As Burzasp and his bloodthirsty band rode away in pursuit, Halime came riding slowly over the crest of the rise. If there was joy in battle for some, Halime showed no signs of it – quite the opposite. Her horse plodded along, and she swayed back and forth with every step the weary mount took. The princess slung her bow over her shoulder and walked with a purpose toward the young girl. When she reached Halime, she took the horse's reins in her own hands to steady the mount, while the captain helped the girl dismount. Once Klemes had seen her ride up, he had left it to Ari to limp after the princess' horse, and turned back to see if he could use his real talents to better effect.
“Is she hurt?” asked the princess with concern.
“Let me be the judge of that,” said Klemes as he approached. “Sit her down on the grass, and one of you find some water.”
Although the princess was used to giving and not taking orders, she did not argue or take offense. Barsine knew there was some in her pack, and went back to where she had dropped it when she fought her little private war with the raiders. Halime seemed barely conscious. Klemes examined her for wounds and injuries, then with the captain's help stretched her out on the soft dune grass to rest.
“Is she wounded, physician?” asked the princess as she returned and handed Klemes the water bag.
“I don't think so. She has some bruises, as if she was hit by a club or the blunt end of a spear, but I don't see any cuts or blood, or signs of broken bones. The poor girl needs a bit of rest, some water, and some shade. Dimitrios, take some of those javelins and a horse blanket and make her a little open-sided tent. Just to keep the sun off her face. Go,” he added quietly, “I'll watch over her. And you, Princess,” he ordered, “be so kind as to dampen a bit of cloth to wipe her brow.”
If the princess took any offense at being ordered, again, to do a servant's work, she did not show it. Barsine had come to think of Halime as one of her own – if not quite a younger sister, at least a female companion – and her only one in this otherwise men's only club that formed her escort. She showed genuine concern as she helped tend to the young woman; a concern that was not lost on her Greek companions.
“Please, Highness,” begged Dimitrios. “Enough of this. Please let us get you away to safety, away from all of this. We are too few as it is, and keep getting fewer. Give up this idea of going to Halicarnassos. It will not end well...for you...or for any of us,” he added as he set the little lean-to over Halime's head. “Besides, we don't have a ship, and none have even come to check out our beacons...”
“I'm not so sure of that,” said Ari, as he came back riding the princess' horse.
“What do you mean?” asked Dimitrios.
“Look out to sea. I think I can see a sail out there...actually, three...”
91
Halicarnassos
Farewell, Ye Carian Ladies
Even with Halicarnassos collapsing around his ears, Memnon would not yield the city to Alexander – not without at least one more fight. The Rhodian general had planned from the beginning to use the fortified cities of Minor Asia to slow, wear down, halt, and eventually force back the Macedonian onslaught. As he had told the over-confidant satraps long before they mustered their forces to confront Alexander, the Persians could never match the Macedonians in the field. Stone walls, however, robbed Alexander of his two biggest advantages: his unstoppable phalanxes and his powerful Companion cavalry.
At Miletos, Memnon had bled the Macedonians and bought time – time to turn the already imposing fortifications at Halicarnassos into an impenetrable and lethal barrier. When the defenses of Miletos failed to stop Alexander, as Memnon feared they would, he still believed in his overall strategy. Even with its Tripylon towers toppled, its Myndos and Mylasa Gates smashed, the city in flames, and Macedonians, and their allies, and mercenaries running rampant through the rubble, Memnon could not bring himself to admit defeat. He could not even contemplate what had gone wrong – or where he, or his plan, or his army had failed. Defeat was inconceivable.
“I do not think our General or our Admiral fully comprehend the meaning of that word,” sighed Orontobates in response to the admiral's command.
“Which word, Governor?” asked the naval courier, panting and out of breath, his skin and linen armor dark with soot.
“Both, actually,” said the governor. “You would think that by now he could indeed understand that we can be defeated. It is our third time being bested by Alexander, after all. At this point, I think the only thing that is truly inconceivable is our ability to stop the Macedonian kinglet.”
If the courier was shocked by such defeatist talk, he did not show it. If anything, the young officer felt the same. Like so many others, he had put his faith not just in the impenetrable walls of the city, but also in the legendary skills and unshakable courage of their general. No one's morale falls farther and harder than that of a true believer whose beliefs are shattered and proven false. Alexander had done that to the defenders of Halicarnassos – or at least to all but one of them: Memnon.
The general was a whirlwind, rushing about from one end of the shrinking defense perimeter to the other. Directing archers to rally and fire here; grabbing routers by their necks and shoving them back into the line there; but he could not be everywhere at once. The moment he moved on the line would start to waiver. Men would inch back, and then take a step back, and then drop their weapons and run for the docks, hoping for a place on the already crowding ships.
And those ships kept taking on refugees – old men, women, children, the wounded. A few marines of the fleet tried to keep the docks and jetties safe and orderly, or at least as orderly as they could, as more and more people were pushing forward, pleading for a space on the already overburdened ships.
