When the pan-Hellenic armada reach the harbor entrance, it found itself confronting an orderly arc of Tyrian triremes, lined up side by side, with their menacing, armored beaks pointing straight at their pursuers. Alexandros had no choice but to call off the attack, contenting himself with bottling up the Tyrian fleet in the Northern Harbor.
The situation in the Egyptian Harbor proved to be similar. The Tyrians had enough naval power to defend the harbor but weren’t strong enough to break through a pan-Hellenic blockade. In fact, Alexandros quickly established a cordon around the entire island, cutting off any incoming supplies as well as all avenues of escape. And then he turned to me, telling me to resume building the causeway.
*******
The rippling ramifications of our victory at Issos, as well as our subsequent successes down the Phoenician coast, continued to reverberate throughout the Aegean basin, making an impression as far as the lower reaches of the Peloponnesian Peninsula. Kleandros, who had been laboring mightily for almost a year to recruit mercenaries for our cause in the Peloponnese and throughout the Greek mainland, suddenly found himself flooded with volunteers, once word of Alexandros’s victory, and his consequent wealth, became the common currency of gossip. After Kleandros had assembled a select crew of 4,000 heavy infantry soldiers, it took him another six months to march up the spine of the Greek mainland, across Macedonia, the entire length of Thrake, across the Hellespont, and back down the western coasts of the Aegean and the Mediterranean, all the way to Old Tyros.
Not only did Kleandros bring with him much needed reinforcements, he also brought other good news besides. He informed us that Pharnabazos’s fleet was rapidly melting away and was no longer able to prevent Greek ships from crossing the Hellespont at will. Even more unexpectedly, Nabarzanes, in command of the elite Persian heavy cavalry, reinforced by savage local fighters, had run into a stone wall in his efforts to cut Alexandros’s lines of communication back to Macedonia. He had fought three pitched battles against the undermanned forces of Antigonos Monophthalmos, the old Macedonian general whom Alexandros had named satrap of Phrygia. Good old One-Eye, despite having only one Macedonian infantry battalion at his disposal, had beaten Nabarzanes, one of Dareios’s leading commanders, every time they met on the battlefield. Finally, Nabarzanes was forced to return to Dareios in Babylon with his tail between his legs.
Hearing all this, Alexandros threw himself into the prosecution of the siege with renewed vigor. He assigned Kypriot and Phoenician engineers, who had arrived with their respective navies and who had highly specialized expertise in the assembly of maritime weaponry, to mount siege engines, artillery pieces, and battering rams aboard barges and transport ships. At the same time, he visited our construction project daily to encourage the enthusiasm of the workforce. The mole was growing much more quickly now because we had passed the deepest part of the channel, because the harassment by Tyrian ships had ceased, and because we were getting more efficient at getting the job done.
By this time, we had been working on the causeway for more than six months. It was the height of summer. The crews worked by torchlight through the night to accelerate our progress but they had to take a couple of hours off in the middle of each day to escape the worst of the heat. Remarkably, through all those months, Dareios never lifted a finger to help the city that had been a faithful Persian ally for two centuries. In response to many urgent appeals, he claimed to be busy making preparations for the coming showdown with Alexandros. In truth, he was still too shaken by his encounter at Issos to hazard a fresh confrontation. The many daughter colonies of Tyros never came to the assistance of their ancestral home either, despite fulsome promises of succor which had undoubtedly contributed to the stiff-necked attitude of the Tyrian ambassadors. Representatives of powerful and wealthy Carthage, the greatest of Tyros’s colonies, who had been visiting the island fortress while Abdimilkos was negotiating with Alexandros, quietly slipped away when hostilities broke out and were never heard from again.
