A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  Philotas did send a pair of horsemen to follow the wagons, mostly as a precaution against having a column from the naval camp surprise him and interrupt the new sport of “pin the javelin on the marine” he had invented. They kept their distance, but were still close enough to taunt the sailors, and make crude and lewd comments as to what they would do to them should any fall behind. Abibaal fumed, but did not want to do anything that might send them scurrying back for reinforcements. To do so would only risk the lives of his men – and rob the marines' sacrifice of meaning.

  Abibaal had sent his fastest runner – or at least the man everyone said was the fastest, for they rarely spent enough time on land to be sure – ahead to the camp. He doubted the man would get there quickly enough to allow the admiral to send out a major rescue party, but at least the fleet would not be caught napping. The fellow, however, had been fleet of foot enough to do just that. And he got through soon enough for the officer of the guard to send out a small patrol to escort the wagons in for the last few thousand yards. Those marines reached the wagons just as Philotas and his advance guard rounded the bend to their rear.

  “Look, lads!” shouted Philotas with unbridled glee. “More meat! Have at'em!”

  The handful of marines formed up, as they knew they would be cut down if they tried to run. Their officer, young and brave as he was, encouraged them – and yelled back to Abibaal to make a run for it.

  “Forget the damned wagons!” he screamed, “just go...go...go!”

  Even the drovers knew they could not escape if they stayed with the wagons, and took off into the foothills of Mount Mycale, knowing it would be difficult for the enemy cavalry to follow up those steep slopes and into the broken ground. Abibaal at first thought to follow them, but instead ordered his men to leave the lumbering wagons and run to the camp – not that he needed to encourage them to do so, as their instincts for survival got the better of them.

  The marine detachment that had come from the camp died as well as those who had formed the rear guard, and as they died, one by one to the laughing Thessalian horsemen, Abibaal and his three score crewman sprinted flat out for the palisade.

  As the gate opened, he allowed himself a little cheer, as he knew his men would live.

  But, damn it, he grumbled. He'd lost the wagons.

  50

  Miletos

  The House of Glaucippos

  Klemes had tried everything he could think of to revive the general. Ephialtes had hoped to keep Memnon's condition secret, but the governor and his cabal made sure that everyone in the city and its garrison knew the truth – or at least the truth as they inflated it. The drop in morale, the fear of defeat, and the feeling of being abandoned by the fleet, only made it easier for Hegisistratos to spread his own poison among the populace. A sense of gloom and despair now permeated Miletos. As the people looked about for a new savior, the governor's backers were only too happy to present their man not only as the man of the hour, but one whose rightful position had been usurped by a dangerous adventurer.

  While Dimitrios saw little of this at the high command, Aristophanes could not get away from it. Out in the streets, in the taverns, and even in the barracks, there was evidence that the defenders were beginning to crack. Whenever anyone said anything gloomy, there were others quick to second the sentiment, and none to rebut it. Soldiers always grouse and grumble, as Aristophanes knew well, but there was much more to this than men just bitching about the usual things. The air was thick with the smell of defeat and the stink of impending treachery.

  Those odors emanated from two places in the city in particular. The first was the governor's own office. The message from there was subtle, well-crafted, and designed to discourage the people rather than make them despair. That task belonged to Glaucippos and his clique. Even before the siege began, even before Hegisistratos had contemplated seeking terms with Alexander, Glaucippos and other wealthy merchants had tried to make a deal with Alexander. Although their offer to open the gates and surrender the city in return for a promise to spare their property had been rudely and sternly rebuffed, Glaucippos and his gaggle of upper class worthies believed they could still make a deal with the young Macedonian. If anything, he explained to his cronies, the staunch defense of the city to date had only increased the value of what they had to offer. All they had to do, Glaucippos told them, was to sweeten the deal.

  Memnon, he continued, was that sweet. They only had to walk into the hospital, grab the unconscious general, and spirit him out of the city.

  “What could be easier?” Glaucippos said with a smile, as he opened a small chest a slave had placed before him. “Here are four bags. The first contains copper coins – they should be sufficient to bribe the guards at the hospital,” the merchant explained, as he tossed it to a rather nasty looking soldier of the governor's household. “The second is full of silver – and that is to bribe the gatekeepers at the Mycale-side beach gate,” he said as he passed the heavy bag to a shadowy figure known to hold sway with certain criminal gangs in the city. “And the third,” he said as he reached in and pulled out a pile of shimmering coins, “is full of gold, for the fisherman who will row the boat to take Memnon's unconscious body from the beach to the Macedonian lines.”

  “And the fourth?” a wealthy wine merchant asked. “What is in the fourth bag?”

  “Why, see for yourself,” said Glaucippos as he dipped his fat hand into the bag and pulled out an emerald as large as an egg.

  “And who is that for?” another of his conspirators asked rather greedily.

  “This and everything else in this bag are for the men who distribute the contents of the other three bags, and deliver Memnon to Alexander. Now, do I have any volunteers?”

