And Memnon was in the thick of it. He was the biggest dog in this dog fight, and Dimitrios was right there alongside him – quite literally guarding his back. Memnon was no longer giving any commands because there were none to give – and no one could have heard them if there were. This fight had neither organization nor formality, nor even sense to it. Three fingers of men pushed forward into an ever thickening mass of bodies, while two more tried to come in from the sea around their flanks. What Memnon had envisioned as a hand clawing its way through sand into the heart of the Macedonian line became a hand stuck in mud, and mud that was becoming increasingly deep and rapidly gummy.
Memnon had kept the attacking force deliberately small for purposes of surprise, but as more and more men piled out of the Macedonian camp, the attackers became the attacked. Try as they might, none of the men in the three main columns could take possession of any of the siege weapons. The group led by Memnon himself came the closest. Dimitrios saw a man in front of him put his hand on the brace of a bolt thrower – only to have it nailed to the beam by a broken javelin another thrust through his hand. As for the groups of boatmen to either side of the peninsula, most never even came ashore. Under heavy missile fire, they either turned their boats around and rowed quickly back to the harbor, or just jumped overboard and tried to swim for it. With the fingers of his claw being broken, nibbled at, or even snapped off, Memnon tried to gather as many men to himself as he could for one last, desperate and focused strike.
And that is when Memnon went down.
Dimitrios rushed to cover the general's body with his own. “Help! Help the general!” he called to any around him who could hear above the din and screams of battle. “Help the general!”
Three workmen came forward in response. All of the others who had followed the columns out of the city with the intention of smashing the siege engines had long ago fled back to Miletus. These three were about to do so when they heard Dimitrios' cry for help. They stashed their tools back into their belts, and pushed their way through the tangled mass of dead and dying bodies to grab at the unconscious general's arms and legs. As they began to drag him back out of the front line, word of Memnon's fate spread and spread quickly. Without their general to lead them, the already wavering attack columns began to recede. Many men threw down their tools and weapons and just ran for the city.
A few stout lads, however, coalesced around the general and those carrying him. Slowly they fell back, giving ground grudgingly, but giving it up none the less. The farther they fell back, however, the bolder the Macedonians became. Like hyenas sensing fear and a bloodied prey, Alexander's warriors lurched forward in a tide of their own, and one that threatened to engulf the wounded Memnon and those seeking to save him.
From his post on the wall, Ephialtes could see very little of the battle on the far side of the Necropolis. All he did know was that there was a battle on the line of outerworks – and that groups of workmen and soldiers were streaming back in panic toward the city. “The general's attack must have stalled,” he said to an aide. “Send out a scouting party to find General Memnon, and ask if he needs reinforcements or has any other instruction for me.”
The aide saluted and ran off, down the steps, motioning for a group of soldiers to join him on his way out of the main gate, which remained partly open, as it had been when Memnon passed through it an hour or so ago. Ephialtes followed their progress as far as he could see, then suddenly saw the officer running back as fast he could. The young aide came rushing through the half-open gate and turned up the stairs to the battlements, which is where Ephialtes met him. “It's the general...” the aide said, panting and struggling to both get his breath and calm his panic. “He's been wounded. They're carrying him back now.”
Ephialtes turned about and raced back up the steps to the battlement. He shouted for runners to attend him. “Go to each of the towers,” he told the couriers. “Tell them to fire some small fireballs as far and as high as possible. Distance is the key here. We need them to fly far, hang high and light up the Necropolis. Then tell them to prepare to provide long-range covering fire. Our men are coming back, and I think they are going to need help if they are to get back inside the walls...alive.”
Hegisistratos could not help but overhear Ephialtes give those orders. Half-smirking, and at least partially pleased with himself, he asked the old Greek officer a question to which he already knew the answers.
“So, the surprise attack, the 'claw' that was supposed to be our salvation, has failed,” the governor stated more than asked. “And what of our glorious general?” he added, twirling one of the oily ringlets that had fallen out from beneath his gold-trimmed cap.
“It appears he may have been hurt. I'm not certain and don't have all of the details.”
“Tsk, tsk. What a pity,” hummed the governor. “Well then, I suppose command revolves back to me, does it not? After all, I am the highest ranking Persian official in the city, now that Memnon is, shall we say, incapacitated. Οr at least indisposed?”
The smarmy tone rankled Ephialtes to his very core. “No sir, the general left me as his second in command. Not you,” the old professional soldier replied sharply.
“Oh? Well, we shall see about that, won't we. You are, after all, nothing more than a foreign hireling, when it comes down to it. Surely you can't expect to have any authority over those of us of noble blood? You are but a barbarous Greek...”
“Memnon, I will remind you sir, is also a Greek!”
“Perhaps, technically, General,” replied the governor, his self-confidence and self-worth returning, “but he has at least married into a noble family of the blood, and has sired children who carry that blood, even if it is diluted with his own. Besides, his authority came straight from Darius himself. Your contact with the emperor, correct me if I am wrong, is limited to seeing his face on the gold Darics with which you are paid?”