Admiral Autophradates had vowed that his sailors would take off as many people as their ships would carry, but those limits were fast being reached. If he were to take off any of the soldiers, they would have to come now – even if it meant leaving thousands of civilians to suffer the fate of occupation – and worse.
“Ready my barge,” the admiral said to his aide as he stood on the deck of his flagship. “And I want four of our biggest, strongest and most loyal men. Not galley slaves, mind you, but professional rowers and sailors. Men of the fleet. Men who call anywhere but here home.”
“Yes, Admiral,” the aide replied with a salute. As he moved to obey the admiral's order, however, he stopped, turned around and asked: “Pardon me, Admiral, sir. May I ask what you want these men to do?”
The admiral, not used to having his orders questioned, especially by a mere junior officer whose beard was more hope than reality, glowered daggers at the young man. The aide did not ask again, but hurried off, double-time, to see the admiral's command carried out.
Orontobates stared at the map with great intent as men scurried about with boxes, crates, and sacks of valuables. A score of slaves and a few minor officials moved in a steady, constantly cycling chain to load the city's treasures onto Orontobates personal galley: a massive quadrireme. It was one of the first and still rare class of massive “fours” as they were known, as that was the number of tiers of oars that powered them. A Carthaginian innovation which had begun to appear in the fleet of Persia's Rhodian ally, Orontobates' ship was the first of the massive vessels to fly imperial colors, beneath which streamed his own satrapial banner.
“Cos,” the governor mumbled as he pointed out the island on the map. “Yes, Cos, that is where we shall take the treasury, Captain,” he said to the naval officer standing beside him. “The citadel there is strong, and as Alexander has no navy, it should be as safe if not safer than anywhere else in the empire.”
“Pardon me, sire,” the officer replied, “but my ship is a man-o-war, not a cargo vessel. She's not built to carry cargo – let alone so many heavy containers as you are loading aboard her. If any of it shifts, we would start to list and then take on water through the rower's ports.”
“So?” replied the
governor. “Then you had best see to it that it is as evenly distributed as possible and secured firmly. I will...we will need those funds for our next battle with this...this...this Macedonian...boy...” he said with a mixture of contempt, anger, admiration, and fear. “Besides, even if we do capsize and sink, better the treasure goes to the bottom of the sea than into the coffers of that upstart barbarian king.”
“Aye, aye, Governor,” replied the captain with a little laugh.
“Oh, Captain,” said the governor as the naval officer began to withdraw to see to the loading of his magnificent ship, “if my ship does flounder and the treasure winds up beneath the waves...”
“Yes, governor?”
“...understand that you will be there with it.”
“Point taken, your Honor,” replied the captain with an audible gulp. “I shall see to it personally.”
As the captain was racing down the steps of the citadel on the Royal Island where Orontobates had established his headquarters and initially secured the contents of the treasury, he was astonished to meet a familiar face coming up from below.
“Admiral?” asked the captain, somewhat taken aback by the presence of the commander of the fleet.
The admiral hardly paused to acknowledge the captain's presence, other than to shove past him as he hurried up the steps to the top of the citadel. The captain thought to follow him, but quickly set that thought aside, remembering Orontobates' words. Besides, he thought to himself, the admiral was obviously on his way to see the governor, and best to let them short things out.
As the quadrireme commander resumed his downward path, the admiral burst into the governor's map room, his sandals slapping the floor so loudly as to bring thunderclaps to mind.
“Orontobates,” said the admiral, “it's time to go. Most of my ships are already at sea, packed to the rails with refugees. The last are at the docks now, and are fast filling up. I've not much room left to take off the soldiers. We need to get Memnon aboard one of them and head out to sea.”
Orontobates nodded his agreement. “Yes, Admiral. As you can see, I am loading the treasury upon my own ship. As soon as that is done, I will turn over command of this citadel and the other at the far end of the harbor to a pair of trusted officers. Whatever soldiers we cannot take off and are still capable of resistance should be sent here and there. Both citadels are amply stocked with provisions, and even if we cannot hold the city, we can still deny Alexander use of the harbor – and tie up some of his men here, as he can't afford to leave one fortress, let alone two in his rear if he is to march inland.”
“Agreed, Governor. With our command of the sea we can always bring them more supplies – or evacuate them if need be later on. But that is not why I am here. I need your help.”
“To do what?” asked the governor, puzzled by the request.
“To get Memnon to leave. We need to get him out of here and to safety, to fight another day.”
The governor laughed, and laughed heartily. “I've told him as much several times now. He seems determined to fight on. I am not sure if he still thinks he can win or he just wants to be the last man standing when the end comes. His blood is up, and he is in denial, and denial beyond all hope of reasoning.”
“Aye, Governor, that is what I thought you would say.”
“Then what do you expect me to do?”
“I need your permission to drag the general off, by force if necessary.”
“Ha!,” roared the governor with laughter. “You want to drag him off? You and what army?”
“I do not need an army,” smiled the admiral, “not when I've got a navy.”
At that the admiral spun about and moved with a purpose toward the exit. He raced down the stairs, out the gates to the dock and onto his barge, upon which sat four of the biggest, strongest, toughest looking men to ever wear the colors of the Persian navy.