  Glaucippos had not expected any of the merchants, landowners, temple priests or other of the city's elite to participate in this little enterprise themselves, nor did he want them to do so. He knew they all had their own retainers, or clients who had the skills, the cunning, and the courage needed to undertake this mission. As they argued amongst themselves as to whose people were best suited to accomplish this abduction, Glaucippos sat down on a well-cushioned couch, called for a servant to bring him wine, and enjoyed the show. Men who had been worried, nervous, uncertain or even so frightened as to think of pulling out of the plan, now practically fell over one another in their eagerness for the enterprise. Each knew there were risks involved should their men fail and be caught; Memnon's officers still held authority enough to arrest, torture and execute enemies of the state – and of Memnon. They still had the Greek mercenary corps and the Persian regulars who came from other parts of the empire. The city militia, the governor's household troops and their own private gangs of thugs and bodyguards were no match for those professionals in a real battle – but in a street fight, they would likely prevail. On the other hand, most of these lesser-trained troops were as likely to bolt and melt away into the back streets rather than defend their patrons against Greek hoplites infantry and Persian noble cavalry. If they were to turn on these professionals, they would have to be certain that the Macedonians were coming – and coming as their new masters, not their conquerors.

  Glaucippos took a certain delight in watching his guests argue and make deals over whose man or men would go on this little expedition. Each knew the risks, but also the value of the return on this investment of flesh and blood. After a second cup of wine, Glaucippos found himself more bored than amused, and by the time he finished the third, too impatient to wait any longer.

  “Enough!” he shouted, seeking to get their attention. “So, who is it going to be who leads this venture?” he said, with a rude burp for punctuation.

  “My acolytes will ensure that Memnon is removed from the hospital,” said one of the temple priests.

  “And my lads will then escort him through the beach gate,” added the hooded figure in the back of the room, the man whose name everyone knew but did not dare speak aloud, lest one day as they walked the streets th
eir journey would come to a sudden, violent, and final end.

  “Well, then,” said Glaucippos. “That sounds more like a relay race than a kidnapping, but I rather like it. And who will arrange the fishermen and their boat?”

  “That would be my fellows,” said the wine merchant proudly. “There are a few we employ on a regular basis to, ah, well...”

  “Smuggle in a bit of wine on the side, besides that which you pay the tax on and dock fees for?” laughed Glaucippos.

  The wine merchant did not reply verbally. He simply shrugged his shoulders, looked down at the dregs of wine in his cup, swirled it about and then allowed himself a little smile as he took a sip.

  “Well then,” said Glaucippos, “that only leaves the men who will share the reward from the fourth bag. And who shall have that pleasure?”

  “Me,” said the governor's man, who stepped forward and opened his cloak just far enough so that the others could see he was armed and armored. “The governor would insist, if he were here,” he added in a stern manner that let the others know he would not be contradicted.

  “Well then,” nodded Glaucippos respectfully, “it is settled. I wish you all good hunting and good luck,” he added, as he motioned for his slave to bring in wine for everyone.

  “When do we go?” asked the governor's guard.

  “Tomorrow night. That should be enough time for you all to make the necessary arrangements, right?” said Glaucippos. “After all, it's really little more than a simple kidnapping, isn't it?”

  The guards at the hospital were not the best nor most attentive to their duty, for they believed they had little reason to be. After all, nobody had ever tried to break into a hospital – and few of those inside were in any shape to break out. True, Memnon was a patient, and as such his rank dictated that he should always have guards about, but that was part formality, part courtesy. After the heavy losses during the general's ill-fated sortie, however, there were few enough good men left to man the walls as it was, and to waste them on what was little more than a ceremonial post seemed nonsensical. Each unit in the army and garrison had their assigned sections of the wall and the city to protect, and the hospital, as it was as far from the enemy as any place in the city could be, was not a priority, even if one of its patients was the commanding general.

  As it was deep inside the city, it only seemed right that the duty of guarding the hospital should fall to the city militia. Learning which men in particular would be on duty that night was a simple enough task for the temple priest, and a visit to their homes earlier that day was arranged just as easily. The priest did not even have to spend any of the copper coins in the bag that Glaucippos had set aside for the task. A simple promise to the guards that, should they excuse themselves for a short time, they would be rewarded by the gods – and incur their wrath if they did not - sufficed. When his acolytes arrived at the hospital a little after midnight, there was no one to challenge them. Into the hospital they walked, slowly, quietly, and solemnly, armed only with an excuse that they were here to offer up prayers for Memnon's recovery...that, and the little knives they used when sacrificing small animals in the temple, just in case.

  The general had been given a room of his own, but was not alone. Ephialtes had insisted that, as long as Memnon was a patient, at least one of the general's own men be assigned to him at all times. A pious fellow, the bodyguard, although surprised to see four temple acolytes at his general's beside so late at night, was easily convinced of their holy mission. He even accepted their invitation to pray with them, and knelt down – never to rise again.

  As the chief acolyte wiped the blood off of his small blade and replaced it in the sheath strapped to his thigh, the others worked quietly to wrap the general up in a pair of sheets, so as to cover Memnon's body and his face. The four then gently placed him upon a litter and, each man taking his place, quietly bore the general out of the hospital.

