drew Ari's attention – and with good reason, as he and Dimitrios soon found out. The man there was selling fish that had been rolled in some kind of coating and quick fried in oil. His customers were so insistent and demanding that he did not even have time to wrap the fish up, but tossed it by the chunk to the next man in line. For a few obols more he would place it on a plate and pour some spicy sauce over it, which Ari insisted they try after each had a few handfuls of the hot, fried fish.

  A few stalls down there were others selling olives, and cheese, and flat bread, all of which went quite well with some cheap, watery but still pleasant wine from another vendor. A few honey cakes and a couple of pieces of fruit from other stalls also tempted the two as they ate their way through the agora. Ari spotted an unusual building with a crude drawing of a woman's charms, and as he was trying to convince Dimitrios to go in with him – and give him some coins to pay for the entertainment – the agora went silent. Thousands of voices hushed almost at the same time, for up in the sky to the south, a massive ball of fire climbed up, hovered for a breath, and then came hurling down with the speed of a thunderbolt, to slam into the lower town. The earth shook, people screamed, and clouds of smoke, dust, and flames exploded into the air.

  The bombardment of Miletos had begun.

  44

  Miletos

  The Outer Wall

  The first fireball was the signal for a dozen other siege weapons to begin their long range bombardment. For the rest of the day, a steady staccato of flaming pots of oil and boulders rained down upon the city and its outer wall. Memnon's instructions had come too late for the defenders on that part of the city to comply, and they were too busy ducking the incoming fire to do so, even if the tools and materials Memnon ordered had been at hand. So many fires had been started by the flaming pots that the city remained illuminated throughout the night – thus making it easier for Alexander's artillery crews to maintain a steady and fairly accurate bombardment. By the next morning, the already unfinished outworks were in such a sorry state as to be nearly unrecognizable from the rubble around them.

  When Alexander's attack came, it did not come with wild shouts and screams like the former one, but with a steady drumbeat, to which the advancing infantry kept time. The Macedonians advanced in grim silence, a silence punctuated only by the creaking of the wheels of the rolling wooden walls, or mantelets, and tower shields behind which their archers took cover. Alexander's siege masters walked their bombardment forward, lengthening the range of their fire with each volley, so that their stones, rocks and firepots fell not on the front line, but behind it, into the Necropolis where most of the last assault had floundered. There was no question of reinforcements from the city coming out to bolster the defense, not through that rain of death. Some soldiers on the outer wall did attempt to flee to the presumed safety of the city, but they, too, became casualties in the middle ground. The heavy boulders that fell in that area smashed men and tombstones alike, turning the graves and monuments of the Necropolis into rubble.

  Unable to flee, the men on the outer line had only two options: surrender or fight to the death. As the Macedonians had clearly shown their disinclination to offer quarter, that left the defenders no option at all. Fight, and fight hard, they did – but to no avail.

  As the Macedonians reached the ditch at the outer works, their line of tall tower shields and mantelets parted to allow unarmed men carrying bundles of sticks and armloads of other debris to rush forward, dump their burdens in the ditch and then scurry back for more. Others dragged forward wooden ramps to bridge the gap. Once those bridges were down and the ditch at least partially filled, the Macedonian infantry began their paean, the death song that was meant to bolster their courage and sap that of their enemies.

  Then the attack went in, and the slaughter began.

  “The outer works have fallen, General,” Governor Hegistratos said as he confronted Memnon at his headquarters in the citadel. “By the rules of war we still have time to ask for terms – for an honorable surrender. Once the Macedonians breach the main town wall it will be too late – they will rush in and rape, pillage and loot the city, and kill us all.”

  Memnon looked up from his map of the city, slowly strode over to the governor – and slapped him hard on the cheek.

  “You've wanted to surrender since before the Macedonians even reached your gates, you sniveling coward!” barked Memnon. “You've profited and profited obscenely for years as governor of this city, you little worm, and now the time has come to pay your dues. You even mention the word 'surrender' or anything like that again and I will so help me by the gods chain you to a post on the wall and let the Macedonians use you for target practice. And just to be sure that you keep your mouth shut about this, I'm assigning you a bodyguard – and not to guard your body but to prevent you from committing treason. Captain Dimitrios!” he shouted over his shoulder, “find the biggest, meanest, foulest-tempered Greek in the mercenary corps, and tell him he has a new job. He's to be the governor's nanny, and he has my permission – no, my insistence – that he take any disciplinary action he thinks fit if this man steps out of line again. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, General!” replied the captain, clicking the heels of his boots together and saluting with parade-ground perfection. “I have just the man for the job!”

  “You want me to do what?” asked Ari incredulously. “You want me to babysit the governor?”

  “Somebody has to do it,” said Dimitrios with a shrug, “and it has to be someone he can't bribe, or threaten, or coerce, or otherwise corrupt. You may not be the biggest, meanest soldier in the force, like the general asked for, but you are one I can trust – and that is far more important. Besides, even with your gammy leg you can still outrun that fat bastard.”

