‘Because they can’t – they are in the shadow of the cloud now.’
The horseman bit his lip as he strode backwards and forwards. Occasionally he looked down towards the army and imagined the King’s humour at this moment.
‘Message received!’ exclaimed the signalman. ‘The flagship is lowering its sail and they are steering with their oars. They’ll reply soon.’
The flagship now continued at reduced speed and the foam generated by the oars could be seen clearly as the rowers guided the vessel to a sheltered area under the headland.
A light flashed from the bow and the signalman read out:
‘ “We . . . move landwards . . . landwards.” Excellent! They’ve understood. Quickly, go and report to the King. The sun is not with us for signalling from here.’
The horseman galloped off down the hill and reached the King, who had called a full meeting of his high command on the beach. ‘Sire! Nearchus has received the message and as I speak is manoeuvring the flagship,’ he announced as he leapt to the ground. ‘Any moment now you will see him round the headland.’
‘Very well,’ replied Alexander. ‘From this position we can also keep check on the movement of the Persian fleet.’
By that time the Great King’s enormous fleet had almost completely covered the area between the Miletus peninsula and the foothills of Mount Latmus, while on the other side Nearchus’s flagship was rounding Cape Mycale and coasted towards the mouth of the Meander, soon followed by the other ships in the allied navy.
‘Perhaps we have got away with it,’ said the King. ‘For the moment at least.’
‘Indeed,’ said Craterus, ‘if we hadn’t signalled the danger Nearchus would have ended up face to face with the Persians, obliged to engage with them from a situation of hopeless inferiority.’
‘And what is your plan now?’ asked Parmenion.
He had just finished speaking when one of the shields-men arrived with a dispatch. ‘There is news from Miletus, Sire.’
Alexander opened the message and read it.
Philotas, son of Parmenion, to Alexander, Hail!
The commander of the Miletus garrison, Eghesikratos, has had a change of heart and is no longer willing to open the gates of the city to you.
He has now put his faith in the protection of the Great King’s fleet.
Keep up your spirits and take good care.
‘It was to be expected,’ said Alexander. ‘Now that the Persian ships are anchored in the bay, Eghesikratos feels invincible.’
‘Sire,’ announced one of the shieldsmen, ‘a launch from our flagship is approaching the coast.’
‘Good, our sailors will join us for our war council.’
Shortly afterwards Nearchus alighted on the beach and behind him was the Athenian commander of the allied fleet, Karilaos.
The King greeted them warmly and informed them of the situation, then he asked the opinions of all those present, in descending order of age, beginning with Parmenion.
‘I am not an expert in matters regarding the sea,’ began the old general, ‘but I believe that if King Philip were here he would take the enemy fleet by surprise, counting on the greater speed and manoeuvrability of our ships.’
Alexander’s mood changed abruptly, just as it did every time he was compared publicly with his father the King.
‘My father always fought when the chances of achieving victory were good, otherwise he always played a game of cunning,’ he replied brusquely.
‘In my opinion it would be a mistake to engage in battle,’ said Nearchus. ‘They outnumber us three to one and we are landlocked, we have little room for manoeuvre.’
Others expressed their points of view, but soon they all realized that Alexander was not concentrating on the meeting. Instead, he was watching an eagle on the lookout for fish, flying in wide circles above the beach. Suddenly the eagle dived down at high speed, grabbed a large fish in its claws and then, its wings beating wildly, gained height and flew off with its prey.
‘Did you see that fish? It trusted in its mastery of the water and it came too close to the shore, where the eagle made the most of a situation that just then was favourable to her. And this is exactly what we will do now.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Ptolemy. ‘We have no wings.’
Alexander smiled. ‘Remember the last time you reminded me of this fact? We were moving into Thessaly and we had the insurmountable wall of Mount Ossa there before us.’
‘That’s right,’ admitted Ptolemy.
‘Good,’ the King began again. ‘Well, my view is that we cannot risk a naval clash under these conditions – not only does our enemy have a crushing superiority in terms of numbers, but they have more powerful, more robust ships. If our fleet were to be wiped out, then my prestige would be destroyed with it. The Greeks would rise up and the alliance that I have worked so hard to create would fall apart, with disastrous consequences. These then are my orders – beach all of our ships, making sure that the first to be hauled out of the water are those carrying the pieces of the siege engines. We will assemble them and take them to the walls of Miletus.’
‘You want to beach the entire fleet?’ asked Nearchus incredulously.
‘Precisely.’
‘But, Sire . . .’
‘Listen, Nearchus, do you think that the Persian infantry aboard their fleet is any match for my phalanx lined up on the shore?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ said Leonnatus. ‘They really are no match at all. And if they were to attempt it we would destroy them before they even reached dry land.’
‘Right,’ said Alexander, ‘and therefore they will not attempt it.’
‘Nevertheless,’ continued Nearchus, who had now understood the King’s intentions, ‘they cannot remain at anchor for ever. To strengthen their ships they have increased the number of rowers, but in doing so they have left no room aboard for anything else. They cannot cook, they cannot keep sufficient stocks of water, they are almost completely dependent on supplies from land.’
