A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  The aide smiled a knowing, lascivious grin, and told the commander “well, then we ought to get going, shouldn't we? Wouldn't want the rank and file to have first pickings or spoil the fun for you and me, now, would we?”

  As the two guards' officers waded their horses knee deep into the channel, their main body came out of the water onto the beach across from the mainland. The skirmishers who had gone in first kept going, their horses struggling to climb the rocky landscape. They did not get far, as all three were quickly brought down by very accurate archery fire. Burzasp and his riders had drawn first blood with their bows, but first blood was not enough. They rode down the center of the island, parallel to the channel, firing at the bands of the queen's men on the beach. Surprised at meeting such stiff, deadly, and unexpected resistance, the queen's riders did not seem to know how to react – but the guard commander did – or at least he thought he did.

  “Go after them! Go after them, you cowards,” shouted the guard commander, his horse splashing through the gentle waves in the channel. “Charge them! Charge them!”

  The hired men went forward, but in no fashion resembling anything other than an amorphous mass. Some drew swords, others reached for javelins, and still others notched arrows into their bows, each horseman acting on his own, and not in concert with any others. There was much bumping, and cursing, and neighing of horses, but eventually they all somehow sorted themselves out to at least ride in the same direction. Burzasp and his quartet of riders did not wait to be overrun by a score of men, even a score of such bumblers as these. They let loose another flight and then raced south, hoping to draw the pursuers to the far end of the island, away from the princess.

  The princess Barsine paid no attention to that threat. Her eyes, her heart, and her soul were focused only on the fiery inferno to the north. She could almost follow the Macedonian advance into the city by where the next fire broke out. She could see hundreds of people scrambling to the slips, quays, and docks, all pleading for a berth on the warships that were hastily being made ready for sea.

  “Do you think my husband is among them?” she asked Dimitrios, who was now arming himself for battle.

  “I would like to say 'yes,' your Highness,” answered the Greek captain as he fitted his greaves to his shins, “but that would be a lie. If I know your husband, and I think I do by now, he's still trying to hold the city – or at least hold back the Macedonians until others can get to safety.”

  “Yes, that would be just like him, always being the hero,” she sighed, part proud, part disappointed, and all worried. “And here I am, so close yet still so far; unable to help him, or to plead with him to retreat, or...or...to kiss him goodbye.”

  With what little Dimitrios knew of royalty, he just naturally assumed that they did not cry – or at least did not allow themselves to be seen weeping. The sight of this haughty, proud, princess of imperial blood, with tears streaming down her cheeks and her body shuddering, all but unmanned the soldier. Do I comfort her? He thought to himself. Would that be proper – or even welcome? Had she been just any woman, or even any friend, the answer would be obvious – but with royals, one false move, no matter how well meaning, could cost him his head, just for the impertinence of offering a friendly shoulder to cry on. So Dimitrios, who had fought in the shield wall, stood fast while cities burned about him, and traveled by land and sea, by horse and foot and ship, from the war-torn interior of Greece through embattled Asia Minor, did nothing. It was not that he was paralyzed by fear – but by protocol. He just did not know how to act.

  Halime, however, suffered from no such hesitation. She moved to comfort Barsine, who seemed to welcome her soft arms and kind mutterings. Well, Dimitrios said to himself, that's that. She's a girl, and a Persian of good blood – so I guess that's all right.

  Dimitrios' musing did not last long, as Ari came limping up, moving as fast as his gimpy leg would allow.

  “We've got company; bad company,” he told Dimitrios.

  “Who? Where?” asked the captain, caught by surprise.

  “On the other side of the island. There's got to be close to a score, or maybe two dozen of them,” he struggled to say between breaths. “Burzasp nicked a few, and the rest have followed him south, away from us.”

  “That's not going to work for long,” replied Dimitrios. “He's going to simply run out of island. If there's that many of them, they will box him in and force Burzasp to make a stand. We have to help him.”

  “How?” said Ari. “My bow, your spear, and what, Klemes with his scalpel?”

