A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  Halicarnassos is all about money, Memnon mused. The biggest, greatest, most vibrant port in all of Asia Minor, it was the perfect crossroads for ships coming up from Egypt and the Levant, across from Rhodes, Cyprus, and even Crete, and down from the Ionian cities. Trade fleets from here reached across to Greece, Sicily, Italy, and beyond, as far as Carthage and the Pillars of Hercules. Its harbor rivaled even that of the old Phoenician city of Tyre, and was every bit as well-defended.

  Memnon, as Ephialtes had predicted, did begin to feel his confidence returning, doubly so when he set foot upon the dock, for there to greet him were two old friends: Orontobates, satrap of Caria, and Autophradates, admiral of the imperial navy. What brought even more joy and certainty of victory to his heart, however, was the tall man who stood behind them. Although Memnon did not know his face, he knew his uniform. It was that of the Immortals – the elite lifeguard of the king of kings, and the only infantry in the Persian Empire who could stand face-to-face against the Macedonians with any certainty of defeating them.

  “Excellency, Admiral, I am honored that you came to greet me, whereas it is I who should be seeking an audience with you.”

  “Nonsense, Memnon, you are the general of all of the armies of the empire, the man hailed by Darius himself as the defender of the realm. It is we who are honored,” said the satrap, bowing slightly.

  “There has been much ah, confusion, shall we say, in the streets, the agora, and the councils, since Alexander took Miletos. Now that you are here, I am certain all of that will come to a stop. The people, the garrison, and the city fathers will be greatly relieved and inspired, now that you are here to lead and defend us.”

  Memnon blushed a little at the obsequiousness of it all, but then again, he had been around imperial officials long enough to know it was all part of the game. Frankly, had Orontobates been more serious and less fawning in his welcome, he would have taken it as a sign that his authority had been diminished. Not to be outdone in the sycophantic competition, Autophradates, too, heaped praises upon the storied general. Memnon heard him speak but did not pay attention to his words, instead he looked past him, to the stoic, stone-faced officer of the imperial bodyguard.

  “Yes, yes Admiral, all well and good. I trust the navy will do better here than it did at Miletos. I depend upon your skill to keep the supply line by sea open, and to keep Nicanor's fleet at bay – this time.”

  “That will be an all too easy task,” the admiral gloated.

  “And why is that?” asked Memnon, puzzled by the naval officer's confidence, especially in light of the navy's poor performance at Miletos.

  “Because Nicanor has no fleet,” he replied with a massive grin. “Alexander sent it home.”

  “You're dispersing my fleet!” Nicanor exclaimed in disbelief, a response seconded by Alexander's other top commanders, all of whom he had called together in what had been until recently Memnon's headquarters in the citadel of Miletos. “Why would you do that? We practically won the battle for this city by...”

  Nicanor knew as soon as he started to say it that he had said the wrong thing – and the very thing that would set in stone Alexander's decision to disband the fleet. By even hinting that the glory and responsibility for victory was not Alexander's alone, Nicanor doomed the fleet, and his career along with it.

  Parmenion tried to come to Nicanor's aid, as did Ptolemy, but Alexander quieted them with a sudden, ferocious look, like a beast warning other predators away from his kill. “First of all, Nicanor, it is not 'your' fleet – it is my fleet; MY fleet. And second, Miletos was my victory – MY victory and MINE alone! MY fleet – under your able command, I grant you – just came in at the end, like beaters at the hunt who come in to complete the kill and divide up the meat when the beast is already skewered, laid out upon and bleeding into the dirt,” he added, his tone making it obvious that he felt insulted by his admiral. “Anyway, I have made my decision,” he added haughtily. “We cannot afford this fleet – and,” he added with self-congratulatory satisfaction, “we don't need it. Not anymore.”

  “But my King,” responded Parmenion. “If we do not blockade the port, then Halicarnassos will never fall. Their fleet can come and go as it pleases, bringing in food and reinforcements at will. No siege can succeed if they do – why, it will be no siege at all!” exclaimed the grizzled old warrior.

