Conquest of Persia

by Alexander Geiger

  It was a beautiful, sunny day, with nary a cloud in the sky, a warm, gentle breeze bathing our faces. But the tranquility of the scene was belied by the stench of death in our nostrils and the horrendous carnage assaulting our eyes. I’d seen the aftermath of many a battle; I’d seen barley fields strewn with corpses; I’d supervised the removal and cremation of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dead soldiers; but I’d never seen anything remotely close to what confronted our senses as we returned to the scene of Alexandros’s greatest victory.

  Dareios’s carefully polished battlefield was carpeted by the dead. There were dead soldiers still standing on their feet because there was no room for them to fall. An area of three or four square miles was completely covered in a comforter of corpses, the grisly duvet several bodies thick in many places. Normally, one would expect to see human scavengers among the dead, stripping the enemy soldiers of their gear, armor, and valuables, but the only movement I could see were the feasting vultures, dogs, and jackals. Perhaps the surviving men were finding it too difficult to force their way through the mass of the dead or perhaps the ratio of the dead to the living was too high or perhaps the survivors were too shocked to move.

  Led by Alexandros, our small group carefully skirted the field of carnage. Eventually, back among the hills, we found our camp. Parmenion had assumed command in Alexandros’s absence and was working hard to organize squads to locate and bring back our own casualties, in order to tend to the wounded and to administer final rites for the dead. Alexandros quickly took in the scene, approved of Parmenion’s arrangements, and summoned Kallisthenes into the command tent. He spent the rest of the day dictating reports of his victory to Antigonos in Phrygia, Antipatros in Pella, Demades in Athens, to all his satraps and to leaders of all the cities of Ionia and mainland Greece who had supplied aid to the pan-Hellenic army, and of course to his mother.

  He guessed that the enemy dead numbered sixty thousand or more, a figure a subsequent census determined to have been fairly accurate. He also claimed that the pan-Hellenic army had lost fewer than a thousand men. This estimate proved to be a wild understatement. The Battle of Gaugamela turned out to be Alexandros’s greatest victory but also his most costly one.

  Chapter 9 – Babylon

  For once, Dareios had been accurate in his surmise of Alexandros’s next move. After burying the pan-Hellenic dead (there were too many dead and too few trees in Mesopotamia for mass cremations), after making sacrifices and giving thanks to all the pertinent deities, after distributing the captured booty, after another celebratory banquet and pro forma victory speech, after he’d had a chance to catch his breath, Alexandros saw no immediate need to chase Dareios to Ekbatana. As far as he was concerned, Dareios had forfeited his claim to the Persian throne on the buffed, bloody battlefield of Gaugamela. What was needed right then was some morale-boosting rest and relaxation for the troops and some prestige-enhancing strutting for their leader. Alexandros chose to march on Babylon.

  Mazaios, who had successfully executed his getaway to Babylon, was informed of our impending arrival almost before we’d set off. He immediately launched the necessary preparations: He ordered Dareios’s elite royal cavalry squadrons, which had managed to extricate themselves from the generalized rout at Gaugamela with minimal casualties and had followed Mazaios to Babylon, to polish their armor; he patiently stood through numerous fittings while his splendid new ceremonial robe and suit of armor were rushed to completion; and he summoned several of his remaining Greek mercenaries to the royal palace and immersed himself in the assiduous study of Greek, with a particular emphasis on the Macedonian dialect.

  We were still a half-day’s march from Babylon when our scouts reported that a massive column of natives had sallied forth from the city and was making its way toward us. Uncertain as to their intentions, Alexandros immediately halted our own column and ordered us to deploy in a defensive formation, with the Companion Cavalry arrayed, squadron by squadron, in the front, followed by the infantry in a hollow phalanx, with the baggage train and camp followers in the middle. And then we waited.

  First, we saw the approaching cloud of dust. Then we heard the noise. It was difficult to tell, at least at first, whether the cacophony was supposed to pass for music but eventually the din resolved into loud drumming, cymbal crashing, trumpet blaring, and human shrieking that we interpreted as Babylonian singing. By then, we could make out the figures on the road. The procession was led by a large lacquered litter, carried by a dozen broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, magnificently attired porters. They were followed by squadrons of Dareios’s royal cavalry, their gleaming armor coruscating in the blazing Mesopotamian sun. Then came the priests in their flowing white robes and elaborate felt hats. And finally, the bulk of the column, made up of thousands upon thousands of ordinary citizens in gay, colorful costumes, advancing with a peculiar, prancing strut, accompanied by the god-awful noise that had announced their initial approach. It was obvious this wasn’t a belligerent sortie and we all relaxed our vigilance.

  When the van of the procession reached us, the porters lowered the palanquin and a beautifully accoutered, lavishly bejeweled, meticulously coiffed elderly aristocrat tumbled out. Alexandros recognized the man as Mazaios and rode up to him. Seeing our leader, the satrap of Babylonia and Mesopotamia dropped once again into the dust, landing just short of Boukephalas’s forelegs.

  “You may rise,” Alexandros called out, clearly pleased by the show. Mazaios understood, without the need of translation. He laboriously regained his feet and addressed the Macedonian king and would-be Persian emperor in halting but serviceable Greek.

  “Welcome to your new capital, your celestial majesty. The citizens of Babylon have come out to extend a warm welcome to their liberator. I am here to serve as your guide as you take up your new quarters in the royal palace. And of course, your men are more than welcome in our city as our honored guests.”

  Alexandros listened and smiled. Mazaios had evidently spent his time not only learning Greek but also getting to know the predilections of his erstwhile adversary. He’d had many opportunities to observe Alexandros throughout the past four years, both directly and through eyewitness reports, and he’d judged his man to a fare-thee-well. This intelligence, when combined with the ingrained sycophancy of a Persian courtier, made for a heady mixture that Alexandros found hard to resist.