  “Klemes is not much good in a fight...”

  “The hell I'm not!” the physician responded to his brother's comment.

  “Not in this kind of a fight, brother,” answered Dimitrios. “This is going to be against mounted warriors, and we all know how badly you ride a horse. Besides,” he grinned, “you'd never get close enough to slice at anyone. This is a fight for spears, javelins, and bows.”

  “And so what am I supposed to do while you two are off trying to help Burzasp?”

  “You stay here, Klemes. Stay with the princess.”

  “God damn it Dimitrios, I'm a physician, not a nursemaid!”

  “Clearly,” replied Dimitrios with a smile, “at least not with that kind of bedside manner.”

  “So, the pair of you are really just going to leave me here alone with Halime and the princess?”

  “No, they're not,” said Halime. “I'm going with them. I can ride and shoot better than either of these Greek...foot soldiers” she added with a playful sneer.

  “Then I'm coming too,” said the princess, her tears wiped away and her jaw set with fresh resolve.

  “Your Highness, you can't...”

  “I can't what, Captain?” the princess shot back, emphasizing the last word. “Do you really think I will just sit here waiting around while the rest of you risk your lives? I am a princess of the blood, and my people are horsemen – and like Halime, I'm much better at that than any of you Greeks.”

  “Well, you heard the lady,” sighed Dimitrios. “But, Princess...”

  “Yes?”

  “At least stay behind me where I can...”

  Dimitrios never finished his sentence, as there was no one to hear it. The princess had leapt upon her mare and slapped it into a full gallop before he could continue. Even Halime had to work at it to catch up, and as for the Greeks...

  “Well, so much for being a nursemaid,” grumbled Klemes as he struggled to calm his horse enough to mount. “We can't guard her from back here.”

  At that the three Greeks rode off to save the princess...if they could catch her.

  89

  Halicarnassos

  The Macedonian Wave

  Memnon would not admit defeat. Nor would he sit and drink iced wine with the governor while the city burned. All logic aside, he allowed the hot passion of his years in Persia to override the cool stoicism of his Greek upbringing. With the remains of the Immortals at his back, Memnon returned to the fray.

  To say he fought like a cornered lion would not do him justice; a lion in similar circumstances would be envious of Memnon's ferocity. Whenever a group of Persian soldiers wavered, he was there to bolster their spirits and encourage them to hold their ground. Where a pack of city guards were on the run, he was there to stop them and send them back into the fray.

  Yet still, the Macedonians came on. Neighborhood by neighborhood, street by street, temple by temple, building by building they advanced, fighting a hundred battles in as many parts of the city. Many dropped out to snatch up loot, grab women, or find drink, but others kept moving forward. Alexander himself, revived by news of the impending victory, was now in the city. His Companions were spread out behind him, using the flat of their swords or the butt of their spears to round up the stragglers and looters, and shove them forward. Just as Alexander had driven through the Tripylon Gate, so now did Parmenion, and Ptolemy, and the others pour through the Myndos and Mylasa Gates. No longer th
ree battering rams but three crashing waves, the Macedonians washed over the city in an angry tide, one made even more vicious from the months of frustration and hardship of siege. Still, Memnon struggled to hold them back – somewhere. Dashing about from street to street, he sent women and children to the harbor, and grabbed their men who were not already in uniform and gave them a weapon. “If you want your family to get safely away, then you will have to buy them the time to do so,” he shouted over and over again as he dragged frightened civilians into the line. “You fight or they die – or worse,” he yelled over and over. “Alexander will show them no mercy, nor will his men!”

  It was Miletos all over again – but on a broader front. Unlike that disaster, however, at least one side of the city was still secure: the harbor. Flanked by the massive citadels of Salmacis and Arconnesos, and guarded by the Persian fleet, the harbor remained friendly. It was a place to rally, as the Macedonians soon would discover to their extreme discomfort, if the admiral of the king's navy had anything to say about it – and he did.

