“And then, what, on into Macedon and even Greece itself?”
“For you, the king and others, perhaps, but for me...” Memnon said with a deep, longing, sigh, “for me it means I may finally get to go home. Home, and my children, and Barsine.”
As Ephialtes and Memnon had predicted, Alexander did indeed attack that morning. All along the horseshoe-shaped front, his artillery opened up with as intense a bombardment as had ever been launched in Asia. For two hours his crews kept up a relentless, furious, and well-directed barrage of rocks and stones, fire pots and iron projectiles. The Macedonian crews worked at the double, and at the end of those terrible two hours, as the energy of the siege engine crews finally began to falter, Alexander gave the word for the assault parties to leave their trenches.
Horns blared, drums beat and whistles blew all along the line. A score of tightly packed groups of assault troops went up and over the top and into the open ground between their lines and the smoking, crumbling walls of the city. Behind them rolled massive towers, covered in ox hide and packed with archers and more assault troops. Another wave, the heavy infantry in their formations, formed up ready to follow – to climb the towers and ladders once the advance parties had reached the wall.
It was an amazing, intimidating, and awe-inspiring sight; one designed to instill terror and to squash all hopes of survival, let alone victory, among the garrison. That is what it was designed to do; that is what through his meticulous planning Alexander had intended it to do. And that is what it would have done – had the city been held by any other commander than Memnon. What Alexander had forgotten in his surety of success was that he was using what he had learned of siege warfare against the man who had taught him. A man who had not only taught him about sieges, but who had been attacking and defending cities for two decades – a man who taught his student a great deal about siege warfare, but not everything. Some lessons could only be learned from experience.
Alexander's massive assault was met with an equally massive response. The walls had been reinforced and so absorbed the pounding, and while crenelations crumbled and battlements broke, they did the task they were designed for: to shield the weapons behind the walls and inside the towers. These Memnon had kept silent during the barrage, their crews resting safe in deep tunnels and strong castles inside the city. Only when Alexander's men stepped off into the open did they scramble out of their protected positions to man their weapons. While Alexander's mighty rock-hurlers and bolt-throwers had expended their munitions against stone, Memnon's had a much softer target: men. Men out in the open, many unable to protect themselves with shields as their hands were busy carrying ladders to raise against the walls, bundles of sticks to fill the ditches or wooden ramps to bridge them, or were hauling the great towers and battering rams across the field. Into this mass of moving and quite unprotected flesh Memnon unleashed hell.
Almost every stone, every bolt, every jar of flaming oil or burning pitch found its target. The falling boulders smashed whole platoons like a fist. Storming parties found themselves caught in a storm of Memnon's making, as fire and death rained down upon them. Even the great towers shuddered from the impact of mighty stones, each of which struck with unholy accuracy. The assault, which had been prepared and practiced over and over again for 20 days, collapsed in 20 minutes. Not even Alexander's veterans could take that kind of direct, accurate, and intense fire, especially when it came from an enemy they could not see, let alone strike at. Alexander did not call off the assault – he did not have to; his men simply lost heart – or gave in to their natural desire to live another day.
“How could this happen!” sputtered Alexander, as Hephaestion and Ptolemy struggled to restrain their friend and king from riding into the maelstrom. “My army turning tail! My men unmanned by a few pebbles and some sharp sticks! Cowards!”
“They are not cowards, my lord,” said Parmenion as he rode up, his cloak torn and his horse and armor splattered with dirt and blood. “No man can cross that plain, not against such deadly fire. I have never seen the like. It seems like every projectile finds its mark, as if guided by the hands of the gods to the very spot where it will do the most harm and kill the most men.”
Alexander, in a rage, was not calmed by n report. To the contrary, he fell into an apoplectic frenzy – and one so deep and powerful that he could not be restrained. Shaking off the hands of his friends he spurred his horse, drew his sword and screamed a horrific battle cry as he charged into the retreating mass of men.
“Turn around! Turn around! Would you run away while your king goes forward! Turn around, damn you! Turn around and follow me!”
The charismatic king pulled off his helmet so his men could better see him, and whether inspired by his presence or simply shamed by his courage, many of the Macedonians did turn around, grit their teeth, and go back once more into that field – but not for long.
Alexander felt the accuracy of Memnon's fire first hand. Knocked from his mount by the glancing blow from a rock he fell, his shoulder dislocated and in such pain that even the adrenaline that had fueled his rash charge could not assuage. A group of the Companions Cavalry saw him fall and, braving the heavy fire, rode out into the deadly field, the survivors hurtling from their horses to cover the king with their shields and their bodies. Half-swooning from the pain and shock, Alexander could offer no resistance as his guards struggled to carry him from the fray. He was alert enough, however, to notice something quite peculiar as he was taken back to the safety of the siege line.
The rocks. The rocks were painted – but only on the side facing the city. Some were splattered with red paint, others with yellow or white...why? What did it mean? What was it about those rocks?
66
Outside Mylasa
I Had a Farm in Asia Minor...
