A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  “What do you mean, Ari,” said Dimitrios in a tone that was part anger, part bitter resolve. “Don't you see what she's done?”

  “What? She said we could go,” replied Ari.

  “Go where?” Dimitrios spat back. “Had she commanded us to go with her, we would have to either obey or mutiny. Had she asked us to go with her, we could have politely refused. But no, she didn't do either of those things, did she, the clever little minx. No,” said Dimitrios angrily as he kicked at the sticks they had collected for the beacon, “she put it all on us.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ari, perplexed by his friend's remarks. “She said we are free to go.”

  “No, Ari, that is only what you heard her say. Like my mother, your mother, and every other woman ever born, she knows how to say one thing while meaning quite another. Her words said we could go, but what she meant is that if we do, we are cowards. For what kind of soldiers, or men, or even human beings would we be if we let a lady – and a princess at that,” he continued as the pointed to the conflagration across the water, “go into that all alone?”

  As Dimitrios and Ari built their signal fire, the one down by the camp was blazing brightly, its plume of smoke rising high in the windless sky.

  “I am not sure if anyone is going to see either of our small beacons, my lady,” Halime said to the princess. “There is so much smoke coming from the city. These little fires of ours are likely to go unnoticed.”

  “Well, my dear girl,” said Barsine, “now that the sun is up there will soon be a ship going to or coming from the harbor. Their lookout is bound to see it. I just hope they are curious enough to investigate, when they do.”

  With the battle raging ashore, Admiral Autophradates had stripped his warships of their marines and most of their sailors. He had armed them and sent them to reinforce the city walls, especially those nearest the harbor and in the two citadels that guarded the anchorage. By doing so, he had freed up the infantrymen who had been garrisoning for duty elsewhere along the battlements. One squadron was still at sea, escorting a grain convoy from Egypt, but that was still several days distant. A trio of small scout ships were on patrol to the west, southwest and south. Even though Alexander had disbanded his fleet, and as such was unable to present any viable threat from the sea, the admiral remembered Miletos, and kept up his patrols. Each of the three was still far over the horizon, and unlikely to return until dusk.

  While there were no eyes on the water to spy the twin beacons on the long island, there were eyes on the land – and to the east, on the other side of the slender channel that separated the isle from the mainland. Those eyes, however, were not Persian, but Carian – and belonged to one of the scouts who served the corpulent queen, Ada. Curious as to why there were fires – and two of them – on the usually uninhabited island, the scout decided to take a closer look. In doing so he spied a pair of the Persian cavalrymen whom Burzasp had stationed to guard the backdoor to the princess' camp. Their presence was a puzzlement, and as such was worthy of reporting to the officer whose squadron was escorting a caravan from the east toward the queen's mountain retreat.

  The officer was most interested in the scout's report. He was also grateful for something, anything that would break up the monotony of escort duty. With the scout's report as an excuse, he left his second in command a trio of soldier with the camel train, and rode off with the rest of the troop to investigate the fires on the island – and the curious riders the scout had seen.

  As the day lengthened, the princess' party continued to scour the area for wood to feed the beacon fires, even though no ships were within sight. The princess herself paced restlessly back and forth on the high ground overlooking the beach, straining her eyes to look for sails. She had not returned to the beacon that Dimitrios and Ari were tending, as she could not bear to watch, helplessly, as the battle at Halicarnassos raged. Even from her perch above the beach her mind kept being drawn back to that horror. At least, as long as it was out of sight, she could manage to dampen some of the demons that plagued her thoughts; thoughts filled with fears of what had become or would become of her beloved husband.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a man on horseback.

  “What is it, Burzasp?” she asked as the rider halted before her.

  “We have company, my lady,” he replied, battling to catch his breath.

  “A ship? You've spotted a ship!” she asked, elated at the rekindling of hope.

  “No, my Princess. Riders. On the mainland. They are on the beach and appear to be readying to cross the shallow channel.”

  “Are they friends of ours?” she asked, hoping against hope that she had misread the concern on his face.

  “No, Princess. They are Queen Ada's men, and they are well-mounted and well-armed.”

  “How many of them are there?” she asked, steeling herself for the answer.

  “Too many.”

  87

  Outside The Tripylon Gate

  Ephialtes' Hour

  As Memnon's soldiers raced to keep pace with their commander on his ride from the citadel to the northern gate, Ephialtes continued his advance from the Tripylon into Alexander's lines. Shield ground against shield as the 2,000 mercenary hoplites shoved and slashed ahead, each step a battle to the death with the Macedonian king's elite Silver Shields. The price paid for each step was high, as the carpet of dead and dying behind the Greeks showed. It was hot, bloody work, but still ahead they pushed, Ephialtes himself front and center, stabbing with his spear and shoving with his shield.