  “Every catapult, every bolt-thrower, every archer on every ship is to be on the lookout for any Macedonians that come near the harbor,” Admiral Autophradates told his aides, who sent the message around the fleet. “I know we've left only skeleton crews on the ships, but they will be enough to man the artillery,” he added. “I want the naval officers on watch in the twin citadels to make sure the garrisons there do the same. And you two,” he added as he pointed to a pair of young marine officers, “each of you take a detachment to the citadels and make sure my orders are obeyed – and that nobody leaves or signals a surrender. Guard the gates from the inside so no one is tempted to leave, and secure the commandant's quarters in each. Now go. Go!”

  “But sir,” one of the young officers replied, “the governor commands the Royal Citadel. I've seen his servants loading sacks and chests aboard his private barge. I think he's preparing to leave.”

  Admiral Autophradates scowled at the young marine, with a look so piercing and powerful that the officer trembled from his helmet to his sandals. “Then it is up to you to make sure he doesn't,” said the admiral coldly, calmly and with no room for misunderstanding.

  “But, sir...Admiral...he's...he's the royal governor...and...”

  “Damn it, marine, I don't care if he's keeper of the royal chamber pot, chief eunuch of the harem, or the emperor's personal toenail trimmer! Orontobates must stay and hold that citadel. And if he gives you any lip, well, you have it on my authority to explain it to him.”

  “But...”

  “Look, marine, if you're not up to this, I will find someone else who is. So you go there, and you tell the governor that if I see his barge slip its moorings and head for the sea, I will personally sink it, and I don't care if he's on it when I do. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir!” the marine said with gusto as he snapped to attention and gave a perfect salute.

  “Then what are you waiting for? Go!” replied the admiral, with just a hint of a smile. The admiral knew the city was lost, but damn it if he wasn't going to make sure Alexander wouldn't be able to enjoy his prize. As long as he could supply those two citadels by sea, there was nothing Alexander could do to take them – especially the royal island. And if Alexander could not take them, he could not use the harbor – or claim the city as his. The navy could not save the city but they could deny its use to Alexander. And the longer they could hold back the Macedonians from the harbor, the more people and soldiers could be evacuated. If they saw their governor leave, however, what little courage or hope the defenders had, they would lose. Orontobates did not know it yet, but he was going to defend the Royal Island to the last. The best way to make sure of that, the admiral grinned to himself, was to make sure he couldn't send his treasure away.

  As Memnon, Autophradates, and Orontobates each gave their orders, other officers, who were not in contact with their chiefs, had to fend for themselves. One of those was Captain Abibaal, whose scout ship was escorting a pair of grain ships coming up from Egypt. Although he knew the sea lane by heart, there was no need of his showing the grain ships the way – the plumes of smoke and towers of fire erupting from Halicarnassos were clearer than any beacon. The captains of the grain ships saw the plight of the city from afar, and made to turn away, back toward Egypt. Abibaal sent signals to try to convince them otherwise, but they were adamant. They were not going to risk their ships, their crews, or their cargoes in that conflagration. After all, they were not paid to fight – and doubted the Macedonians would pay them for their grain and allow them to leave.

  Abibaal gave the orders to his own crew to follow the grain ships, which he knew he could outrun. His ship lacked the weapons or numbers of fighting men to force the massive grain ships to change course back to the city, but if he could board one, he might convince at least one captain to come to the city with him. After all, the fleet was still in the harbor and fighting was still going on - so maybe all hope was not yet lost, and if it was, those grain ships could carry off a lot of people.

  The grain ships turned very slowly. Big, lumbering, heavy laden vessels, they were built for the maximum carrying capacity, not speed. They ran under sail only, as there was no spare room for rowers – and it would have taken hundreds of men to get a ship that big and heavy under way. Abibaal's scout ship, however, was built for speed, and while the grain ships were trying to wear away with the wind, Abibaal lowered sail and sent his men to their benches.

  “Row, lads, row! Oar master, beat me out a faster pace!”