Orontobates sent runners to spread the word to any officer or group of soldiers they could find to tell them to retreat across the narrow causeway to the citadel on the Royal Island, or to make for the fortress of Salmacis on the opposite side of the harbor. Fortunately for them, the Macedonians had not reached either fortress or any part of the shore of the harbor. Memnon held a thin, narrowing band that peaked at the great Mausoleum and Agora, but which was shrinking fast. It was there, at that magnificent market and monument to a fallen king that Autophradates found the general.
Memnon looked at the admiral as if he was the last man he expected to see. He then issued an order to a group of archers to direct their fire to the far side of the Mausoleum. Then he told a small troop of Greek hoplites to counterattack under cover of their barrage. As he began to move off to give more orders, the admiral grabbed him by the arm. He then spoke to him softly, kindly and with great respect.
“It is over, my friend. It is time to go.”
Memnon, his eyes almost crazed with battle lust, blinked. He did not answer with words, but simply blinked, as if the admiral was speaking in a language he could not understand.
“Memnon,” the admiral continued, “you have done all you can – and more. There is nothing left to do...but live.”
The general again did not seem to understand the admiral's words, and once again made to move off back into the fray. When he tried to break the admiral's hold on his arm, Autophradates tightened his grip with one hand and waved to his oarsmen with the other.
“Come take him, lads,” said the admiral with evident sadness. “Be as easy with him as you can – but take him. It's for his own good.”
Memnon slowly began to understand what was going on. At first he attempted to resist, but whether it was the sheer exhaustion of the day of battle, or a simple sense of relief, the general collapsed into the strong arms of the four beefy oarsmen. Their charge now barely conscious, each of the big men lifted the general with a gentle touch that seemed entirely at odds with their imposing physicality. They carried him upon their shoulders, reverently, as one would carry the corpse of an honored friend.
“Take him to my barge, my lads. It is time for this one to leave the battlefield. We need to get him somewhere safe, and somewhere from where he can continue the fight.”
As he walked beside the men, the admiral reached up and put his hand gently on Memnon's shoulder.
“Rest, old friend. We have a long war ahead of us.”
92
The Long Island
...and the little ship
Even as the admiral's beefy boys were carrying Memnon onto the flagship, another far smaller ship was approaching the long island south of Halicarnassos. The smoke from what were obviously signal fires sparked Captain Abibaal's curiosity. Besides, after being unable to convince the massive grain haulers to stay on course for the harbor rather than flee, he had little else to do.
“Nice and easy, boys,” he called out to the rowers, each of whose name he knew as well as if they were his sons or brothers, “the bottom comes up all of a sudden like in these shallows. Slow it down and let's glide her in nice and easy.”
Although there did not seem to be anyone around the signal fire, he could see what looked like bodies on the beach. By their sprawl and how they were spread out he could see they were not merely sleeping, but dead. And obviously not dead for very long, as the fire still smoldered. The closer his vessel came to shore, the more his ears caught sounds of horses neighing, men shouting and swords clashing. That meant at least one side in that fight would be friends of the empire, and if they needed help, well, Abibaal was ready to show them help had arrived.
The captain was the first man over the side, and helped guide the little scout ship to settle gently onto the beach.
“First three pairs, take up swords and shields and follow me,” ordered the captain to his oarsmen. “Second three pairs, javelins and bows to stand watch on board. The rest of you, back oars, just enough to keep her free of the sand.”
The captain waded ashore, six armed sailors at his back, and walked past the fire. H
e paused very briefly to kick the bodies on the beach just in case any were alive – they weren't. He then headed for the dunes, crouching low as he neared the crest and motioning for his men to stay back. As he peeked over the top he did not see what he expected. A fight was going on, which he had heard, but the participants were as odd a bunch as any this side of a tavern brawl. Two women, one with a bow, the other a javelin, were struggling to fend off a pair of scruffy-looking horse-herders. A few apparently Persian men were exchanging blows with more heavily armed men – soldiers, but fancy soldiers, by the look of them. And then, off to the side, a man in Greek armor was...
“Dimitrios?” the captain said to himself in disbelief. “What the hell...”
Abibaal stood up, drew his sword and waved his men to the top of the dunes. The captain and his six sailors then stormed down the dunes to join in the battle.
The sudden appearance of a new group which neither side recognized forced a sudden pause in the fighting. Both the queen's soldiers and Persians puzzled over whether these mad, screaming men waving swords were friend or foe. They did not have to puzzle that out for long, as Abibaal and his sailors found their targets and hurled themselves into the fray. The princess and Halime were also caught by surprise, but when the strangers rushed past them to engage the very soldiers they were battling, both raised a cry of joy. Dimitrios was too hotly engaged to chance taking a glance over his shoulder, but when he saw his opponent do so, the Greek captain took full advantage of his foe's distraction – and slashed him right where the neck met the cuirass. As he spun to meet what he thought was a new threat, however, Dimitrios also let down his guard – so surprised was he to see the Phoenician captain standing there, sword shining, face grinning, and a shout of recognition on his lips.
A Captain of Thebes Page 54