  Aristophanes simmered. “I want to fight, god damn it, not hide behind the line and squire around some lazy bureaucrat. You're going to need every man you've got when Alexander comes across the Necropolis. You know how good I am with a bow. Any luck and I can plink an arrow into one of his beady little eyes. You know how easy it is to spot him – he's always at the front, like he was at the Granicos.”

  Dimitrios sighed, put a hand on his friend's shoulder and said “I know. Don't worry. You will get your chance. Memnon will insist the governor be on the wall, if only to show the populace and the soldiers his commitment to the cause...”

  “Yeah, with me holding a dagger at his bum, right?”

  “If that is what it takes. You can take a couple of men from the ranks to help out. Try to take some of the walking wounded, you know, those who are fit enough to hold a sword but still not ready to stand in the line of battle. It'll be your first command,” he added with a smile. “Who knows, maybe someday you'll even make corporal?”

  The next few days were fairly quiet ones for Miletos and its defenders and inhabitants. Alexander's engineers needed those days to clear away rubble a
nd flatten the ground enough to allow for the siege engines to be brought forward. What had been the outer works defending the city now became the forward line from which to besiege it. From his perch on the Miletos Acropolis, Memnon had a bird's eye view of those preparations. It was a view of which he intended to make good use.

  “Men,” Memnon said to his leading officers as they gathered around his map table, “as you can see, I have marked the position of Alexander's heavy artillery with these little wooden blocks. Each has a number, and that number marks the target for each group of workmen in your assault parties to attack. We will send three columns of men from each of the gates and sally points on the town wall. I will command the middle column. Thymondas you have the left. Anyone have any suggestions for who should lead the third – and no, Ephialtes, not you.”

  “Why not, sir?” grumbled the old general, his pride obviously hurt.

  “Because I need you to watch our backs. You will command the city, provide covering fire and, most of all, make sure nobody shuts the gates behind us.”

  That last remark sparked a little laugh among the other officers, but Memnon cut that short with a stern glare.

  “I am serious. There are elements in this city who have already tried to make a deal with Alexander,” he said, glaring at the governor, “and they will try again. Ephialtes,” he said turning from the governor and looking directly into the old general's eyes, “I am giving you the city because I know I won't have to worry or keep looking over my shoulder if you are here. Besides, if I fall...”

  Memnon did not continue on that track, but returned to the battle plan. “In addition to the three main columns, we will send a few groups by small boat on both flanks. As you can see,” he added, slapping his palm down on the map and spreading his fingers wide, “our attack will look like a hand reaching out to claw at Alexander's line. Your soldiers are to seize control of the outer wall at those five points, and hold them...”

  “Hold them? For how long?” asked Thymondas. “As soon as we attack, the Macedonians will put every man in motion to drive us back. We shall be horribly outnumbered, and they can bring up men faster than we can bring more out of the city.”

  “You don't need to hold out for very long – just long enough for the work parties to do their job. It will take the Macedonians time to form up for a counterattack – and that should be long enough to see this through. Once the engines are destroyed or at least put out of action, you can start to withdraw. Ephialtes, here, will provide covering fire from the town walls, first with the bolt-throwers and stone-throwers and then, as you come back closer to the gates, with the archers. Governor Hegisistratos,” he added, pointing to the well-dressed but quivering official “will be on the walls himself, to give our men added courage. Isn't that right, governor?” he added with a wry smile.

  Aristophanes poked the governor in the back with the hilt of his sword, and Hegisistratos jumped a bit, but did respond, if grudgingly, in the affirmative.

  “What makes you think you will fare any better going through the Necropolis than Alexander did the other day,” asked the governor. “You trapped him there – won't he do the same to you?”

  Thymondas, Ephialtes and other officers all began talking at once, with the old general muttering something about Hegisistratos being of conjectural progeny and dubious antecedents, but Memnon cut them off with a sharp slashing motion of his hand across his throat.

  “The governor has a valid question,” said Memnon calmly and respectfully, much to the surprise of his officers. “Believe me, I have gone over that very possibility in my mind over and over again. It could go wrong, it could go terribly wrong. But unlike Alexander's attack that time, ours has a plan, a purpose, and a timetable. Also, we will go at night – which I know makes things a lot more difficult to control, but our attack is more focused than his. It is not as ambitious, and if it does go wrong, I'll call it off, and Ephialtes will cover our withdrawal.”

  “And if you get killed or wounded, who then will call things off? inquired Ephialtes. “And while we are on the subject, why in the name of Hades are you going out there, risking yourself in the middle of all of this, if I may ask?”

  Memnon looked up and replied simply and silently with a broad grin.

  “As I thought,” sighed the old Greek officer. “You want to be out there, don't you?”