“Hegisistratos, I have no time for your Persian riddles and games. There is a battle going on and I have a part to play in it. So until it is over do me the kindness of butting out – and of going to hell or wherever it is your kind slithers off to at night.”
If Ephialtes expected the governor to argue, or to run off in a huff, he was disappointed. Hegisistratos was enjoying himself and made no attempt to hide it.
“Well, then, 'General,'” he replied with a taunting emphasis on Ephialtes' rank, “if you wish me to leave the wall, I will do so. As governor of Miletos I have much more pressing and important duties to attend to than to just stand here and watch Memnon's retreat.”
Hegistratos made an obscenely slow, deep, and mocking bow, gathered his hands inside his robe's flowing sleeves, and began to walk down the stairs. Aristophanes, who had been present as ordered, did not follow.
“Aren't you supposed to stick with him, lad?” Ephialtes asked.
“Yes, General, but, well...”
“What is it?”
“My friend, Captain Dimitrios, he's out there with Memnon,” replied Ari nervously and with deep respect.
“Yes, I know,” sighed Ephialtes.
“No, I mean with him. Right with him. If the general is hurt, Dimitrios will be guarding him. Unless, unless Dimitrios...”
“Yes, yes. I quite understand,” muttered Ephialtes. “Then go on, go out there. See if you can find him – or at least help bring Memnon back into the city. I'd go myself, but...”
Aristophanes did not wait for the explanation. He just saluted and raced down the steps, taking them two or three at a time, and ran for the gate. He thought highly of Memnon, but it was not the general he was out to save.
46
Miletos
The Main Gate
Dimitrios struggled to keep his shield high to protect the body of his general, but doing so while falling back, through the dark, and with the Macedonians closing in was no simple task. Many a stone or lead bullet from enemy slingers banged off his shield, and a few others clanged off his helmet, but at least he managed
to keep the commander safe. A few men gathered around him to add their shields to the protective barrier, but several of them quite literally took an arrow or a javelin meant for Memnon. Sometimes stumbling over the gravestones, and the rubble, as well as over the dead and dying, the small party made agonizingly slow progress is getting the unconscious general back to the main gate of Miletos.
The attack had not only faltered, it had fallen apart. Only small pockets of men were still engaged in a fighting retreat; most of the rest had either run away or were bleeding out on the field. Memnon's effort to destroy Alexander's siege weapons had failed, and failed miserably. A fact the Macedonian king made even clearer by having those engines open fire on the ground over which Memnon's force was trying to retreat, and upon the wall – its main gate – to which they were heading.
The battle, however, was not entirely one-sided. With their own troops no longer engaged on the outer works, the defenders of Miletos were able to conduct a counter-bombardment of their own. Although only the largest of those weapons had the range to hit Alexander's siege engines, others were well placed to pound, skewer, and set afire the Macedonian troops who were in pursuit of the retreating Persian force. It was under cover of that fire that Ephialtes had organized a company of Greek mercenaries into a turtle formation – where all but the front rank held their shields above their heads – to head out of the main gate in hopes of finding, protecting, and escorting back their general. This was not a fighting formation, and Aristophanes attached himself to that group, where he and a few other archers and slingers flitted about to protect them should any Macedonian troopers come at them.
The clatter of stones and arrows that fell from above would have unnerved all but the heartiest of hearts, yet still they advanced, slowly and in step, with a sergeant at the front calling cadence as they did. All went well until a large fire pot landed on their shields, broke open and spewed flaming pitch and oil on their shields and down amongst them. That proved too much to bear, and the turtle shell cracked open, with some men screaming in pain as they tried to roll on the rocky ground to put out the fire that was burning their clothes and their skin.
Aristophanes, however, kept on going. He was but singed by the fire, and otherwise unhurt. Although his bad leg still hurt and left him with a limp, he kept moving forward, scrambling his way through the dead and the debris. There was no use to call out for Dimitrios, for he could not have heard his name being called above the hellish din of battle and bombardment. Not that Ari had enough breath to yell, even if he could have screamed loud enough to make himself heard. Instead, he trusted his eyes and moved ahead to what appeared to be the thickest clump of soldiers still in some kind of formation. In the midst of that, he found his friend.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” Dimitrios yelled in surprise when Ari placed his hand upon the captain's shoulder. “You're supposed to be back on the wall, with the governor!”
“Screw the governor,” spat Ari. “You're a lot more important to me, and so is Memnon.”
Dimitrios was too exhausted and too frightened to argue, and just decided to accept whatever help he could get from any quarter. “All right, then. Grab a shield and help me keep the general safe.”
“What's wrong with him, is he dead?”
“No, he's still breathing, he's just out cold. Something clocked him really good in the helmet, and he went down. We're trying to get him back to the city,” he added, as another shower of stones, bullets and arrows rained down upon them. Two men, one to either side, fell, but those carrying the general kept on moving, hoping that others would aid their fallen comrades. Dimitrios was in a race to get back to the city before Alexander's counterattack beat him to it or cut him off from the gates. A hundred paces or so from the city gate, he lost that race.