  51

  Miletos

  The House of Healers

  Klemes could not sleep. Try as he might, he could not rest, at least not until he found an answer to the puzzle that was Memnon's sorry state. He had scoured the library for clues and had borrowed every scroll he could from those of his fellow healers who actually sought out knowledge rather than merely practiced what they had been taught. So here it was, still several hours before dawn, that he again found himself bleary-eyed, pouring through old medical scrolls – some of which were so faded as to be barely readable.

  Fortunately most were in Greek, for after all, Miletos had its own school of medicine, the one founded by Thales 200 years ago. It was also close to the more modern medical school at Cos, where he had learned his craft. Both were founded and still run by Greeks, and were repositories of medical information collected and translated from Egyptian, Babylonian, Jewish and even Chinese texts, the last thanks to missions sent there from Persia by Xerxes a century ago.

  To Klemes' way of thinking, the knowledge compiled and transferred to students in these and other schools were the greatest gifts that Greek civilization had given to the world. Even Homer had acknowledged the value of Greek healers. “A physician is a man worth many others,” he mumbled to himself, recalling a line from his readings of the Iliad so long ago.

  The table was heaped with so many works that, when he reached for one, another would roll off onto the floor. He skimmed through texts from the school at Knidos, and from the Neucratis in Egypt and many other medical schools, each of which, like that of Cos and Miletos, were also founded and still staffed largely by Greeks. When picking these up, one from his own school fell off the table and rolled open. As he bent down to pick it up one particular line caught his eye: “the place of the physician is at the bedside of his patient.”

  “Well, then,” he mumbled to himself, “perhaps that is indeed where I should be.”

  The bombardment of Miletos, which Alexander had ordered to continue day and night, had slackened, as it usually did in the hours before the sunrise. The crews, even working in shifts, were worn out. At this time of night only a few boulders and maybe an occasional fireball or two were fired at the city each hour. Soldiers and citizens had time to place bets as to where they would land, and many had gotten quite expert at predicting which tower, which part of the wall, or which house inside the wall would be struck. Fortunately, the hospital was well out of range of even Alexander's biggest siege machine, but even here people could not escape from the sound of the rocks as they slammed against the defenses or crushed a house.

  Despite the steady noise of the bombardment, Klemes was careful to make as little sound as possible. The healer in whose house Klemes had been offered quarters was fast asleep, along with his family and servants, and he took care not to wake them. As he left the house, walked into the street and rounded the corner toward the house of healing, he spied four men carrying a litter. The body upon the litter was wrapped up in what he assumed was a burial shroud, a sight too often seen at the hospital and elsewhere in Miletos these days. The four men stopped suddenly in their surprise at seeing another person out and about at this time of night. Klemes paid them little attention, other than offering a cursory wave of his hand in acknowledgment of their presence and in gratitude for the service they were performing in removing a dead body from the hospital.

  When he entered the building, however, he did note that there were no guards about. There was one servant, fast asleep in a chair, but no one else on the ward. He remained quiet, not wishing to wake any of the patients, and slowly made his way to Memnon's room. At first his heart quickened, for there was the general lying not on his back, as he had left him, but on his side. Hope rising in his breast, Klemes put his hand on the body – and then realized that it was not Memnon, but someone else, and that someone was dead, and the body was still warm. It was that of the man he had left to guard the general.

  “Those men...” he said aloud, recalling the four men carrying the litter in the street. “They've got the general!”

&n
bsp; Klemes stumbled through the hospital, swerving around the beds and litters, calling for the guards – but none answered his cry of alarm. Dozens of patients who had been sleeping were awakened by the clatter of Klemes knocking over bedpans and buckets as he lurched and blundered his way through the hospital maze, but still no guards answered or appeared. A few of the walking wounded struggled to get to their feet in an effort to follow Klemes to rescue their beloved general, but the doctor was out the door, down the steps and into the street long before they could catch up with him.

  Normally a very quiet, reserved and studious fellow, it was completely out of character for Klemes to scream and shout, let alone run and panic, even if it was a panic with a purpose. Perhaps it was less because the general had been kidnapped than because a patient in his care had been snatched from a sickbed that got his blood up, but whatever the reason, Klemes was not going to stand by and let this wrong happen. He ran about the streets like a mad man, screaming and yelling the alarm, and behind him a dozen patients who were able to get out of their beds tumbled out of the hospital to add their voices to his cry for help.

  The citizens and guards of Miletos had grown used to having their nights disturbed by the irregular bombardment, but this cacophony awakened even those who had grown so accustomed to the crashing and whooshing of rocks and fireballs they were able to drift off into an uneasy slumber. Oil lamps and candles blazed to life in the houses that Klemes and the limping, stumbling patients passed. Soon, most of that quarter of the city was awake and aware that something bad was happening – although exactly what it was that was happening was not exactly clear, as dozens, then scores of voices only added to the confusion. Even the sleepy sentinels at the gate and along the walls were roused from their dull nighttime reverie, and shouts for the corporals and sergeants of the guard to take action rang along the wall from guard post to guard post.