“I am already sick and tired of all of this 'room' of yours,” said Dimitrios as he led his mount turned pack horse through the rough terrain. “I want and need to find a farm, or a proper town, one where we can find fresh horses, buy a decent meal and get a real bath.”
“Well, then,” laughed Halime, ”you're in luck. You see that rider? He's quite a way from his appointed rounds, but with the pass he carries, he can command anyone in the empire to provide him with anything he needs to fulfill his mission. Once you tell him you are traveling under orders from Memnon, I am sure he will be able to help you get what you need. Besides, there's a large group of farms just over the next rise. It's nothing grand like one of your Greek cities, but it will do.”
The rider by now had decided that his horse was too badly injured to carry him, and had dismounted so as to give the horse a rest and to better examine her. The sleek, young mare whinnied at the approach of Halime, the Greeks, and their horses, which put the courier on his guard.
“Don't worry,” Halime said over her shoulder to Dimitrios, “he's unarmed. The couriers aren't even allowed to carry a dagger, lest even its light weight slow them down.” She waved in a similarly reassuring fashion to the courier, who seemed both embarrassed at his situation and relieved that the party approaching him was friendly.
“In the name of the King of Kings,” the young man said in an attempt to impress the newcomers as to his importance, “I command you to give me your best horse. I promise that you shall be justly compensated, once you take my poor mount to a courier station.”
The rider was younger than either Halime or Ari, beardless, and with only a wisp of a mustache. A slight, slender if wiry fellow, he could not have weighed much more than the girl, thought Dimitrios. This is a young man meant for speed, not for fighting, he determined. Then again, in a courier service where a message could be relayed the length of the vast Persian empire in under two weeks from end to end, speed was what mattered – speed and endurance, and, of course, a good head on one's shoulders.
“Sorry, my friend, but you are out of luck,” replied Dimitrios as they came closer. “Our horses are in worse shape than yours. They're barely able to carry our gear and rations. You'll go farther and get there faster on foot than riding one of these sad beasties.”
“Damn!” said the courier. “That means I am going to have to turn back to get another mount. I'm already behind schedule. I should have been at least in Mylasa by now.”
“We've just come from there, friend,” said Ari as he came up. “You've got three, maybe four days walk.”
“Then I will indeed have to turn back. The settlement at Bogdan is at least a day back the way I came, but I'll still make better time getting to Halicarnassos if I do.”
“Halicarnassos? Did you say Halicarnassos?” said Klemes, who had also finally caught up with the others. “We've just come from there. There's an entire Macedonian army around the city. You'll never get in – hell, you'll never even get close.”
“But...but I must! I have to! I just have to!” said the young man, practically ready to cry. “It's...it's my first mission, and I can't fail...and I'm already behind schedule...”
“There, there, young fellow,” said Dimitrios, taking him by the shoulder. “Come along with us to this Bogdan place, and perhaps we can figure something out. By the way, I'm an officer on General Memnon's staff. My name is Dimitrios, Captain Dimitrios. The tall one there is my brother, Klemes, a physician, also in the service of Memnon.”
“Ahem,” coughed Ari.
“Oh,” said Dimitrios to the courier. “The other one's my friend, Ari. He's also in the great general's service. So, what is this message you carry for my general?”
“I'm not at liberty to say,” said the young courier, suddenly turning quite serious and formal. “I've already said too much,” he added, a little embarrassment showing through his poor attempt at being solemn and soldierly. “I'm...We're not supposed to divulge the intended recipients let alone the contents of the messages we carry. It's part of the code, you know.”
“What code?” asked Ari.
“Why, the code of the imperial couriers...like me!” said the lad.
“I read something of that in Herodotus, if I recall,” interrupted Klemes. “Something about going at their best speed and not allowing themselves to be hindered...either by snow, or rain, or heat...”
“...or by the darkness of night,” said the courier proudly, taking over from Klemes. “Oh, and there's more, if you care to hear it I can...”
