Conquest of Persia

by Alexander Geiger

  Remembering the incident, Alexandros turned to Perdikkas, one of his leading commanders. “Maybe I’ll let you pick the new king of Tyros.”

  Our scouts finally returned. “Sire, there’s not a soul left in this town,” one of them reported. “They took everything they had, their families, their livestock, their possessions. I think even the mice have left.”

  “It looks like many of the houses have been abandoned for some time, although a few show signs of hurried departure,” another searcher chimed in.

  Alexandros shrugged. “Well, let’s settle down for the night and we’ll attack them tomorrow.” He issued some routine orders. “After the entire column is inside the city, bar the gates and post sentries on the walls. Set up the kitchen and mess tents right here in the agora and then distribute everyone in the surrounding houses. We’ll have a nice feast tonight, get some rest, and then we’ll get to work in the morning.”

  Nobody bothered to argue. We all knew Alexandros well enough to realize there was no point. Plus, it was always possible he might change his mind after a good night’s sleep.

  The whereabouts of the Tyrians were no mystery. In fact, we could see some of them, as we walked over to the wharves. They were all in what was known as New Tyros. Centuries earlier, the Tyrians had built a fortress on a large island, about half a mile offshore. As Tyros grew in importance and wealth, they kept enlarging the fort until it covered the entire island. The battlements facing the mainland, where we stood, looked impressive notwithstanding the distance between us and New Tyros. The ramparts were built right at the edge of the water and rose to a height of a hundred and fifty feet. The Tyrians left nary a strip of ground outside the wall on which to land, just a sheer, enormous, manmade cliff. And at the top of this cliff, we could see soldiers strolling insouciantly about.

  The fortifications of New Tyros were legendary. They surrounded the entire island and were said to be impenetrable. Of course, in order even to attempt to breach them, a besieger would have to reach them first, which was no easy task, because the half-mile channel between Old and New Tyros was deep, turbulent, beset by strong currents, and prone to sudden storms. It didn’t help matters that Tyros possessed the strongest navy in the Mediterranean, manned by the best sailors in the world. We, of course, possessed no navy at all.

  Over the years, as New Tyros grew, most Tyrians moved to the island permanently. And when the population exceeded the capacity of the island, Tyros sent out colonists to establish mercantile outposts around the entire Mediterranean, the largest and most famous of which was Carthage. Perhaps it was the dream of Philippos to make the Aegean Sea a Greek lake but arguably the much larger Mediterranean, of which the Aegean was but a gulf, had been a Phoenician lake for centuries. This was the reason why Old Tyros was empty when we arrived. Most Tyrians had abandoned it years ago and the few inhabitants who had remained were easily evacuated to New Tyros when news of our approach reached them.

  The notion that we could somehow storm New Tyros against the will of the Tyrians was clearly fanciful. However, as our leader had decreed, we would feast tonight and figure out what to do tomorrow. We milled around the agora, watching the quartermaster’s crew pitching tents and making preparations for the banquet, when a cry rang out from one of the lookouts stationed on the harborside wall: “Ship in the channel, sire.”

  Those of us with nothing better to do rushed over to the quay and, indeed, we could see a galley laboriously making its way toward us. Soon, it became clear that the small ship was ferrying over a group of distinguished personages, judging by their sumptuous attire. When word of the arriving dignitaries reached Alexandros, his curiosity got the better of him and he walked over to join us on the quay.

  Eventually, the ship was lashed to a wharf and the distinguished diplomats disembarked and asked to see King Alexandros.

  “You’ve found him,” Alexandros called out and, without standing on ceremony, walked up to the group.

  They didn’t prostrate themselves, kneel, or so much as bow. Instead, a young man, roughly the same age as Alexandros, stepped forward and extended an open, weaponless hand toward the Macedonian monarch in the traditional gesture of peaceful intentions. “I’m Abdimilkos, son of Azemilkos. My father is the king of Tyros.” He spoke passable Greek.

  Alexandros ignored the proffered hand. “I’ve heard the name. So, where is he?”