  “That is correct, my old friend,” Alexander replied with a smirk. “There is to be no siege of Halicarnassos.”

  The gasps of surprise filled the room, followed immediately by a rush of questions and incredulous responses, each of which was lost in the general tumult of words and emotions. Alexander again shot out a hand to silence his generals, each of whom understood that this was not a suggestion, but a royal command – and an impatient one at that.

  “We will of course build works at key points around the city, opposite the three gates – the Myndos Gate on the west side, the Mylasa Gate on the west and the Tripylon Gate on the north face of the city. Those will be the location of our camps, and there we will place our siege engines, which will immediately begin to pound the gates opposite them. There will be no siege, per se,” Alexander explained, “as I intend to take the city by storm, and storm it as soon as a breach has been made.”

  “But the navy could...”

  “No, Nicanor,” said Alexander sharply, “the navy could not help with this. You got lucky at Miletos, but the enemy fleet is already in the harbor – and it is twice the size of yours. They have a citadel at either end of the horseshoe-shaped harbor, and each is well-fortified with great pieces of artillery – artillery which could pound your ships into driftwood in a matter of minutes. So, no, Nicanor, your ships could not help – they would merely be a distraction at best, and one that the Persian fleet and the citadel garrisons on their own could deal with easily.”

  “But...but even if we are not part of the attack, surely you need my ships to keep the army supplied, to maintain contact with home, to...”

  “No, I do not,” Alexander replied rather succinctly.

  Again the generals, as if playing the part of a chorus in some tragedy, shouted their dismay and disbelief, but once again, Alexander gave the signal for quiet.

  “We have no need of lines of supply or communication back to Greece – or to Macedonia, for that matter. They have nothing to send us, and we have not the means to pay for it anyway. We are adrift here, in Asia Minor, and here we will establish ourselves. We will live off the land – and press the cities we liberate for supplies and manpower as we need. Besides, sending home the fleet will show our men – and the Persians – that there is no going back. We shall be like the sharks, ever moving, constantly feeding on our prey, as we scour the Persians from the coasts of Asia Minor, the Levant...and Egypt. Without bases, their navy will wither and die; so why waste men and money we do not have fighting them at sea? No, my good friends, my generals, my companions – we shall fight and defeat the Persian Navy where we are strongest: on land.”

  Just as Alexander's generals were caught by surprise by the young king's decision to disband his navy, so, too, was Memnon. At least for Memnon, however, it was a pleasant surprise. It meant one less worry, one less distraction, and one more weight lifted from the Macedonian side of the scale in this war. If Alexander was going to come at him solely from the land side, then so be it. He would be ready for him – as would the weight he would add to the scales, a weight surely to tip them in his favor: the Immortals.

  That thought gave Memnon great comfort, a feeling that only grew as he met privately with their commander, Hydarnes. Memnon actually had to look up to the officer, for as unusually tall and strong as the Rhodian commander was, the Persian officer was taller by nearly a head. By the way he held himself, it was obvious to Memnon that Hydarnes was no palace sycophant. True, his trousers and tunic were of unusually fine silk, and woven with golden thread. And his hair and beard were immaculately curled and oiled, but even with the rouge on his cheeks, the kohl around
his eyes and the smell of expensive perfume that wafted about him, there was no doubt that he was a fighting man.

  That was something that the Greeks, and especially the Macedonians, never understood. From the days of Herodotus, they had mistook what seemed to them marks of feminine preening to mean that the man behind the makeup was something less of a man. Memnon knew it to mean just the opposite. Only a man who had such conviction of his own manliness would go to battle so made up and so attired. What the Greeks dismissed as womanly, the Persians knew to be but fashion: after all, why shouldn't one look and dress their best for what might be their last day on earth?

  Hydarnes was just such a man, and Memnon well knew it. No one entered the ranks of the 10,000, let alone rose to command one of its 10 brigades. Nine of those brigades, each of 1,000 men, carried tall, sharp spears with little silver apples at their base. Only one brigade of the ten, the elite of the elite, the best of the best, the bravest of the brave, the noblest of the noble, were different. Their spears rested on an apple not of silver, but of gold. As did that carried by Hydarnes.