“No, no, that's quite enough,” said Klemes. “I think we all get the picture here.”
“Look, son,” said Dimitrios, interrupting the banter between the courier and the physician. “I told you I am on the general's staff...I even have a medallion in my bag to prove it, as well as a letter from the general requiring anyone I meet to obey my requests for assistance as if it were the command of the general himself. Memnon's in Halicarnassos, all right, but you're not going to get anywhere near him, so that makes me your next best bet for completing your mission. So, hand over the message.”
“I...I really shouldn't” mumbled the young courier, taking a step back and clutching tightly at the little wallet strapped to his side. “That's against the...”
“I know, I know, against the 'code,' and all that,” replied Dimitrios, close to becoming impatient but struggling to remain calm, and civil, and nonthreatening. “But hand it over, I command you. And if it makes you feel any better, I promise to give it back to you once I've read it.”
“But it's sealed...”
“By whose hand, that of the king? Of one of his ministers, or a satrap?”
“Err...no,” mumbled the courier.
“Then whose seal does this message you carry bear?” asked Dimitrios, quite perplexed.
“That of the lady Barsine...” said the courier while looking down at his feet.
“Memnon's wife?” said the three Thebans all at the same time.
“The very same.”
“Well, then, lad,” said Dimitrios beaming. “You're doubly in luck. Not only have we come from Memnon on Memnon's business, but that business is to find his wife, deliver a message to her and then escort her to safety far, far from here. So, do you know where she is? Can you take us to her?” continued Dimitrios, suddenly quite excited, quite eager, and quite overwhelming – at least from the courier's point of view.
“Well, I just carry the mail,” said the courier. “It's all just a relay race, you know. One rider gets the letter, rides all day, passes it on to the next, who rides all night, and then he passes...”
“We get it, we get it,” sighed Dimitrios. “So do you know what link you are in this chain?”
“The second...or maybe the third, I think,” said the courier. “We don't have time to ask when one courier hands off to another, but Aleph, the rider who handed it off to me, he might know. Or at least he'd know who gave it to him...”
“So, if we find this Aleph, he might lead us back along the chain where the letter originated?” asked Klemes.
“Most likely,” said the courier, “although he's not any more at liberty to say than I am...”
“Enough!” said Dimitrios, finally just grabbing the boy by his uniform and snatching the wallet from him, pulling so hard that the thin strap which attached it to his person broke. “Let me read this damn letter. I need to find Memnon's wife and get her to safety. That's more important than any damn messenger's code...”
“Courier's Code, sir,” said the young man, rubbing his aching shoulder where the strap had been.
“Whatever,” said Dimitrios, hurriedly breaking the seal and unscrolling the letter. “This is from Barsine, all right. Says she's at some place called Diospolis. You know where that is, right?”
“I do,” Halime chimed in. “It's a big horse trading town on the Lycos River.”
“Far from here?”
“Twenty parasangs, maybe a little more,” replied Halime.
>
“What the hell is a parasang?” asked Ari.
“About 30 stadia,” replied Klemes.
“How do you know that?” asked Dimitrios.
“Herodotus. And Xenophon. I told you brother,” said Klemes with a teasing sigh, “it pays to read more. I told you, you can learn a lot from the classics.”
“So that means what, at 30 stadia to the parasang and 200 paces to the stadia...”
“What it means is that it is a long walk,” said Klemes.
72
Bogdan
To see a man about a horse...
Halime charmed the blushing young courier just as she had captivated Ari, disarmed the usually stoic Klemes, and won over the otherwise hard-bitten Dimitrios. She had a natural gift for getting people – and not just men – to like her and to trust her. This gift of Halime's had nothing to do with seducing or enticing men, for, while quite pretty, her beauty was not the kind that drove men wild with lust. Hers was instead of the type which made them smile, feel at ease, relaxed, and somehow happy just to be in her company. Halime had been favored by the gods. And while she knew it and was happy to make use of the blessings they bestowed upon her, she also had the kind of heart that would not allow her to even contemplate abusing that gift. If she always got what she wanted – and she usually did – somehow those who complied with her wishes always seemed to be happy they did so.