  “My father is sailing with the fleet at the moment but he left me in charge in his absence.”

  Alexandros cast a sidelong glance at the Tyrian prince. “Would that be the Persian fleet?”

  It was now Abdimilkos’s turn to ignore Alexandros. “The men with me are the leading citizens of Tyros. It’s our pleasure to welcome you to our great city. We have brought food and drink for your men and a few trifling gifts for yourself.” He nodded to the sailors standing behind the delegation and they brought forward a heavy chest, placed it at Alexandros’s feet, and opened the lid. A treasure-trove of golden plates and chalices, alabaster statuettes, glass perfume bottles, silver kraters, pearl necklaces, silken robes dyed a shimmering Tyrian purple, ivory-handled daggers, aromatic spices, and many other exotic goods spilled out. “A small memento of your visit.” Abdimilkos smiled. “Now, if you could assign a few porters, my men will deliver the comestible and potables for your men.”

  Alexandros ignored the treasure chest. “We have some details to discuss,” he informed Abdimilkos. “Please join us, you and the rest of the ambassadors, at our feast tonight.” And without a further word, he spun on his heels and left. Once beyond the ambassadors’ hearing range, he turned to Hephaistion. “Post a guard on the delegation and the crew. I don’t want any harm to come to them but I don’t want them wandering about gathering intelligence either. At the banquet, seat Abdimilkos next to me. Keep the rest of the delegation surrounded and at the back. And have the quartermaster’s crew pick up whatever fodder and slops they have brought for us. If it’s edible, add it to the banquet menu.”

  The feast was a rousing success. The delectable delicacies brought by the Tyrians were every bit as exotic as their presents for Alexandros had been. “The benefits of our far-flung trade routes and shipping lanes,” Abdimilkos modestly observed when Alexandros inquired about some of the dainties.

  Their local wines were equally intoxicating. Hephaistion practically smacked his lips while sipping it. “It’s like drinking nectar.” After a few rounds, tongues began to loosen and the level of ambient noise reached a convivial pitch. An underlying tension remained, however.

  The word Alexandros wanted to hear and the Tyrian delegates refused to utter was “surrender.” After the capitulation of Myriandros, Gabala, Paltos, Marathos, Byblos, Sidon, and all the small towns and villages in between, Alexandros expected an invitation to place his designee on the Tyrian throne and to bivouac a Macedonian garrison in the fortress of New Tyros. The Tyrians, on the other hand, after centuries of dominating the Mediterranean shipping lanes and in possession of an impregnable fastness, didn’t seek a confrontation with Alexandros but had no intention of surrendering their city to him, either. If that meant withstanding a siege, so be it.

  After spending the entire banquet pussyfooting around the topic, Alexandros couldn’t stand it any longer. “I understand the festival of Melqart is about to begin.” Melqart was the leading deity of Tyros and his temple the most magnificent structure on the island of New Tyros. The annual festival in his honor was the foremost event on the Tyrian religious calendar and attracted visitors from the entire Phoenician diaspora. “I think it would be appropriate for me to lead the sacrifices this year.” Hearing no response, he forged ahead. “You may not know this but the Phoenician Melqart is the same god as our Greek Herakles.” Abdimilkos nodded. “And of course the Argeads, the royal family to which it’s my privilege to belong, is descended from Herakles.”

  “Yes, your royal highness, we are well aware of your descent from Herakles, as well as the equivalence between the Greek god Herakles and the
Phoenicians god Melqart. It would indeed be a special honor if the current head of the royal house of Argead were to offer sacrifices to Melqart this year. And as luck would have it, there is a suitable temple of Melqart right here in Old Tyros.”

  “That’s an old, abandoned temple that no one visits any more, least of all the god himself. No, I meant the actual shrine of the god, in New Tyros, which is where the festival will be celebrated in a couple of days.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, your royal highness.” Abdimilkos smiled pleasantly. “As long as the war between the Greeks and the Persians continues, we in Tyros are determined to maintain our neutrality. We won’t permit either Persian troops or your troops to enter New Tyros. Regrettably, that means we can’t have you attend the festival of Melqart, any more than we would’ve welcomed Dareios, had he expressed a wish to participate.”