  “I am honored that the King of Kings should send one of his own bodyguards to serve under my command,” Memnon said to Hydarnes with complete and unequivocal respect. “So, tell me, Brave Warrior, favored of the emperor, why did our lord Darius choose you, in particular, for this task?”

  “Because I am a soldier – and I am so utterly bored with palace ceremonials,” he replied with an ease and honesty that took Memnon completely by surprise. “Do you know just how dull it is to do nothing but walk around the palace day after day after day, inspecting soldiers – and soldiers who are perfect in every respect? There is never a cuirass unpolished, a tunic untucked, or even a hair out of place. They are magnificent, but they are like statues – or toys from a box. I love them all and know them all by name, but...”

  “But, as you say, you are a soldier...”

  “And a soldier's job, as you have shown us Memnon, is to fight, not stand guard or march in parades.”

  “But surely, the King of Kings has not sent me his 'golden apples'? Who would guard the palace and the harem and the king's own person?”

  “No,” Hydarnes said with a sly grin, “he has not sent you his 'golden apples,' as my regiment of the Immortals is known. I turned over my command to my subordinate, who was eager for the honor. Darius allowed me to choose 500 men, drawn from each of the ten brigades, to come with me. They are indeed the finest soldiers you will ever see, General, and better still, each is a volunteer.”

  “So, that means the Immortals no longer number 10,000?” quipped Memnon with a laugh.

  “No, General, there are still 10,000 back at Persepolis. That, after all, is what the title 'Immortals' truly means. When one of us leaves, or falls, another steps in to take his place. Each of my 500 knew this, but in their hearts, and in that of the king, each is still one of the chosen: after all, as it is said, “once an Immortal, always an Immortal.”

  “And immortal shall we all be, Hydarnes” said Memnon, “when together we send Alexander back to Macedonia...”

  “Or to his grave.”

  61

  Alinda

  The Lair of the Once and Future Queen

  “The fat old cow wants me to do what?” barked Alexander in astonishment.

  “She wants you to accept her as your mother – your adopted mother, or the other way around, or something like that” replied Hephaestion, barely suppressing his glee.

  “You know I already have a mother, right?” the young king replied. “And she is trouble enough. I invaded Asia to get away from one mother,” continued a bit peevishly, “not to get a second one. Besides, you know how jealous Olympias is of anyone I even smile at...including you...actually, especially you, come to think of it. Imagine her reaction if I accepted Queen Ada as another mother.”

  Hephaestion could not help but grinning, yet still somehow managed to put forth his case with some seriousness.

  “Queen Ada is the key to our being able to lay siege to Halicarnassos. It was, after all, her city and her province before she got kicked out by her brother. She still has followers, Alexander, and she could be of enormous help.”

  “Enormous is one word for her...have you ever seen a woman that fat? And that smell, what is it?”

  “Rose water, Alexander, just simple rose water.”

  “Well she must bathe in it, drink it and have her clothes washed in it, for I can't stomach getting within a pike's length of her...”

  “Which pike? The twelve-footers...”

  “No, the eighteen-footers carried by the phalanxes. By all the gods, she smells like a temple after the virgin priestesses have burned their offerings. It is sweet, cloying and, well, it makes me want to vomit.”

  “Said like a true king, Majesty,” smiled Hephaestion. “Well, how about we stick a little strongly scented wax up your nostrils to mask her smell? Could you then manage to get close enough to talk to her, kiss her hand, maybe even allow her a motherly embrace?”

  “Not for all the poppies in Persia...”

  “Well, if not for the Persian poppies, then how about the currency of Caria. Outside of Halicarnassos she is still revered and honored as queen. With the satrap and his army stuck in the city, the towns and villages will be free to show their loyalty to their rightful queen. They do rather revere her, you know. After all, it was her older brother, King Mausolus who built that gleaming monstrosity of a tomb. It is hideous...”