Finally, the tip of our causeway approached within shouting distance of the battlements of New Tyros. At that point, I was forced to divert some of my crews because Alexandros needed men for the erection of catapults, mangonels, mechanized slings, and stone throwers of all kinds. When the day arrived on which the end of the mole got within artillery range, while we were preparing to dodge incoming missiles launched from the Tyrian battlements, Alexandros ordered all his newly-assembled equipment to be rolled and rowed into position. And then the bombardment of New Tyros began.
From the machines positioned at the end of the causeway and from the floating artillery pieces lying at anchor all around the city, Alexandros initiated a relentless barrage of stones, bolts, arrows, and assorted other missiles. Some of the heavy boulders battered the building blocks at the base of the battlements. Lighter rocks, but still larger than a man’s head, flew over the ramparts and destroyed houses inside the city, killing the inhabitants within. (The men called these rocks “head stones.”) Arrows and bolts picked off defenders stationed on the parapet, killing them one by one. When these assorted missiles missed their intended targets, which was most of the time, they landed in the streets and broke through roofs, indiscriminately killing and maiming the civilian population.
The Tyrians fought back as best they could, despite running out of provisions, projectiles, and personnel. They shot flaming arrows into our siege engines and down onto our causeway, starting a few small fires. The fires were quickly extinguished and the causeway continued its implacable advance toward the base of the city walls. The Tyrians erected screens made of wicker, hides, and cloth, trying to catch the incoming missiles, but our stones quickly smashed through the screens.
When the large boulders began to loosen the foundations of some of the battlements, Alexandros ordered the floating battering rams into action, pounding the weakened walls and causing some sections to collapse. The Tyrians worked feverishly to strengthen and rebuild the walls or to erect new screen walls behind any collapsed sections. They also toppled large boulders into the water at the base of the battlements to hinder the approach of our ships.
The bombardment of New Tyros continued for four days and nights. At that point, the causeway reached the escarpment and we rolled our giant siege tower into position. Unfortunately, it was simply impossible to build a rolling tower taller than the Tyrian fortifications. As a result, even with the tower in place, it was still necessary to place ladders on top of the tower in order to enable our soldiers to scale the wall. When they attempted to do just that, the Tyrians were ready. The poured superheated sand and gravel down onto their heads, which worked its way inside their armor, causing horrific burns. The attempt to scale the wall from the siege tower had to be abandoned.
However, while the defenders were busy fighting off the attempted assault from our siege tower, a section of the wall near the Egyptian Harbor collapsed. Two companies of Macedonian marines immediately disembarked near the rupture and tried to clamber over the jumble of fallen building blocks and construction debris. They were driven back with heavy losses but the gap in the fortifications remained. It was only a matter of time and determination until Alexandros found a way to exploit this vulnerability. He gathered all his amphibious assault troops in a special camp on the outskirts of Old Tyros while directing all his commanders to maintain the barrage against New Tyros day and night.
The assault battalion consisted of eight hundred of the very best Macedonian infantry veterans in the army. For two days, they practiced maneuvers under Alexandros’s watchful eye, rested, ate, and drank. On the evening of the second day, Alexandros scheduled a service of propitiation and a lavish feast. Aristandros was in attendance, tasked with reading the signs as usual. With his nose in the steaming entrails, he could clearly see that Alexandros was both confident of a breakthrough and impatient. Therefore, he rose to his feet and announced, in his most stentorian and sanguinary tones, that Macedonian troops would be inside the city of New Tyros before t
he end of the current month. Naturally, loud cheering greeted his oracular pronouncement. There was only one problem: It was the twenty-seventh day of Gorpiaios. The current month would end the next day.
Alexandros seemed unconcerned. “Eat well, men,” he told them, “for we’ll be eating inside New Tyros tomorrow and I hear they’re down to eating grass and earthworms over there.” The men took him at his word. They ate well and they slept well, secure in the knowledge that Aristandros was inerrant and Alexandros invincible.