  “Bullshit!” Alexandros’s tone went from conversational chatter to tent rattling shout in the space of one word. An abrupt silence descended on the entire banquet, pierced only by Alexandros’s yelling. “You slimy mollusks, you’ve been the snot smoothing the Persians’ way for decades. Their navy is built, paid for, and manned by your people. And you have the gall to talk about neutrality?”

  Abdimilkos was too startled by the sudden outburst to respond.

  “Nobody but nobody refuses my offer to preside at a religious festival. When is the next time a descendant of Herakles will pass your way, you despicable snail eaters?”

  He called out to the guards surrounding the banqueting tent. “Seize them and get them out of here!” And then, turning back to Abdimilkos, he added ominously. “I won’t kill you and your delegation right now because you came to me carrying the immunity of ambassadors but I’m coming for you. Your walls can’t protect you against the might of my army. You and every citizen of Tyros will come to regret your foolish decision. We will wipe Tyros from the face of the Earth before we leave.” He was beginning to splutter. “The only thing anyone will remember of your crappy little port is that Alexandros once came this way and brushed some noxious pests into the sea. Now begone!”

  The Tyrian delegation was hustled out of the tent and onto their ship; Alexandros continued to rage. Hephaistion tried to ply him with drink, while carefully removing his sword, hoping to calm him down, but Alexandros kept on stomping around, yelling and screaming. The other participants at the banquet quickly and quietly dispersed to their quarters.

  *******

  In the cool, dispassionate light of the new day, Alexandros’s rage had simmered down to a still red-hot but somewhat rational fury. Instead of ordering an immediate assault against New Tyros, which was totally impractical, he dispatched two ambassadors to resume negotiations. The talks evidently didn’t go well. The next time we saw our ambassadors, they were being dragged to the edge of the Tyrian battlements facing us. As we watched in horror, our ambassadors were pushed over the edge and sent tumbling and flailing to their deaths in the rocky foam below.

  “Send a ship to get their bodies,” Alexandros ordered quietly. “I don’t care how many additional men or ships we lose. We don’t leave our people behind.”

  The bodies were retrieved and cremated with full military honors shortly after noon. Before dusk, Alexandros assembled his command staff to inform us of his plans. “We’re going to build a causeway to that accursed island and we’re going kill each and every one of them.” He never raised his voice, which made his forecast all the more chilling.

  The idea was utter folly. The channel was half a mile wide, more than twenty feet deep most of the way, scoured by a strong current, and lashed by violent storms. We all looked to Parmenion but even the old general lacked the courage to voice an objection. “You don’t have to say it,” Alexandros laughed. “I know what you’re all thinking. But it can be done and we will do it. Ptolemaios did it with the King’s Castle when I left him to mop up in Halikarnassos.”

  “Comparing King’s Castle to New Tyros is like comparing an ant hill to a mountain,” Perdikkas pointed out.

  “Exactly,” Alexandros agreed. “You can walk up an ant hill and you can walk up a mountain. It just takes a few more steps, that’s all.”

  “Is it really necessary for us to take New Tyros?” Krateros asked. “Couldn’t we simply let them stew on their island and continue our march to Egypt?”

  Krateros was a new addition to the command staff. Those of us who knew Alexandros stroked our chins to cover our smiles. Alexandros surprised us with unexpected patience. “Our strategy, Krateros, is to systematically deprive the Persian navy of their bases. Bypassing their single most important naval base would tend to defeat our strategy, wouldn’t it?”

  “Even if we succeed in building a causeway to New Tyros, where will that get us?” Philotas asked. “We will be faced with a hundred-and-fifty-foot-tall escarpment, with a lot of defenders on top.”

  “Which is why we’re going to build a hundred-and-sixty-foot-tall siege engine and roll it over there.”