Ari awoke with a start, as he had been certain it had all been a dream, but here he was, in the shade in a grove of fruit trees, with a beautiful serving girl offering him cool water, a plate of olives, and some cheese. Never in his life, and especially not since war had come to Thebes, had anyone waited upon him, let alone anyone so lovely. It was all he could do to remember to thank her, so entranced was he by the softness in her eyes and the gentle way in which she performed such simple tasks. It had been a long time – too long – since Ari had seen a woman who wasn't selling herself to soldiers in a camp or teasing them in a tavern. This was different – this girl was different – and he had no idea what to do next.
Fortunately – or not, depending on whose point of view – Ari was spared the embarrassment of doing or saying the wrong thing (or perhaps doing or saying the right thing) by Klemes.
“Ah, there you are, you lazy little bugger,” the physician said as he came through the trees. “I am sorry to interrupt whatever this is, but the captain has been looking for you. You do remember the captain,” he added with sly nod, “our traveling companion and, more importantly, our commanding officer? If you can tear yourself away from your... er... distractions...that is” he added with a knowing smirk and at least one raised eyebrow.
Embarrassed, disappointed, but also a little relieved by Klemes's sudden appearance, the still-groggy young archer struggled to get to his feet. As he began to put his weight on his bad leg, it suddenly buckled, but before Ari fell he found himself caught in the arms of the serving girl. He did not know if he should be ashamed of his infirmity or, in this rare instance, feel happy for it. The unexpected pleasure of her hands upon him just made whatever thoughts and feelings he was having start to swirl about in his head.
Then she smiled at him, and helped him to stand, and all just seemed right with the world – and for the first time in a long, long time. Even Klemes' snarky interruption couldn't take that away from him, not this time.
“I'm coming,” Ari said with a sigh, the girl's hands still on his arms as if to steady him. She smiled at Ari again, then released her hold on him, backed away and bent down to retrieve her water jar and the basket of olives and c
heese. With a little laugh she scurried away in the direction of the farm house, pausing briefly to look over her shoulder to see if Ari was watching her – which he was, as she knew he would be.
“If you are finished mooning over that little serving girl,” Klemes whispered, careful that only Ari could hear, “do you think you could move it along a bit. My brother is waiting, and while I don't mind making him wait for me, I'd rather not have you getting into the same habit. So come along, and remember why we came here. There will be other girls, you know,” he added with a sudden and entirely unexpected touch of kindness. “There are always other girls.”
By the time Ari and Klemes had reached the main house, Dimitrios was already deep in his conversation with the steward. An older fellow, not yet but on the verge of becoming frail, the steward talked slowly, as if each sentence were a heavy weight that took time, and care, and a great deal of effort to lay out. He spoke in a local dialect that combined bits of Greek, and Persian, and other languages, and Dimitrios was thankful that the steward did speak so slowly, for even so the Theban captain was struggling to keep up with his host.
“What's he saying, Dimitrios?”
“I am not entirely certain of all of the details, but he said something about a great lady and her entourage making their way through the area. Most of the nobles and other great landowners are either with the army in Halicarnassos or have fled to their estates farther east, leaving their lands in the care of stewards like this fellow. He is very concerned for her safety, and for the safety of any who travel about. Since the lords departed, the bandits and raiders they and their retainers had kept in their place are becoming more active. The steward even offered to hire us on as guards, as he fears that these roving bands will try to steal his master's goods and carry off the servants...
“No! We can't let that happen, Dimitrios! We should take him up on his offer...”
Dimitrios was as taken aback by Ari's unexpected outburst as he was puzzled by his reason for doing so.
“He's just mooning over one of those servants,” said Klemes. “Pay no mind to what the lad says. This great lady the steward is talking about, do you think it’s...her?” he asked, pausing to catch himself before mentioning Barsine by name.
“Perhaps. He doesn't appear to know the particulars, but from what he has told me, it's a pretty good guess that she's the one we were sent to find. If my Persian were better, I'd be able to find out some more details, but...”
“So...so I guess that means we won't be staying on?” asked Ari, the disappointment evident in his tone.
“No. Hardly. If anything,” Dimitrios added, “it means we need to get a move on, and find this woman before she runs afoul of any of those unsavory characters that might be about. As a matter of fact, he said one of his men saw a gang pass by last night, and they were in an awful hurry.”
Ari sighed in disappointment, while Klemes just groaned. “I had hoped for a day or two at least to rest,” he added as he stretched and cracked his back. “But if as you say...”
“I don't see as how we have much choice, do you? As much as he wants us to stay on as guards, the steward is willing to make a trade for fresh horses. They aren't of the same quality as these mounts, since the lord cleaned out the stables and paddocks to take the best horses with him, but at least it will be better than walking.”
“And those ruffians his man says he saw last night, did he mention which way they went?” asked Klemes.
Dimitrios pointed northeast.“He says they went that-away.”
Ari looked back every few minutes as they rode away, his mind and heart still back at the farm. Dimitrios didn't notice, being at the head of their small column, and while Klemes did, his backside was already too sore from bouncing on the bony back of his mount to bother saying anything.