‘Which we will block using our cavalry,’ concluded Alexander. ‘We will patrol every corner of the coast, especially every river mouth and every stream, every spring. They are out there, at anchor, and soon they will have no food, no water, all they will have is the blazing sun and a burning thirst in their throats, a twisting hunger in their bellies, while we will have everything we need.
‘Eumenes will direct the assembly of the siege engines, Perdiccas and Ptolemy will lead the attack on the eastern side of the walls of Miletus as soon as the engines have opened a breach. Craterus, assisted by Philotas, will set off with the cavalry along the coast to prevent any landings; Parmenion will move the heavy infantry to support the other operations and the Black will give him a hand. Isn’t that so, Black?’
‘Exactly, Sire,’ replied Cleitus.
‘Excellent. Nearchus and Karilaos will guard the beached ships with the infantry and their crews will be armed too. If necessary, they will dig trenches. Miletus must be made to regret its about-turn.’
14
IT WAS LATE SPRING by now, and the day was a fine one. The noonday sun was high in the skies and the sea was as still as a millpond.
From the summit of Mount Latmus, Alexander, Hephaestion and Callisthenes contemplated the splendid spectacle there before them. To the right the Mycale headland jutted out into the sea like a spur, and beyond it they could make out the profile of the large island of Samos.
To the left was the stout Miletus peninsula. The city, destroyed by the Persians two hundred years previously because it had dared to rebel against their power, had been magnificently rebuilt by its most illustrious son, the architect Hippodamus, who had planned it carefully on an orthogonal grid of wide main roads and narrower secondary roads for neighbourhood traffic.
On the highest point he rebuilt the temples of the acropolis, resplendent with marble work painted in brilliant colours, ornaments in bronze, gold and silver, and
statuary groups that stood majestically and dominated the huge bay. In the centre he had opened up the great square, a point of confluence for all the roads and the heart of the city’s political and economic life.
Not far off the coast was the small island of Lade, like a sentry posted to watch over the entrance to the great gulf.
At the far north-eastern extremity, near the mouth of the Meander, Nearchus’s ships could be seen, beached and protected by a ditch and a palisade against any possible attack from an infantry landing by the enemy.
Out in the middle of the bay the distance made the Great King’s three hundred ships look like little toy boats ready for children to play with.
‘It’s incredible!’ exclaimed Callisthenes. ‘Here in these waters, in this very stretch of sea, the outcome of the Persian Wars was decided – that small island near the city is Lade, and it was there that the rebel Greeks were crushed by the Persians.’
‘Callisthenes will now give us a history lesson, as if his uncle’s lessons at Mieza weren’t enough for us,’ said Hephaestion.
‘Quiet,’ said Alexander. ‘If you do not know the past, you cannot understand the present.’
‘And down there, on the Mycale headland,’ Callisthenes continued unfazed, ‘our men paid them back in full some twenty-five years later. The fleet then was under the command of Leotychides, King of Sparta, and they struck while the Persian fleet was beached.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Hephaestion, ‘today the roles are reversed.’
‘Indeed,’ said Alexander, ‘and our men are sitting comfortably in the shade, eating fresh bread, while they have been out there roasting in the sun for three days now and if they have anything at all left to eat it can only be ship’s biscuits. Their water must be rationed now to one or two dippers a day per head. They’ll have to take a decision soon – attack or go on their way.’
‘Look,’ Hephaestion pointed out to him, ‘our siege engines are setting off. By evening they will be under the walls of the city, and tomorrow we will start battering their fortifications.’
Just then an orderly from the Vanguard arrived on horseback with a dispatch, ‘King! A message from Generals Parmenion and Cleitus,’ he announced, handing over a slate.
The King read:
Parmenion and Cleitus to King Alexander, Hail!
The barbarians have made three attempts at landing to refresh their water supplies at various points along the coast, but on each occasion they have been repulsed.
May you be in good cheer.
‘Magnificent!’ exclaimed Alexander. ‘Exactly as I had envisaged. Now we can move back down.’
He dug his heels into Bucephalas and started down at a walk towards the bay to meet up with the convoy of siege engines on its way towards Miletus.
Eumenes approached him, ‘Well then? What’s the view like from up there?’
‘Splendid,’ replied Hephaestion for Alexander. ‘You can see the Persians roasting over a slow grill. They’ll be cooked to perfection before long.’
‘Can you guess who has just arrived?’
‘No.’
‘Apelles. He has finished his equestrian portrait and he wants to show it to you, Alexander.’
‘Oh, by the Gods! I don’t have time for paintings just now. I’m making war. Thank him, pay him and tell him we’ll meet up just as soon as I find the time.’
‘As you wish, but you’ll give him an attack of spleen,’ said Eumenes. ‘Ah! I was forgetting – there is no news of Memnon. Absolutely nothing. It appears he has vanished into thin air.’
‘I cannot believe that,’ said the King. ‘Memnon is too cunning. And it is certainly too dangerous for us not to know his whereabouts.’
‘The fact is that none of us has ever seen him. We don’t know what he looks like. They also say that he has never suffered any wound in battle that might distinguish him. He fights wearing a Corinthian sallet without any crest, which completely covers his face apart from the eyes. And it is difficult to recognize a man in the reel of battle from just one look.’