It was thus with relative ease that she was able to take charge of the little party without anyone – not even Dimitrios – realizing that she had.
The young courier, who gave his name as Oxycanos – or just “Oxy” as everyone almost immediately referred to him – was eager to please her as he guided the group toward Bogdan. At the same time, however, as he revealed to her, he was worried about how his superiors might chastise him for his many shortcomings. After all, not only had he failed to deliver his message but he also had further broken the courier's code by delivering it to someone other than the person to whom it was addressed.
“You did the right thing, Oxy,” Halime said, comfortingly, as they walked over the rough ground toward Bogdan. “If you pressed on, you'd only have gotten yourself killed. At least this way some good will have come from your misfortune,” she added with a warm smile. “Besides, you might have even saved lives.”
“How's that?” Oxy asked, genuinely intrigued and by now clutching at any straw of hope that he had of being exonerated for his actions.
“Memnon sent Captain Dimitrios to find his wife and to make sure the Lady Barsine and her children are safe. That letter told the general that she was coming to meet him at Halicarnassos. Had that fallen into the hands of the enemy, then the Macedonians would have known she was coming, set a trap, and captured her. Imagine what kind of leverage they would have over Memnon then? They'd force him to choose between surrendering the city and watching his wife and children die – and not in a quick or merciful way, if what these Thebans say about Alexander is true.”
“But, still, I...” stammered Oxy, wrestling with his conscience and struggling to find some balance to all of what had happened.
“No 'but still' about it,” smiled Halime, working her magic as best she could to put Oxy at ease. “You may turn out to be the real hero in all of this. After all, you may be the key to getting Dimitrios to Barsine in time to save her and her children from becoming pawns, or sacrificial lambs, in this great struggle. You could be the reason why we hold on at Halicarnassos, not to mention how you might indeed be the savior of a great lady.”
Oxy slowly began to smile a little, nodding his head in acquiescence to her logic.
“So, you trust these Greeks?” Oxy asked Halime softly, so none of the others who straggled to their rear could hear.
“Well,” she said with a wink and a smile, “a little. Although, between we Persians, I still keep a dagger under my blanket at night.”
As Halime and Oxy led the Thebans toward Bogdan, fresh horses and, hopefully, the Lady Barsine, back at the front Memnon had more than enough to contend with besides worrying about the safety of his family. From the towers of Halicarnassos, Alexander's four columns could be seen forming up in preparation for the assault. As the Macedonian preparatory bombardment intensified, Memnon strained to find evidence of which of those four columns would be the main attack. Little did he know or even suspect that it would be a fifth column, and one coming from an entirely unforeseen direction.
Alexander started the ball at the Mylasa Gate. His first wave was a long line of mantlets – mobile walls on wheels – behind which his infantry could take cover while light archers darted out and back to fire at any defenders who popped their heads above the battlements. The archery fire was not very accurate, nor was it intended to be. It was more of a nuisance meant to make enemy archers and artillerymen think twice before exposing themselves to shoot. As the mantlets hobbled slowly forward, small groups of unarmed men, most of them slaves, dashed forward to hurl bundles of sticks into the ditch at the base of the wall. Few were able to live long enough for a second such dash, fewer still for a third, but slowly, bundle by bundle, parts of the ditch began to fill.
Memnon watched this slow, meticulous choreography with interest, but did not see any reason yet to commit men from the reserve to the Mylasa Gate. Besides, even before Alexander's mantlets reached midfield, a courier rushed up with a report from Orontobates. The Macedonians were making a similar move on the Myndos Gate, at the exact opposite end of the city. Furthermore, the report stated that the defender's artillery fire was having almost no effect, as most of the shots were way off target. Perplexed at that last bit, Memnon strode down the steps from the tower, mounted a waiting horse, and rode the width of the city to find Orontobates.
