A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  As the city became alert and people and soldiers alike ran about seeking the cause of this alarm, one small group of people stood out from all of the rest: the men scurrying about bearing a litter through the streets. Challenged by sentries on the walls above and questioned by citizens on the street, the acolytes panicked. Instead of walking about in a steady, unhurried pace so as not to arouse suspicion, they tightened their grip on the litter and took off at a run for the postern gate that led to the fishermen's beach. The gate was open and unguarded, as Glaucippos's coins had been more than sufficient to unlock and raise the bars and to see its guardians off to their beds, with the jingling in their purses as their lullaby.

  The acolytes' race to the beach, however, did not go unnoticed or unquestioned. Challenges rang out from the walls as the acolytes dashed through the sally port. Archers shot flaming arrows to light up the beach. Slingers fumbled in their pouches for stone bullets and other men hurled javelins, all in an effort to force the runners to halt. Too much in a panic to bar the gate behind them, the acolytes were followed through the wall onto the beach by a jumble of angry guards, shouting civilians, limping hospital patients - and Klemes. As their feet sank into the sand and missiles fell all about them, the acolytes let go of their burden, leaving Memnon to tumble off the litter onto the beach, and ran for the fishing boat that awaited them in the shallows.

  They almost made it.

  The mixed mob caught them as the fugitives waded into the little waves that were lapping up on to the beach. One dove into the sea in hopes of swimming to the boat, which had already begun to pull away, but as he reached the little boat, one of the fishermen beat him away with an oar, lest he hinder their flight. A slinger's bullet in his shoulder, however, put the sailor down, and a flaming arrow caught the little sail – at which point the fisherman surrendered.

  While the sergeants of the guard and a young officer tried to sort out what was going on and just who these men were and what they were up to, others attended Memnon, who had tumbled off the litter and rolled into a puddle, face down. One of those was Klemes, who had come running along in pursuit after giving the alarm at the hospital. As the physician gently turned him about so that he would not drown, Memnon gave a shudder and started to cough, spitting out water and grit. His lips began to move, and as the last of water dribbled down his cheek, he opened his eyes, looked at Klemes and asked in a scratchy, weak voice:

  “What...what the hell is going on...and why am I all wet?”

  52

  Miletos

  The Citadel

  Klemes had no answer as to why Memnon had suddenly awakened from his coma. He suspected that the noise and jostling associated with his abduction, as well as the water from when he had been dumped from the litter, might have had something to do with it. Either that or nature had taken its course. The priests, of course, had tried to take credit for his remarkable and sudden recovery, but as a trained physician, Klemes put little faith in, well, faith. Then again, as he admitted, he was not entirely sure what had brought the injured general back to his senses. Memnon, however, was certain that the physician’s care had at least prevented his death – as had, of course, Dimitrios' heroism in dragging him back to the safety of the city walls after the disappointing and failed attack on Alexander's lines.

  “Physician,” said the general, clasping Klemes by the hand, as he tried to sit up from his bed, “I owe you my life. I owe you and your brother. No, don't try to refuse to take the credit,” he added as Klemes and Dimitrios each tried to say something. “When a general offers his gratitude, just shut up and accept it. Having a general think he is in your debt may come in handy sometime,” Memnon added with a little smile. “Now, if you will excuse me,” he said as he started to rise, “there are other, more pressing matters to which I must attend.”

  “Not on my watch,” said Klemes pointedly. “You may be the general on the battlefield, but here, in this hospital, you're just another patient – and as a physician, I outrank you. Besides, it'll do you some good to spend a few days listening to the screams, cries, ravings, and death rattles of the men you sent into battle. Maybe if a few more generals and kings actually saw such bloody handiwork, they might be a bit less inclined to start their miserable little wars.”

  Instead of acting shocked or becoming angry, as Klemes had expected, Memnon reacted quite differently to the physician's outburst.

  “Believe me, my dear physician,” replied Memnon contritely, “if I never had to see another battle or send another man to fight I would be the happiest man alive. I would much rather spend my days walking through my fields and gardens with my wife, my incredibly beautiful and loving wife, teaching my children how to ride and hunt, but,” he paused to cough, “some greedy, malicious, bastard either rises up in rebellion or invades the lands of my king.”

  “And, of course,” responded Klemes in a rather unpleasant and insubordinate tone, “there is no one else who can go and fight but you, right? You think you are that indispensable?”

  “No,” Memnon coughed. “It's just that if I don't go, someone else will go – and that someone might not be as miserly with the lives of his men as I am. You think I find any glory in sending men to their deaths? No, my good physician, my glory comes when my men are victorious – and I can send them home to their wives and children, and with them carrying their shield rather than stretched out in funeral attire upon it.”

  Klemes reached out to take the general's hand in his. “I know,” Klemes said rather sheepishly. “I know you are the best man for this dirty job. My brother says you care about the men – more than any other officer with whom he has served, including Ephialtes. Forgive me my rant. It has been a long day, and there are so many wounded. So many I cannot save. So many...”