  The veteran general, however, was not a young man. He was easily twice the age of most of the men he led, and half again the age of the rest. His short gray beard sopping with sweat, his faced stained with blood – some of it his own – Ephialtes fought like a lion, but even lions grow weary, especially old ones. Each swing of his shield, each thrust of his spear, took more and more effort. Every muscle, especially those in his thighs and arms, was afire with the strain of the long, hard fight. Gasping for breath, the general nevertheless stayed in the fight, encouraging his men with his example as best he could. A body, however, can only take so much. There is only so much that adrenaline can do to keep the fire of battle going in a man, especially when its fuel has been spent. As that fire dimmed, Ephialtes was more carried forward by the crush of the battle than leading it. His jabs grew fewer and less potent. His shield weighed him down more than it protected him.

  And that is when the Macedonian's sword found its mark.

  Ephialtes screamed as much in surprise as in pain when the short sword stabbed into his neck, just above where he held his shield. The shield should have been there to block the stab, but as his strength faltered, the old general let the heavy shield dip, and dip just enough to give his foe a target. The Silver Shield swordsman who struck the blow did not live to gain any laurels, for the Greeks to the right and left of their general made short and bloody work of him. Others carried Ephialtes back, passing him from one rank to the next of the deep phalanx, until they could safely set him upon the ground he had won.

  “The phalanx...” he coughed, as one of the soldiers held his head and another worked to undo his breastplate, “does it go forward still?”

  “Yes, my General,” one soldier replied. The general, he would later recall, appeared to hear his response, for he smiled at the soldier's answer as he died.

  The death of a commander usually unnerves an army so that it will falter, break, and run. Sometimes, however, it only enrages them, and spurs them on as they seek revenge. That is what happened outside the Tripylon Gate. Mercenaries though they might have been, these hoplites drawn from all over the Greek world were Ephialtes' men first and soldiers for hire second. If their general had died fighting for them, they were determined to do no less for him.

  And die they did – but they died hard.

  Even the vaunted Silver Shields could no longer hold them back. Veterans as devoted to their king as the Greeks were to their general, they were
barely able to hold the line – and a receding line at that. Alexander led charge after charge against the flanks of the Greeks, only to be repulsed each time by the disciplined response of these hoplites. Unable to make even a dent in their shield wall from horseback, the king dismounted, put himself at the head of a group of infantrymen and strode into the fight on foot, sword in hand.

  Cleitos and the Companions followed suit, struggling to reach their king and protect him with their swords, their shields, and their very bodies. They stopped most but not all of the enemy thrusts. Within minutes the king was bleeding from half a dozen cuts. Worse would have surely followed had not Cleitos with his massive hands physically yanked the comparatively small king out of the line.

  Even the presence of the Macedonian king was not enough to defeat the hoplites – but it did slow and finally stop them. Their numbers reduced by hours of combat, outnumbered, and being pushed against to the front, left, and right, the hoplites formed first a semi-circle, and then a circle – a defensive orb as the formation was known, with the body of their general at its core. Yet they did not give any ground. They took not a step back, even surrounded now on almost every side.

  It was from that side, the side opposite the Tripylon Gate, that Memnon rode forth, a column of Persian lancers at his back. The hoplites managed a ragged cheer at the sight of the commander, and dug in their heels as they awaited relief.

  Memnon's column was not alone. As the Persians flooded the field and charged to save the hoplites, another force also appeared on the scene. From within Alexander's camp a cry went up from the walking wounded, the sick, and other veterans who, because of injury, illness, or age had been excused duty. “Philip's men! Philip's men!” cried the old soldiers. “Form up! Form up!”

  From one end of the camp to the other, these hoary veterans of King Philip's old army came, wearing whatever armor their broken bodies could bear, and carrying swords, spears, axes, and whatever weapons they could find. A small group even managed to find a stand of sarissas – the 18-foot pikes of the phalanx battalions, and formed up into a small but tight formation eight wide by eight deep. With no general around, they commanded themselves – for so well drilled had they been by the great king that they needed no one to tell them what to do, where to go, or how to fight. In a solid, orderly mass they rose up out of the camp, crossed the siege line and slammed headlong into Memnon's charging column.

  When a wave meets a rock, no matter how strong and powerful and fast the wave, the rock wins. Philip's veterans were that rock upon which Memnon's wave broke.

  The example set by the old veterans inspired other Macedonian soldiers, including those who had fled the fighting to seek shelter in the camps and trenches, to come back to the fight. Even the artillerymen picked up their tools and strode in to the fight. Alexander, struggling to remain conscious from loss of blood, moved to join them – but was restrained by Cleitos.

  “My men...my men need me...” said the young king, half out of his head because of his many wounds.”

  “No, Majesty,” said Cleitos as he gently but firmly held the king. “Besides, those are not your men. Those are your father's men. Those are King Philip's men,” said Cleitos, a lump in his throat, “as was I.”

  As Memnon's men were stopped, driven back, and finally forced to retreat, the hoplites knew their hour had come. While most of the Macedonians gleefully pursued Memnon's routers back through the open gates from whence they had so recently come, the Silver Shields pulled back, reformed, and surrounded the dwindling hoplites circle. The two determined groups of foes wearily faced one another, barely able to stand, as each force was too worn and bloodied to attack the other. Hephaestion, who had come up with his guard as soon as he heard that Alexander had been wounded, advanced slowly and statefully toward the hoplites. The Macedonian formation parted for him, until he and his horse were just behind the front rank.