What resistance there had been to his left and right collapsed, and collapsed completely. The few men who had been falling back in good order had finally had enough. Once they saw the open gate, they bolted for it. They dropped weapons and shields, tore off helmets and armor and ran for it. Many overly eager Macedonians followed, striking them down as they ran. Others stopped to loot the dead or dying, while others themselves fell, targets of the archers on the wall. Still other Macedonians, however, swept around through the routing troops to get behind the one, shrinking body of Persian troops on the field: the band of men shepherding the wounded Memnon.
“Circle up! Circle up!” shouted Dimitrios, as there was no longer any point in heading for the gate. There were just too many Macedonians between them and the city. Those who were helping him protect Memnon, fortunately, were the bravest of the brave. Persian and Greek alike, they closed ranks in a tight circle about their general, ready to die with him rather than give up his body.
“Surrender and live!” a young Macedonian officer with two feathers on his bronze helmet shouted above the din. Standing on a broken monument, the officer shouted “give us your general's body and you will live!”
Dimitrios caught a glimpse of the face of the man, and it sent both a chill and then a fire through him. The Macedonian officer was their king: Alexander himself. If there had been even a small chance that Dimitrios would have accepted the offer, that put an end to it. He had come too far to give in to Alexander.
“You want him!” Dimitrios shouted over his shield, “come and take him!”
Despite their exhaustion, or perhaps because of it, Ari and the others around him gave a cheer, and yelled curses of their own at the Macedonians who were closing in about them. Just as all seemed lost, a loud trumpet blast split the air, and out from the open gates charged a dozen armored horsemen, swinging axes and swords, hurling javelins and screaming their own battle cry. The shock and surprise of that charge scattered the Macedonians who had come between Memnon and the city. As the cavalry spread to the left and right to make secure their flanks, the small band of men carrying the general made a run for it, or at least ran as fast as they could while holding him above the ground. Minutes later, they entered the safety of the city, followed by two horsemen – the only two of the twelve brave souls who had charged out to survive their glorious, if doomed, charge.
Klemes was there to meet them as they came in, along with a dozen stretcher bearers and two large carts with their mules and drovers.
“Quickly now, place the general in that cart,” he said, after a cursory look at the stricken commander. “Get him to the hospital. I'll be right behind you,” Klemes added, pausing only to be sure that his brother and their friend were alive.
“You two, go along with the general. Looks like you could both use some patching up.”
“Memnon...Memnon...” said Dimitrios, panting and dropping unsteadily to one knee.
“Don't worry, brother,” said Klemes reassuringly. “I'll do everything I can to save your general. You need to worry about yourself, now,” he added with a bit of command to his voice. “You don't look too bad...or too good for that matter,” the usually stoic physician managed to say with a little smile. “Best get yourself looked at. My helpers will see to you, and to our gimpy friend here...” he added, turning to Ari. “And what, pray tell, made you limp out into a battlefield?”
Aristophanes did not reply with words, but with a wide, almost silly grin, as he nodded his head and pointed his thumb to Dimitrios.
“All right then, the two of you, get on to the hospital,” Klemes groaned. The physician followed, muttering as he went. “Boys will be boys. Still playing at war, at their age!”
While the battle outside still raged, Hegisistratos, no longer shadowed by Ari, had slipped away from the wall and made his way to a quite well-to-do house in the center of the lower city. It was a house he knew very well, and one in which he was also very well known. The slave at the door did not dare pause to halt him, and knew he did not need to announce the governor as he entered. For there, waiting for him, was the owner of the house and half a dozen other richly attired, overweight, and concerned citizens.
�
��Ah, governor, so glad you could shake off your minder and come meet with us,” said the owner of the house, Glaucippos. “How goes the war?”
“Badly, very badly – at least from a certain point of view,” he replied as he reached for a cup of wine that a scantily dressed boy handed him.
“And whose point of view would that be?” asked Glaucippos slyly.
“Not ours, I assure you,” said Hegisistratos with a smile. “Memnon's attempt to destroy Alexander's siege engines failed, as I warned him it would. But would he listen to me? Of course not!” he added with a dramatic gesture to his forehead. “And not only did it fail – it was a disaster. Hundreds of men dead, hundreds more wounded – and Memnon among them!”
“Memnon?” said Glaucippos excitedly and with glee. “Dead? Wounded? Which is it? Is the big man truly down?”
“I am not sure, Glaucippos,” replied the governor as he drained his cup and held it out for more. “He was carried in from the field, unconscious. What matters most is that he cannot wield command at present. That opens a window for us to try once again to negotiate with Alexander. Now that the king has seen how hard and expensive a nut this is to crack, perhaps he will be more...how shall I say it...amenable to reason, for a price.”
A Captain of Thebes Page 28