  “I know,” replied Memnon as he sat up and once again started to rise. “And that is precisely why I need to get back to my command post in the citadel.”

  “General,” said Klemes, more gently than before, and with true sincerity, “you still need rest. You should be in your bed.”

  “If I had the time, physician, I surely would,” replied Memnon, “but I don't. Captain Dimitrios,” he said turning to the officer, “I would be grateful for your assistance in helping me to my feet.”

  Although his progress was made slower than normal due to his injuries, the general put on a great show of being up and about, and of making sure that as many people and soldiers as possible saw him as he did so. He waved and saluted and hailed everyone in sight, all the while gritting his teeth to prevent crying out in pain. By the time he reached the citadel he was sweating profusely, but still refused Dimitrios' suggestion that he take some rest before going about his normal duties.

  “I will have plenty of time to rest once Alexander is defeated – or if he defeats me,” quipped the general. “In the meantime, there is much work to be done, so let us get on with it. Have the guards bring the prisoners before me.”

  Dimitrios signaled to the soldier at the end of the room, who, after nodding in acknowledgment, opened the doors to the large hall that Memnon had made into his headquarters. As the doors opened, other guards brought forward three bruised and battered men, each chained at the wrist and ankles and linked together by another chain that ran through the iron collars around their necks. Dimitrios and Klemes each barely managed to suppress a gasp of surprise, for they recognized the high priest and the governor among the trio.

  “Brave defenders of Miletos,” Memnon said to the assembled officers, Ephialtes and Thymondas among them, “regard the vipers in our nest. You see before you three men who have betrayed us. It was these men who were behind the attempt to abduct me, and for the dual purpose of delivering me to Alexander as well as undermining our defense. They and their agents planned to open the gates to the enemy – an action which, as all of you, especially Greeks, know, would result in both the fall of the city – and death or slavery to its defenders.”

  “Who is the third man?” asked Ephialt
es. “I know the governor and the high priest, and presume they made a deal with the Macedonians to retain their power and position, but this third man, the fat little fellow in the back, who is he?”

  “That, my friend, is – or was – the richest man in Miletos. His treason is based on greed. He wanted gold, assurances that his estates, mansions, warehouses, and ships would be safe, and that those of his rivals would be given over to his keeping. Well, my three Macedonian whores,” he continued as he turned to face the trio in chains, “each of you shall have what you wish, in a manner of speaking.”

  “What do you mean,” exclaimed a puzzled Thymondas.

  “Hegistratos, here, wished to stay on the governor's throne, here in Miletos. He shall have his wish. The guards will bind him tightly to his throne – and he shall be burned alive upon it in the city square.

  “The high priest wished to retain his exalted position. He shall. He shall be taken to the highest point in the city, where he shall be impaled upon a stake.

  “As for Glaucippos. Well, he wanted gold, and gold he shall have. I have ordered the goldsmiths to prepare a bath of molten gold – into which he shall be drowned.”

  Screams of fear and cries of protest erupted from the three prisoners, along with curses and pleas for mercy. Ephialtes, Thymondas, and the other officers and city officials in the room kept quiet, as did Dimitrios and Klemes. Each knew the punishment for treason was death – and death by means most painful, most foul, and most fitting. As Memnon pronounced judgment, he held above his head the baton given to him by Darius himself. That sign of authority silenced any objections and any questions that the assembled officers and city fathers might be considering. It was a sign that Memnon spoke for the King of Kings, and no one dared question his decision, as it would be the same as if they had objected to the word of Darius.

  To his great relief, Dimitrios was spared the task of carrying out the lethal and gruesome punishments of the traitors. Their treason had been exposed by the captured acolytes and fishermen, who had proven eager to give up their masters. For their willingness to confess, each had been given a quick and merciful death. Their heads were lopped off, loaded into the baskets of catapults, and hurled in defiance at the enemy lines. Although no one in the Macedonian camp knew these men, Memnon had ordered clay tablets inscribed with the details of their crime to be stuffed inside their mouths. Thus they would tell their tale, in a manner of speaking, in the event some curious Macedonian took the time to inspect the unusual ammunition with which they had been bombarded.

  One such inquisitive soldier did just that. He reported what he found to his corporal, who told his sergeant, who told the first man he could find who could read – the company clerk. Within an hour of its discovery, the head and the clay tablet that had been in its mouth were on a camp table in Alexander's tent. Parmenion, Hephaestion, and the other generals and close companions of the king were shocked and angered by this display, but each grew silent as they heard Alexander chuckle.

  “So, Memnon thinks, what, that this will give me pause? Demonstrate his resolve? Show me he is ruthless?” said the king, breaking out into peals of laughter. “Well, nobody can say that Alexander of Macedonia doesn't appreciate a gesture of defiance when he sees it. Hephaestion,” he said as he turned to his friend, “how many of those Greeks we took at the Granicos did we keep as camp slaves?”