  “Soldiers of Greece!” the handsome young man in brilliant armor, his colorful helmet plumes dancing in the light breeze, called out. “Soldiers of Greece, lay down your arms. Honor has been served, and you have shed so much blood that your courage is beyond question. You have nothing more to prove – or to fight for. The battle is lost. The city is lost. Your general is dead. Lay down your arms, give us his body and I swear on my own king's life that you shall all go free – and can go home.”

  “Go to hell,” came a shout from within the hoplites orb. “And take your bully boy king with you.”

  Hephaestion expected no less, and responded calmly: “I say again, your honor is served. You may all go home. All you need do is lay down your arms and give us the body of Ephialtes.”

  A silence fell over the field for a moment. Then, from within the orb, one voice cried out “come and take them.” A second voice, then a third repeated those words, and other voices joined them. Within a breath it had become a chant, a defiant chant accompanied by the banging of sword and spear upon shield. Over and over the hoplites repeated their answer, each time louder than the last.

  Hephaestion shook his head. “Such a waste,” he mumbled, then turned to the aide behind him “I will waste no more of the king's men upon such as these. Silver Shields!” he then shouted in a commanding voice, “part!”

  At his command the ranks and rows of men to either side of Hephaestion moved away from the young general, as if they were curtains drawn back from a window. As they did so, they revealed a solid mass of archers, who, at a wave from Hephaestion, darkened the sky with arrows.

  “The city is lost, your grace,” a minor official on the governor's staff, told Orontobates. “Ephialtes is dead as are his men. Memnon's troops are in rout, and there are Macedonians in the city. They are pouring in through the Tripylon Gate. As they spread through the city, men are abandoning the walls and running, some to find and safeguard their families, others...to who knows where. Anywhere they might escape.”

  “We are in a city under siege, our backs to the sea,” sighed Orontobates. “There are only two places to be safe. The twin citadels at either end of the harbor – or aboard the ships. Send for the admiral. It is time to leave this place. Besides,” he added, holding a perfumed bit of silk to his nose, “the city reeks of death...and stinks beyond all telling.”

  Memnon, to his credit, tried to stem the rout, but was carried away by the flood of panicked horses and frightened men, women, and children. There was no rallying the Persian infantry, and even the noble cavalry were riding away as fast as they could. The city guard abandoned their posts as well, their only thought to save their loved ones from enslavement, rape, or slaughter. The already small force of Immortals was much reduced from combat, and carried their noble captain Hydarnes' bloody corpse with them as they fell back to the Royal Island. With four out of five of their comrades dead or dying, the 100 or so remaining Immortals could not save the city – but they could at least keep their commander's body safe from the Macedonians, and the carrion feeders.

  Even Memnon's great heart could find no hope, so complete was the defeat. Two months of bitter siege, and a year of seemingly endless war before that, finally caught up with him. His horse shot out from under him by enemy arrows, Memnon stumbled on foot, as if in a daze, going where the fleeing mob would take him. A soldier of the Immortals, recognizing him, drew him to the safety of their ranks. As Halicarnassos burned, they escorted him along with the body of their captain to the causeway that led from the city to the citadel on the Royal Island. Orontobates was there when Memnon arrived.

  “Well, my old friend,” said the governor, clad in pristine white garments, studded with diamonds, and a jeweled saber dangling from his belt, “it seems we must once again send ill-tidings to our emperor. Come inside. Wash your face. Have a cup of chilled wine – I have had the ice brought in by ship just for such a reason, as I find this season to be beastly hot.”

  Memnon barely had the strength to look up at Orontobates, let alone to argue with him. He merely nodded, put his head down and followed the servant Oro
ntobates had directed him to follow.

  “Prepare my ship,” he said to the weaselly bureaucrat who, still shaking with fear, had told him of the death of Ephialtes and the fall of the Tripylon. “Make ready to leave on the tide. And, oh,” he added almost as an afterthought, “be sure that Memnon is taken aboard before we set sail. The empire still has need of him.”

  88

  The Long Island off Halicarnassos

  A Short Battle on a Long Island

  Queen Ada's men had no more difficulty crossing the narrow channel between the mainland and the long island than the princess' party had. A few riders went ahead, but most stuck together in three clumps, each of about half a dozen variously armed and armored men. As the Queen greedily kept the few Carians who had remained loyal close to her side back at her fortress, the men crossing the water were a mixed lot. These were not professionals but hired soldiers, bribed brigands, and refugees who sold themselves into service as a way to feed their families. Only two men in the group were professional soldiers: The commander of this little expedition, and his aide, who had both long served in the Queen's guard. Which means to say they knew a lot about parade ground drill and palace protocol, but damn little about real soldiering.

  “Commander,” said the aide as they watched the little clumps of men cross the water, “exactly what are you expecting to find on that island?”

  “Perhaps a few men willing to take the queen's silver and join her ranks, or, if not, a few slaves to serve her majesty's pleasure – and maybe our own,” he added with a wink and a nod. “The scout said he thought he saw some women on the island. So we bribe or capture the men and then buy or take their women. I am so bored of the ones in camp. We could use a little fresh entertainment, don't you think?”