  “Of course I do,” said Memnon rather matter-of-factually. “A general's place is at the head of his troops. Can't very well ask men to do something I wouldn't do, now, can I? Besides, what happened there the other day has shaken them up a bit. Undid all we gained from trapping Alexander's first mad rush. Do them a bit of good to see the brass out there in the muck with them, eh what? Besides, Ephialtes,” he added with a laugh, “I'm not going to let the young men have all the fun!”

  The “fun” began about two hours after midnight. The naval assault parties climbed into their small boats to paddle along either side of the peninsula. Advance pathfinders slipped out through the sally ports and main gate to mark the way forward through the treacherous and tortuous tombstones of the Necropolis. Every 20 paces they set small earthenware pots with holes knocked through one side – the side facing the city. Each held a cup of oil, and each was set alight to provide a tiny beacon visible only from the city. After the pathfinders had marked the first four parts of the path, the attack parties followed out slowly and as quietly as possible. The workmen would follow, but none would enter the Necropolis itself until the fighting men took control of the positions where Alexander had placed his siege engines.

  As he watched the men slip out of the city, Aristophanes so wished to be out there with them, rather than be stuck up on the wall with the governor. Klemes was safely tucked away in the rear with the other healers, but Ari did not envy him what was sure to come. He had been on the receiving end of Macedonian weapons – and of physicians' treatments, and did not wish for a repeat of either experience. Still, he bristled at remaining behind – and made his distaste known to the governor by his demeanor. His post as the governor's minder, however, did give him a good view of the action as it was unfolding. He could see the progress of the silent bands of soldiers by noting as they passed the lights, which would seem to wink out as each body came between the little oil pots and the city. Although he could not make out individuals, he could see the “hand” of Memnon stretched out to claw at the Macedonians.

  The question was, would the claw grab the prize, or be caught in a bear trap.

  45

  Memnon's Claw

  The Outer Wall

  Dimitrios kept close to Memnon as the middle finger of his “claw” crept silently through the Necropolis. He could make out shadows of the men following behind them and moving to either side, but even with the little lights from the pots that marked the path, he could not make out their faces, or that of his general. Most of the men, he imagined, were, like himself, as nervous as they were determined. None were used to fighting in the dark – or going into battle without horns blaring, drums beating and other men singing their battle song. This slow, quiet advance in the darkness was unsettling, for every man felt alone, even though he knew his comrades were nearby.

  The tension proved too much for one man, who stumbled and fell on a broken tombstone in the battle-damaged cemetery. The clatter of his spear as it fell and bounced from tomb to tomb, and the clang clang clanging as he dropped his shield and when his helmet tumbled off his head, resounded through the otherwise silent night, as if someone had banged a gong or clashed cymbals together. The noise drew the attention of the Macedonian pickets who huddled at protected posts just ahead of the outer wall, at the southern end of the Necropolis, and they went scurrying back to the main line, shouting the alarm.

  “Well, that's it then,” grumbled Memnon. “At least we got this far. All right, now that they know we are here, let us make some real noise!”

  Memnon gave a great bellowing roar, like a lion uncaged, jumped up upon a monument, and bellow
ed a war cry – which a thousand voices echoed as the men of the attacking columns eagerly shed the blanket of silence under which they had moved for the last hour. Horns blared, drums banged, and shouts and screams came from both sides of the Macedonian line, as Memnon's three main columns rushed forward with a blood-curdling yell, all pretense of secrecy and silence abandoned.

  The adrenaline rush of the charge exploded in their hearts and propelled the soldiers in the columns to go up and over the barricades. The few defenders on that line were quickly overborne by numbers, and the exhilaration of the charge carried the Persians and their Greek mercenaries deep into the Macedonian position...but not deep enough.

  The Macedonians had not been caught entirely wrong-footed. Alexander had kept some of his best units under arms in shifts, just in case should such a sortie occur – or should the besieged try a break out. The Agrianians, Alexander's crack light infantry drawn from the tribe of the same name, were the first to respond. They had more stake in holding the line than almost any other unit in the army. After all, it was they, along with some squadrons of Thracian horse and the Companions, who had seized the outermost part of the city in a lightning dash, before even the rest of the army arrived. They had no desire to give up ground they had already paid for, and their javelins hit true, especially at such close ranges as they were now engaged.

  They did not have to fight on their own for long, as other units of the light infantry came flooding out of the camp to join them. This was their kind of fight – in and out of the shadows, using cover to their advantage, and fighting in a wild, disorganized melée, rather than in the formal linear style of the heavy infantry. There was no space here for the men of the phalanx to wield their 12 and 18 foot long pikes, but there were plenty of other men perfectly equipped to fight in this kind of battle. The sword and shield men of the elite Hypaspistes regiment, the cloud of peltastes and other lightly equipped javelinmen, slingers, and even a few archers, came quickly to the fray. In this kind of fight there was no need to form up, count heads, and deploy into a mathematically correct and precise formation. This was a dog fight; a wild, confusing, horrific struggle where bare hands and short blades were of more use than large shields and long spears.