‘That is true. But I am still not convinced by this disappearance. Have you found the Greek doctor who treated him? Parmenion says he is from Abydos, Ariston is his name.’
‘He has disappeared as well.’
‘And is his home at Zeleia still under surveillance?’
‘There is no one left there now, only the servants.’
‘Do not stop looking for him. He is the one we must fear more than anyone else. He is the most dangerous of our enemies.’
‘We will do what we can,’ replied Eumenes and he moved back into the convoy of siege engines.
‘Wait!’ Alexander called out.
‘Here I am. What’s wrong?’
‘You said that Apelles is here?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘I have changed my mind. Where is he?’
‘He is down at the naval camp. I have had them prepare a tent and a bath for him.’
‘Well done. I’ll see you later.’
‘But what . . .’ Eumenes didn’t even manage to finish his sentence and Alexander was already at a gallop, heading in the direction of the camp.
Apelles was irritated by the fact that no one had been assigned to look after him and almost none of these military types recognized him as the greatest painter of his time. On the contrary, they were all crazy for Pancaspe, who went swimming in the sea naked and on dry land paraded about with the shortest military cloak that barely covered her modesty.
He was delighted when Alexander dismounted and came towards him, his arms wide open. ‘Apelles – grand master of the brush! Welcome to my humble camp, but you really shouldn’t have . . . I would have come to you as soon as possible. I am anxious to see the fruit of your genius.’
Apelles made a slight bow with his head. ‘I had no wish to disturb you in the midst of such an important siege, but at the same time I simply could not wait to show you my work.’
‘Where is it?’ asked Alexander, sincerely anxious to see it.
‘Here, in my tent. Come.’
The King noticed that Apelles had had a white tent pitched for himself, so that the light within was uniform and equally diffused, thus reducing interference with the colours of the painting.
The artist led the way inside and waited until the King’s eyes had adjusted to the light. The work was covered by a curtain and a servant held a cord, waiting for a word from his master. In the meantime Pancaspe had come in and she now took up position near Alexander.
Apelles nodded and the servant pulled the curtain to one side, uncovering the painting.
Alexander was speechless, struck by the remarkable evocative power of the image there before him. The details which had fascinated him so much in Apelles’s sketch and which had made him think the work was more or less complete at that stage had now acquired body and soul. All those particulars shone now with the moist vividness of real life, dense with atmosphere, and miraculously pulsing with vigorous movement.
The figure of Bucephalas was of such expressive power that the horse seemed to be alive and breathing fury from its nostrils. His hooves seemed to break out of the vertical plane of the painting and into real space, contending for space with the observer. The horseman was equally impressive, but also very different from the way Lysippus had depicted him in his sculptures up until that time. The infinite tonalities of the colours had allowed the painter to achieve a disturbing realism – on the one hand even more effective than bronze, on the other somehow almost a desecration of the figure of Alexander.
The King’s face showed all the anguish and the ardour of the conqueror. There was nobility in the great sovereign’s features, but there was also the fatigue and the sweat that stuck his hair to his temples in disorderly licks, his eyes too wide in a superhuman effort to dominate the situation, his forehead contracted in such a frown that it seemed almost painful, the tendons in his neck standing out and his veins turgid in the fury of battle. There was a m
an on that horse in all his greatness, but he was also mortally weary and heavily burdened with misery. This was not a god, as in Lysippus’s works.
Apelles anxiously watched the King’s reactions, fearing that he might explode into one of his now famous rages. But Alexander actually embraced him. ‘It’s wonderful! I look at this painting and I see myself at the height of battle. But how did you manage this? I posed for you astride a wooden horse and Bucephalas was standing outside his stable. How on earth . . .’
‘I spoke with your men, Sire, with the companions who are by your side as you fight, with those who know you well. And I also spoke with . . .’ and here Apelles lowered his head, ‘. . . Pancaspe.’
Alexander turned to the girl and she looked at him with a smile full of complicity. ‘Would you be so kind as to leave us alone for a moment?’ he asked her.
Pancaspe seemed surprised and almost resentful of the request, but she obeyed without any discussion. As soon as she left, Alexander began, ‘Do you remember the day I posed for you at Ephesus?’
‘Yes,’ replied Apelles, trying to fathom what this was leading to.
‘Pancaspe mentioned a painting for which she had posed as Aphrodite, a painting you had created for . . . she was just about to say the name of your client, but you had her keep quiet.’
‘Nothing goes by you.’
‘A King is very much like an artist – he has to dominate the scene and he cannot allow himself the luxury of distraction. If he is distracted, he is dead.’
‘That is true,’ said Apelles, and he timidly lifted his eyes to meet Alexander’s, preparing himself for the difficult moment.
‘Who commissioned that painting from you?’
‘You see, Sire, I could never imagine that . . .’
‘There is no need to apologize. An artist goes where he is required. That is the way things work. Speak freely, you have nothing to be afraid of, I assure you.’
‘Memnon. It was Memnon.’
‘I don’t know why, but I had imagined it was him. Who else in this area could afford a painting of this type and of this size by the great Apelles?’
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