Overnight, the floating catapults concentrated their barrage on the weak point of the wall near the Egyptian Harbor, driving back the Tyrian workers who were trying to effect repairs and enlarging the breach even further. The next morning, before dawn, the amphibious battalion arrived and launched an immediate assault, led by their commander Admetos. At the same time, the Kypriot and Phoenician ships circling the island commenced a sudden attack against the Tyrian ships bottled up in the Egyptian Harbor.
The Tyrians fought back ferociously. Admetos, fighting at the point of the attack, was killed by an axe through his skull. His position was taken over by Alexandros himself. The allied warships in the harbor, advancing despite a hail of arrows, bolts, and random trash, succeeded in ramming, boarding, and sinking one Tyrian vessel after another. The Macedonian veterans fighting in the breach, anxious to keep their king safe, bounded from building block to building block, killing anyone who got in the way. When the allied warships reached the wharf and discharged their complements of marines, the Tyrian defenders found themselves threatened from two sides and retreated from the battered remnants of their wall. They barricaded the streets and fought, alongside their wives and children, on the barricades, on the roofs, in their courtyards, reception halls, bedrooms, and kitchens, in their gymnasia, baths, and temples. But the Macedonians and their allies just kept coming.
When the fighting finally died down, seven thousand men and scores of women and children lay slain in the streets. Thirty thousand men, women, and children survived and were sold into slavery. Fifteen thousand more disappeared, presumably managing to make their way off the island under the merciful cover of the approaching night. The city itself was looted and burnt to the ground, save the great Temple of Melqart, which was preserved on Alexandros’s express order.
It was in this magnificent edifice that Alexandros finally presided, while the fires in the city were still burning, over the annual celebration of Melqart’s reign, an honor that had been denied to him by the Tyrian ambassadors exactly eight months earlier. He followed the traditional Tyrian liturgy to the letter, omitting only one time-honored aspect of the ceremony. “We have no need of sacrificial victims today,” he told Aristandros. “We’ve had more than enough already.”
*******
The rest of our march to Egypt was uneventful, with one exception.
Chapter 4 – Gaza
“Will the adulation never stop?” Alexandros cried out in mock frustration. He’d been ready to leave Tyros for the past eight days but a steady stream of envoys, well-wishers, supplicants, and functionaries kept him confined to his sumptuous, spoils-of-war command tent. In the meantime, the fabulous riches of Egypt beckoned. He’d recruited local guides and acquired indispensable intelligence about the remainder of our trek to Egypt; he’d dispatched foraging parties to collect victuals and fodder in Lowland Assyria, Phoenicia, Samaria, and Judea; he’d trained a corps of sappers and engineers to quickly build and then equally quickly dismantle our nightly encampments along the route of our journey; he’d ordered his newly-acquired navy to sail along the coast of the Mediterranean as it turned from Asia to Africa and to establish food, fodder, and fresh water depots at regular intervals along our projected expedition once we’d made our way beyond Gaza and entered the desert guarding the approaches to Egypt; he’d established the order of march and appointed commanders for each segment of our train and each squadron of the screening cavalry. He was ready to go. He wanted to cover the remaining three hundred miles from Tyros, the last major port in Phoenicia, to Pelousion, the principal port on the eastern branch of the Nile delta, in thirty days. There was no particular reason to rush but Alexandros knew no other speed. And still, he couldn’t leave.
“His excellency, the mayor of Jaffa,” Hephaistion announced. “It’s a small port along our projected route,” he added under his breath. An old man, in a gleaming white robe, wearing a tall, pointed hat and a long, pointed beard, entered, knelt, and bowed deeply to the king. He said something in a language none of us understood. “Get him to stand up,” Alexandros ordered, “and find a translator.”
In short order, the mayor conveyed the pleasure of the entire population of his town at the prospect of the forthcoming visit of the valiant Macedonian conqueror and commended his humble hamlet to his care. He mentioned some gifts and the availability of abundant seafood. He asked that, if possible, the army be bivouacked somewhere else. He was dismissed in less than five minutes, with assurances that no harm would come to his town or its people.