  As Abibaal turned his ship about, however, he spied another pair of beacons in the distance. One was at the northern tip of the long island opposite the harbor; the other at the center. These were not cooking fires – for no one lived on the long, barren island – but obviously signal fires of some sort. Well, that was something worth checking out – after all, that is just the sort of thing a scout ship is meant to do. Well, perhaps after he caught up with the grain ships...

  90

  The Long Island

  A Little War of Her Own

  If Dimitrios, Klemes, and Aristophanes thought they were going to save the princess, they were quickly disabused of their dreams of glory. Barsine had more than once told them she could take care of herself, and if they still had any doubts, the trio of dead Carians with arrows in their chests that lie all about her put such thoughts to rest. As they came upon her, she was notching yet another arrow and drawing a bead on a rider who was doing his best to put ground between himself and the princess. He needn't have bothered.

  “Ah, Captain, physician, and young archer, I wondered what has been keeping you,” the princess said. “So nice to finally show up at my party. A tad unfashionable, being late, in these circumstances, but I forgive you,” she commented dryly. “Would you be kind enough to lend me a few arrows? As you can see, my quiver is almost empty, and there are still enemies about. Burzasp and Halime went after them, over that rise. I would have gone with them but these three...no, four...brutes got in my way. No matter, you're here now. Would one of you be so kind as to bring up my horse? She seems to have wandered off during the excitement.”

  “Klemes,” said Dimitrios, “would you and Ari do the honors? I need to have a word alone with the princess.”

  “You know I'm a physician, not a stable boy, right?” said Klemes. “And that I do not do well with horses – and Ari with his limp would not be my first choice to go chase down a skittish mare...but don't let any of that get in the way of your little chat with her highness,” he added sarcastically. “Come on, Ari, let's go find the princess her little pony.”

  As the physician and the archer stumbled off to chase down the princess' horse, the captain approached Barsine, used both hands to pull off his helmet...and then threw it to the ground where it made a loud “clang” as it hit a rock.

  “Why so dramatic, Captain?” remarked the princess, one eyebrow raised in query. “I believe I told you that I did not need your protection – that I
could handle myself.”

  “Gods be damned, your Highness,” the captain said in exasperation. “Your husband made me promise to do just that – and to get you away to safety. It was the last order he gave to me, and it was also a request, from one comrade to another. Why must you make this so hard on all of us?”

  Princess Barsine smiled. “My dear, noble, naive Greek Captain,” she said with a rather sweet lilt to her voice, as if addressing a child. “I am the daughter, widow, and wife of a soldier. I understand your position perfectly. But you should also understand mine. I will not sit in some cushioned cage, somewhere, sipping chilled wine and nibbling on dates while my husband is in danger. And I already told you I could handle myself in a fight. After all, I am a...”

  “I know, I know. You are a 'princess of the blood' and a soldier's...”

  “And a mother, I may remind you. A mother of three little boys. Compared to them, these Carian mercenaries were a rather timid bunch. You don't have any of your own, do you, Captain?”

  “You mean mercenaries?”

  “No, silly man, children, and boys at that. I'd rather face enemy soldiers than try to keep three boys under control. Battle is a mere sport, and a relaxing one at that, compared to motherhood. And as I have told you, over and over again, I am no stranger to the field of combat.”

  While the princess and the captain continued their discussion, a group of riders broke over the top of the rise, their horses lathered up and racing each other as they came charging on. The princess and the captain moved quickly in response. She raised her bow, him reaching for his helmet, but not before the riders were upon them ...and then past them. Dimitrios saw the panic in their eyes as they rode, and when Burzasp and his men came tumbling over the same rise, he could see the reason for their fear. The Persian horsemen had put away their bows and drawn their long, curved, sharp swords. They rode with murder in their eyes, and if there was any mercy in their hearts, there was not so much as a hint of it in their warlike demeanor. Burzasp and his boys were out for blood. This was no longer a battle, but a hunt, and they were determined to bring their prey to ground – and to slaughter them.