  This time nobody laughed. There was some discussion of technical details concerning the required dimensions of the causeway to accommodate the siege engine. (We settled on a sixty-foot-wide causeway, high enough to remain above the waves during high tide and during bad storms, and level enough for the enormous siege engine wheels to roll across smoothly.)

  “How long do you think it will take us to build the mole, chief?” Kleitos asked.

  “A couple of months.” Alexandros’s tone was so confident, we were almost willing to believe him. “We’ll put every man in the army to work on this project,” he continued, “plus we’ll draft all able-bodied men in the surrounding communities to help us. We have enough cash to pay them and we have enough muscle to make them see the benefits of cooperation.”

  “But how will we feed everybody for months on end?” Philotas asked. “There isn’t enough food in all of Phoenicia to feed our troops, much less the involuntary laborers we’re planning to draft.”

  “Which is why we’re going to dispatch foraging parties far beyond the borders of Phoenicia to ask for supplies. In return, we’ll promise not to invade their territories. In fact, Philotas, I’m sending you, with your squadron, to some place called Judea. It’s to the southeast of here. Their capital is called Jerusalem. I understand it’s quite a fertile land. I’m sure they’ll be anxious to cooperate with us, if you ask them nicely.”

  By the time the briefing was done, half a dozen squadrons were assigned to foraging duty in Phoenicia, Assyria, Samaria, Judea, and as far south as Gaza. Other commanders were told to go out and conduct enlistment drives in the neighboring towns. The rest of us were told to pitch in as necessary on the construction project itself. “We’ll start by demolishing Old Tyros’s city walls and every house, stable, and privy within. We can use the resulting rocks, blocks, and bricks in building the causeway. But leave the temples alone for now, unless we really need the building materials.”

  We were starting to disperse when Alexandros, with one more assignment to make, turned to me. “Ptolemaios here will be in charge of building the causeway, since he’s done it before.”

  I didn’t bother to argue but Seleukos had one last question. “How are we going to convince the troops?”

  “I’ll take care of it in the morning,” Alexandros assured him. “Just assemble everybody in the agora after the morning meal.”

  *******

  The morning muster didn’t go as well as Alexandros might have hoped. The veterans, who were ready to go home after Issos and were only persuaded to stick around for the march down to Egypt by promises of unlimited loot, especially once we had reached the fabled land of luxury on the Nile, were not eager to pause for several months, while they exchanged their swords and spears for picks and shovels. “We’re not construction workers,” they yelled. “There’s nothing worth getting in New Tyros.” “Let’s keep marching to Egypt.” “Or let’s go home instead.”

  “They killed our ambassadors,” Alexandros
pleaded. “How can you let their deaths go unavenged?” The soldiers piped down but failed to evince any enthusiasm for the mission.

  That was the first time I’d ever witnessed Alexandros fail to establish instant rapport with his troops. Even he seemed shocked by their resistance. “We’ll have some athletic contests and musical entertainment this afternoon, followed by another nice feast, and we’ll discuss how to proceed tomorrow.” He shook his head, as if to banish a bad dream, and ordered the bugler to signal dismissal.

  When we assembled again the next morning, we were greeted by an altar, several sacrificial victims, Aristandros the Seer standing by in his whitest finery, with mallet and butcher knife in hand, and Alexandros ready to address the troops.

  Seeing Aristandros holding a butcher knife brought unpleasant associations to my mind. The specter of his cutting my throat while I slept had been haunting me for months. And, after recent events conclusively established that my fears were based on objective reality and not simply paranoia, I’d resolved to kill him before he had a chance to do it to me first. But killing someone without detection, especially someone who’s expecting an attack, is a complicated business. As a result, there I stood staring daggers at Aristandros while he studiously ignored me.

  Our commander-in-chief brought me out of my reverie. He raised a hand to gain our attention. “I had a dream last night.” He paused, waiting for the last few murmurs to die down. “In this dream, I saw my forebear Herakles, as clear as I see you now. He was standing atop the parapet yonder, on the other side of the strait, and he was beckoning to me. He was also shouting to me but I couldn’t make out the words over the roar of the surf. Then he gave me one more smile, waved, and descended into New Tyros.”