Hephaistion cleared his throat. “There is a large delegation from the Hellenic League waiting outside.”
“How large?” the king wanted to know.
“Fifteen ambassadors and many more attendants.”
“Where are you all from?” Alexandros asked in lieu of greeting when the delegation was admitted. There followed a roll call of all the important member states of the Hellenic League, of which Alexandros was the titular leader. He seemed bemused. “Welcome. Always a pleasure to see ambassadors who can speak Greek.”
“Sire, we’ve been sent,” the chief of mission began, orating in a formal voice, “on behalf of all the members of the League, to convey our congratulation for the great victory gained by the pan-Hellenic army at Issos. As a token ...”
“That was nine months ago,” Alexandros observed, speaking in a stage whisper to Hephaistion.
The chief ambassador ignored the interruption. “As a token of our appreciation and gratitude ...”
“They were waiting to see whether our victory would stick,” Hephaistion replied.
“As a token of our appreciation and gratitude for protecting the freedom and safety of all Greeks ...”
“What do you think was their original mission, when they set sail?”
The ambassador, growing increasingly flustered, paused uncertainly. “Here,” he finally said, handing a beautifully wrought, heavy, gold wreath to the king. “From the League, sire.”
Alexandros nodded to one of the guards to take possession of the expensive present. Then he addressed the entire delegation. “Thank you. We’ll have you join us for our evening meal tonight and you can tell us all about conditions back home then. But now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ve got others waiting.”
As the Hellenic League delegation was ushered out, he turned to Hephaistion. “What do you think they would’ve done with that wreath had our siege of Tyros failed?”
Hephaistion didn’t miss a beat. “They would’ve offered it to the king of Tyros, of course.” All the Macedonians in the tent laughed.
The next group of supplicants consisted of about a dozen bearded men, all wearing white pants, fine linen tunics cinched at the waist with colorful belts, and elaborate white woolen turbans. Their leader’s outfit was much more extravagant because, in addition to the garments worn by his colleagues, he also wore a beautiful, embroidered, floor-length robe and a wide, fancifully decorated belt. The bottom of his robe was weighted down with lots of little bells and pomegranate ornaments, as a result of which he tinkled brightly with every step he took.
As if all these layers were not enough, he had also put on a sort of apron, except he seemed to be wearing it backward. It covered his entire rear end but left a gap in the middle of his front. On his chest rested a smallish silver breastplate, decorated with twelve large precious stones. The pièce de résistance of his ensemble, however, was his chapeau. His elaborately wound white turban was much larger than those of his fellow delegates
and it was embellished by a wide golden diadem, which carried some kind of indecipherable inscription.
He was a tall man, made even taller by his enormous headgear. He stood rigidly erect, perhaps as a reflection of his dignity or maybe to keep his hat from falling off. In his hands was a large golden tablet. He didn’t prostrate himself, kneel, or so much as bow his head.
It took Hephaistion a moment to recall who was next on the audience list. Finally, he found his place. “His holiness, the high priest of Jerusalem.”
Alexandros was amused by the stiff-necked stance of the old man and beckoned him to approach closer. “What’s your name?”
Although the high priest didn’t speak Greek either, he’d had the foresight to bring a translator with him. “His name is Jaddua son of Yohanan. He’s a holy man, chosen by god,” the translator said.
“Which god?” Alexandros was always interested in learning more about the local deities.
“Our god,” the shocked translator blurted out, a look of consternation on his face. A rapid, animated dialogue ensued between the translator and the high priest. Finally, the high priest raised the golden tablet in his hand and pointed to it.
Alexandros, assuming that the tablet was meant as a present to him, reached out for it. The priest snatched it back in horror.
“It has the name of god engraved on it,” the translator hurriedly explained. “He’s trying to show you god’s name. But no one except the high priest may touch the tablet.”
Conquest of Persia Page 6