  “As is the queen” snapped Alexander quite snarkily.

  “Yes, but each is a wonder of the world in their own right,” continued Hephaestion. “Think of what you'd gain. A friendly countryside – and that would be a nice change, wouldn't it? That means Ptolemy can't play his little crucifixion and impalement games, as with her backing he won't have to. For once we'd have farmers willing to sell us their food, workmen happy to build our siege works and, well, even the local ladies might be more conducive to the attentions of our soldiers. Think of what that would do for morale among the troops?”

  “Yes, yes, Hephaestion, but...but my mother...”

  “Don't worry, Alexander, she knows how the diplomatic game of power is played. She will understand.”

  “Hephaestion,” Alexander asked rather pointedly, “have you met my mother?”

  The palace of Queen Ada was not really a palace, nor a fortress, but basically a fortified farmhouse. Her estate at Alinda had been meant as a vacation spot where the royals could escape from the prying eyes of the priests and counselors. A retreat where they could escape the roar and smell of the city and let their hair down – or, in the case of Queen Ada, take it off, for beneath her wig she was as bald as a cucumber. As a place of exile, it was comfortable enough – and close enough so that Pixodoros, who first sent her there, could keep watch on her. Alas, the clever usurper had himself been usurped by his son-in-law, Orontobates, following the former's untimely accidental death. Accidental in that Pixodoros seemed to have accidentally cut himself six times while showing off with the old king's royal sword. Or so the story went.

  Orontobates did not pay much heed to old Queen Ada, even after Alexander marched down from Miletos. He did, of course, have her under surveillance. His scouts reported that a number of couriers and rather high-ranking Macedonians had been seen coming and going between the advancing army and the queen's royal retreat. Still, Orontobates did not believe much would or could come of it. After all, he had been around the old bag enough in his younger days to know how she rubbed people the wrong way.

  In that, however, he underestimated the diplomatic talents of Hephaestion – who was not only easily the prettiest general of any army in history, but also one of the most silver-tongued. Hephaestion could charm a snake from a jar, a lion from a cave, or Alexander from – or into – his bed. Queen Ada never stood a chance, but then again, she wanted an arrangement with the Macedonians even more than they wanted one with her. For Alexander and Hephaestion an alliance with the old queen m
ade good military sense. While for them it was merely a matter of logistics, for the deposed queen it was something much stronger and sweeter that drove her – the desire for revenge.

  Ada did not much care if she ever ruled Caria again, or once more sat her rather plump behind on the throne in Halicarnassos. All she wanted was to make sure that none of those who had played a part in robbing her of her birthright no longer did either. And it wouldn't hurt if they suffered, and not just suffered a little bit.

  With Alexander as her adopted son, she could at least have the title and the respect, even if one of the annoying little Macedonian would wield the real power. Let him, she thought. The business of governing is rather tedious anyway, and tended to interfere with her more satisfying pleasures. One of those, she sighed in anticipation, would be seeing Orontobates and his wife humbled. Perhaps she would geld him, cut out her tongue and let them live, the queen mused, as her slaves, for that would really make them suffer.

  While Alexander and Hephaestion were being tormented by the rosy odors of Queen Ada, Ptolemy and Parmenion were shepherding the army down the winding roads and through the passes and defiles that led to Halicarnassos. With the Persian fleet having retired to the city's magnificent port, the seas and coasts to the north remained free to what little was left of Nicanor's command. Using the twenty ships left to him for scouting and courier duty, the admiral of the much-reduced fleet was able to scoop up about a dozen merchant ships. Onto them Ptolemy boarded his engineers and their siege equipment, which they dismantled for the purpose of transport. These reached the little port town of Myndos about the same time that Ptolemy's advanced cavalry scouts arrived on its land side. Both Nicanor and Ptolemy were annoyed to find that the town's gates were shut and its walls manned by archers and spearmen. The former seemed especially keen to show off their prowess, picking off individual targets at a far greater range than either Macedonian expected.