“Do you think we'll ever come back here?” Ari asked the physician.
“I doubt it, but who knows?” replied Klemes, annoyed more at his uncomfortable ride than his riding companion. “Those bandits might be going after someone or something other than the 'great lady' the steward told Dimitrios about. Even if she is Barsine, and we do find her, we're supposed to see her safely to the east. And that's the opposite of the direction we just came from, and from your pretty little serving girl,” he added, managing a little grin, despite his discomfort.
“A fellow can dream, can't he?” sighed Ari.
“Dream on your own time,” grumbled Klemes. “We've got a job to do. I don't want you falling off that sorry excuse for a horse and breaking a leg or your neck, which you keep twisting to get yet one more damn look at...what? Do you think she's going to come running down the road after you?”
“Well, now that you mention it,” replied Ari quite perkily, “I'm pretty sure that's her riding that pony back there.”
“Well,” grumbled Klemes, “I think it is. Damn, just what we don't need; another lovesick child.”
67
Outside Halicarnassos
Alexander's Camp
“Give them the lash, Ptolemy,” Alexander scowled. “Give those prisoners the lash until their backs are raw and the white of their bones begins to show. And if they still haven't talked by then, pour vinegar and salt into their wounds – and whip them again. I want to know how Memnon is able to so effectively target us as we cross that plain.”
“Perhaps, sire, it is sorcery...some kind of dark magic?” mumbled Hephaestion. “If that is the case, then whatever these poor souls can tell us won't be of much help.”
“I don't care, Hephaestion. I want answers, and I suspect these scouts of his have them. And Ptolemy,” said Alexander, turning to his companion, “get those answers. By the way, why am I not hearing them scream? I did not tell you to stop their torture, did I?”
“No, Alex...I mean, no, sire,” said Ptolemy more obsequiously than usual.
“Then get back to it, man, get back to it. I want to hear them scream! I want Memnon inside his fortress across the plain to hear them scream! I want every man, woman, and child,” Alexander sputtered, “in this camp and inside that city to hear them scream!”
Ptolemy saluted, bringing his fist to his heart, made a slight bow, and backed out of the king's tent. As he exited Alexander heard Ptolemy yell a command – and a curse – to his men to get back to their bloody work.
“Now, Hephaestion,” said the king, still scowling in fury and frustration, “about that other matter.”
“You mean Memnon's family?”
“Yes. So, what have our scouts and spies been able to find out? Do they know where this precious Barsine and her brood are hiding?”
“Not exactly, my King,” Hephaestion said quietly.
“And what does 'not exactly' mean, Hephaestion? You've either found out where they are or not...so which is it?”
Hephaestion took a deep breath, drew himself up to look Alexander in the eye and answered “we are close to finding her, is what I mean, sire – and by that I mean we have discovered that she is on the move, going from one great estate to another. Even better, she is headed this way. Seems she can't bear to be parted from her husband any longer,” Hephaestion added with a smile, “so all we have to do is wait for her to come to us – then we'll have her.”
Alexander grit his teeth, dug his fingernails into his palms and, barely controlling his anger, slammed his fist onto his map table.
“So that would be a 'no,' then, Hephaestion?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking I suppose...”
“Hephaestion!” the king roared. “Dear, sweet Hephaestion. When I tell you to bring me the wife of Memnon, I mean now. Today. Not whenever she happens to wander into your lap. You say you have information as to her movements? Well, then, go and get her...and this time I mean you go – not your aides, not your lieutenants, not some hapless squadron commander of cavalry, but you. Personally. Find her. Bring her to me – and don't bother coming back until you do. Is that clear?” he added, taking Hephaestion's head between his hands. “Hep
haestion,” he repeated, this time quietly, almost whispering, but with iron in his voice, “don't disappoint me.”
“I never have, Alexander,” Hephaestion managed to reply, putting his own hands over those of the king. “And I never will.”
“I suppose we should stop for a moment and let her catch up to us,” Klemes said as he caught up to his brother and brought his mount to a halt.
“Who?” asked Dimitrios, who had been looking ahead, not back, as they rode.
“That girl,” Klemes said pointing the young woman racing toward them on a fast horse. “The one from the farm. The one that was fawning all over our young friend.”
“You think she stole the horse just to follow after him?” sighed Dimitrios. “We can't take in some runaway slave; we'll have to take her back.”
“You know what Greeks do to escaped slaves, let alone those who steal a horse, don't you, brother? Imagine how much worse the Persians can be,” said Klemes, concern for the young woman evident in his demeanor.
“That can't be helped,” replied Dimitrios. “We may need to go back to that farm someday, and soon, so we had better send her back. Can't have the locals shutting us out for fear we will harbor runaways.”
While the two brothers were discussing what to do with the girl once she caught up with them, Ari had turned his horse around and ridden back to meet her. As they closed the distance between each other, each drew on their reins to bring their mounts to a walk, until they were face to face.
“Take me with you!” the girl asked, breathing hard. “Please, take me with you!”
A Captain of Thebes Page 40