“None of the stones we hurl land anywhere near where they are supposed to land,” the governor said, quite perplexed.
“Aren't they using the colored rocks as aiming points?”
“Yes, Memnon,” replied Orontobates, “but if they are ordered to shoot at a yellow rock it winds up over by a white rock, or a red one.”
“Damn,” said Memnon quietly. “They've moved the rocks.”
“What?” asked Orontobates.
“The Macedonian kinglet is learning from his mistakes. He or someone in their camp must have realized we had painted the rocks to use as aiming points. Alexander's men must have gone out one night and moved the rocks.”
“So we just have to adjust, right?” asked Orontobates. “If we want to hit where we see a white rock, we just have to figure out what color it will land on instead, and then we can adjust.”
“No,” sighed Memnon. “I don't think it will be that simple or that logical. They've moved them all about, and I'll bet there is no rhyme nor reason to how they did it. No, Governor, your men are just going to have to sight their targets anew. Fortunately, most of our artillery is still intact and working properly. I trust you will give them a warm reception, once you get the ranges correct,” Memnon said, not in an interrogatory manner but as a command.
Memnon, however, did not have time to judge the effectiveness of Orontobates' response, for another courier came racing, breathlessly, up the stairs to the tower from which the two men were observing Ptolemy's advance.
“What is it?” asked Orontobates as the courier fought to get the words out, his chest still heaving and grasping for air from the run up the steep stairs.
“General Ephialtes...the Tripylon Gate...Macedonians...”
“Come, man, spit it out!” shouted Orontobates.
“No, soldier. Take a moment. Take a deep, slow breath,” said Memnon in a fatherly manner. “Get it right. What exactly does Ephialtes have to report about the Tripylon Gate?”
“Macedonians...thousands of them,” said the courier, still struggling for air. “A...a living wall...shields locked, massive towers rolling forward...and a battering ram so massive it could have only been made by Hephaestos in the forge of the gods...”
“Are those your words or those of
the general?” inquired Memnon calmly, hoping his own demeanor would help the courier calm down. “Did you see this giant ram for yourself?”
“With my own eyes, lord,” said the courier. “And those are General Ephialtes exact words. He made me repeat them twice. And he chose me, he said, because only a fellow Greek could deliver such a report to full effect.”
“And why is that?” huffed Orontobates, obviously annoyed and even insulted at the slight to the Persians among the defenders.
“Because,” said the courier, “you Persians don't have a god like Hephaestos. He makes all of the armor and weapons of the gods. He even forges the thunderbolts for Zeus to hurl!”
“Well,” smiled Memnon, “if anyone is going to be hurling thunderbolts today it will be us. Ride back to Ephialtes, tell him to take heart. He has my full confidence. Besides, the flanking fire from the eastern outcrop will slow that attack.”
“But...but sir,” replied the courier. “The outcrop, the demilune, the Macedonians are attacking there as well.”
“What?” asked Memnon, in genuine surprise. “How?”
“Ladders, sire. Long, long ladders. Hundreds of them. The Macedonians were scrambling up them as I left.”
“If they take that outcropping,” Orontobates said in alarm to Memnon, “instead of us outflanking their attacks, they will have the entire city laid out before them. They'll see our defenses, and enfilade our positions at both the Tripylon and the Mylasa Gate.”
“Well, then, that is where I need to be,” said Memnon as he put on his helmet. “And that is where the reserves must go. Young man,” he said as he turned to the courier, “do you know who Hydarnes is?”
“The commander of the Immortals, sir? Everybody knows who he is,” added the courier with a sense of great respect.
“Good. Then you go to the Mausoleum, you find him, and you give him this,” added the general, as he quickly scrawled a message into a wax tablet, closed it and sealed it with his ring. “You tell him to bring the reserves up the road to the Tripylon Gate, and to meet me there. Oh, and one thing more...”
A Captain of Thebes Page 43