  “About two hundred, my lord King. We put them to digging latrines and hauling away human waste.”

  “Well, Hephaestion, you will have to find some other slaves to do that dirty work”

  Hephaestion shuddered. He dared not ask what Alexander intended for those 200 former mercenaries. He did not have to. Within an hour, their heads were being flung into the city by Alexander's siege engines. They were the opening volley of what Alexander intended to be not only the heaviest, longest, and most destructive of his bombardments of Miletos, but also the last. The king's patience for siege warfare had run out. Tonight he would assault Miletos. Tonight he was determined to take more heads, especially that of Memnon.

  53

  Miletos

  The Wall

  “So, will he come at us today?” Aristophanes asked his friend and captain, as they and Klemes, the physician, stood at the wall of the citadel, watching the Macedonian artillery pound and pummel away at the outer defenses of the city.

  “I think so,” replied Dimitrios. “This is the heaviest, steadiest, and most directed barrage since the siege began. We knew it would come to this, eventually. Once the wall is breached, he will come – and come in force.”

  “Do you think we can hold him back?” asked Ari. “They say Miletos is as sound a fortress city as any since the days of Troy.”

  “And even Troy fell,” jibed Klemes. “Although Achilles did not live to see it.”

  “That is always the one thing that puzzled me about Alexander,” remarked Dimitrios. “His mother claims descent from Achilles, who may be merely a character made up by the poets, none of whom, by the way, mention him ever fathering children.”

  “Actually,” interrupted Klemes, “she claims to be descended from Molossos, the son of Pyrrhus, who claimed to have been the grandson of Achilles. It all gets a bit murky, but half of the royal families around the Aegean make the same claim.”

  “That Achilles must have been one prolific son of a...” laughed Ari.

  “Nevertheless,” Dimitrios resumed, cutting off Ari before he could finish his remark, “Alexander styles himself as Achilles reborn. He even wears the armor he took from the supposed tomb of Achilles outside of the ruins of what might be Troy, although nobody is certain the city really existed, or if those really are where the legendary city stood. But what really bothers me,” the captain continued,” is that Achilles died before Troy fell, which means he was, basically, a failure.”

  “And not just that, if you recall your Homer, which Alexander supposedly reads every night – when he's not too drunk, at least,” added Klemes, “his name is not that of a Greek, but of a prince of Troy.”

  “What? What prince?” asked Aristophanes.

  “Alexander, King Priam's son,” replied Dimitrios.

  “Huh? Never heard of him,” Ari replied.

  “Yes, you have,” interjected Klemes. “Paris' real name was Alexander – or Alexandros, which is the same thing. That is the name he was given when he was born. His sister, Cassandra, had a vision that he would bring death and ruin to the city and the family. So the child was taken from the city as an infant, and left to die of exposure – but the gods intervened. A shepherd found him, gave him the name Paris, and raised him as his own. It wasn't until he was nearly 20 that his true identity was revealed.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” sighed Ari, taking a deep breath. “A man named for a prince of Troy, thinks he is the reincarnation or something of a great warrior, who, even if he did exist, not only failed to take Troy but died in the attempt, right? And he wears that dead warrior's armor as a good luck charm while trying to take a city that is probably far better defended than the one his supposed ancestor or whatever died trying to take?”

  “That about sums it up,” nodded Dimitrios.

  “That doesn't make any sense,” replied Ari. “And if he does think it makes sense, then Alexander is either crazy...or mad.”

  “Actually,” said Memnon as he came to the point of the wall where the trio was gathered, “he is a little bit of both.”

  Dimitrios and Ari immediately came to attention, while Klemes just nodded in an acknowledgment of respect for the general.

  “Stand at ease, men. If anybody has earned the right to do so, it is the three of you. You each helped save my life, and it is I who should be saluting you all. So,” he said, clearing his throat and changing the subject, “how bad is it? Is the outer wall holding?”

  “Yes, my General,” responded Dimitrios, “but it won't for long. Our engineers have been shoring it up, and in many places have built an inner wall of wood, then filled up th
e space in between the two walls with dirt and sand. Eventually, however, it will all come crumbling down.”

  “And we shall be ready for them, won't we, my Theban friends. This is not my first siege, and it won't be my last. Thymondas has safely kept his archers back from the walls. As soon as the bombardment ends, the Macedonians will come with their ladders and rams and towers...and our bowmen will step up to rain arrows on them, every pace they take.”

  “Will that be enough to stop them,” asked Ari.

  “No,” said the general. “But it will slow them down, thin out their ranks and make it all the harder for them to take the wall. That is why Ephialtes will be in reserve with our own men – or should I say, your men, captain – your fellow Greeks in Persian service.”

  “Then that is where I should be, too, General,” replied Dimitrios. “I ask for permission to join the ranks of our hoplites.”

  Not to be outdone, Ari, too, spoke up. “I am not of much use in the shield wall but I am a decent shot with a bow. I would like to join our archers when the time comes.”