  “Would your majesty like to join me in my litter?” Mazaios inquired. “It’s extremely comfortable, I assure you.”

  A fleeting grimace crossed Alexandros’s countenance. “Perhaps a touch too comfortable. Why don’t we fetch a horse for you so you can ride like a man?”

  By the time the two of them arrived at the Ishtar Gate, Mazaios had been reappointed satrap of Babylonia and Mesopotamia.

  *******

  Barsine was panting. Her labor pains had arrived two weeks before she had expected them. For an ostensible primigravida, she seemed remarkably calm about her imminent parturition. She concentrated on her breathing to take her mind off her contractions. “Fetch some hot water and a couple of clean linen sheets, and then tell Artakama that I’m about to deliver,” she told her serving girl between labor pangs. “And be quick about it. I don’t think this will take too long.”

  She tried hard not to cry out as the cramps became more frequent and more intense but it wouldn’t have mattered if she had. The hostage camp at Old Tyros was in an uproar. A small squad of Macedonian horsemen had ridden in, more or less simultaneously with the onset of her labor, bringing word of Alexandros’s victory at Gaugamela. They also brought orders to the commander of the small garrison guarding the encampment to strike the tents and convey, with all possible dispatch, all the hostages, the previously captured loot, the recuperating soldiers, the camp followers, and all the women whom we’d left behind, to Babylon. Alexandros assumed, possibly incorrectly, that his men were anxious to see their consorts, courtesans, and captive companions after all these months of separation. Perhaps he was projecting hi
s own desire to see Barsine onto his men.

  “Take a peek, Arta, and see how large the opening has become.” Acting as her own midwife was a novel experience for Barsine but, after four previous deliveries, she knew the process inside out. It’s like an out-of-body experience, she reflected, except for the fact it still hurts like hell.

  “Can you see the crown of the head?” she asked after the next wave of agony had passed and was relieved to hear an affirmative answer. She wasn’t sure how she would’ve coped with a breech birth, attended only by three teenage girls, none of whom had seen a delivery before. The urge to push came soon thereafter and she embraced it with all her might. The baby popped out moments later and Artakama, conscientiously following her sister’s screamed instructions, managed to catch it before it landed on the dirt floor of the tent.

  The lack of sound scared Barsine. “Turn it upside down and slap it!” But, before Artakama had a chance to administer the requisite blow, the tent was filled with the loud, healthy cry of the baby.

  “It’s going to be a smart kid,” Barsine laughed, falling back onto her pallet in relief. “It knows enough to start crying before it gets slapped. What is it, by the way?”

  She was told that it was a boy.

  *******

  In Ekbatana, all appeared normal at first blush. Dareios was ensconced in the magnificent royal palace, busily issuing orders and writing letters. There were still some courtiers around and they bowed and scraped because that was the only way they knew how to behave but the orders were generally ignored and the letters mostly not delivered.

  A huge tent city had sprung up overnight on the parade grounds surrounding the Ekbatana palace, occupied by the 12,000 savage steppe scrappers from Baktria. The largest, most elaborate tent belonged to Bessos, the satrap of that province and putative vassal of Emperor Dareios.

  Dareios continued to hold his usual, daily audiences, which were attended by richly attired aristocrats, who knelt when he entered and who kissed him on the cheek when he bid them to rise. “Did Bessos receive my summons?” Dareios would ask each morning and he would be assured the order to attend had been duly delivered. “He sends his regrets,” he would be told.

  Each time, Dareios would consider sending an armed guard to escort the recalcitrant satrap to the next reception and each time he would think better of it. He would content himself with sending a brief missive instead, advising Bessos of his intentions and asking him to get the troops ready. There was never any reply.

  Dareios also sent countless letters to all the other satraps who remained under his nominal authority, asking for fresh troops. Amazingly enough, every now and then a battalion of raw recruits would show up but none of the satraps came with their troops. They were busy back home lubricating their weathervanes, better to track the shifting winds of change.

  *******

  “Why don’t you hang back a little and let the others go in first?” Hephaistion suggested sotto voce.

  Alexandros laughed. “The day I hang back a little is the day I stop being the leader of these men.”

  “This isn’t a battle, Aniketos. We’re entering a city that’s already surrendered. They’re welcoming us with garlands, songs, and open arms. No one will think any the less of you if you let some of your men have first dibs on the spoils.”

  Alexandros’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to. What exactly are you worried about?”

  “Just take a look at that gateway.” A touch of frustration crept into Hephaistion’s tone. “I’ve never seen a more perfect killing zone.”

  Mazaios rejoined them. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” It was impossible to tell how much of the conversation he’d overheard. “Would you like me to give you a tour? I’ve become something of an antiquary since taking up my post here.”

  “How are you as a hostage, is what we really want to know.” Perdikkas, who was riding immediately behind Alexandros and Hephaistion, inserted himself into the conversation with his usual tact and aplomb.

  Mazaios took no umbrage. “Those six young men standing next to the tower over there are my sons. Standing behind them are many of their wives and most of my grandchildren. If you’ll permit me, I’d like to introduce my sons to you.”

  “I’d be pleased to meet them,” Alexandros flashed a reproachful look at Perdikkas. “We’re not here as conquerors but as liberators.”

  “Precisely.” Mazaios beckoned to his male offspring. The men, preening like peacocks while, at the same time, more anxious to please than neutered puppies, fell to their knees and started crawling toward us. The women and children lay down in the dust and stayed there.

  Alexandros opened his mouth to tell them to rise but thought better of it. He sat patiently on his horse, while the six noble youths traversed the thirty yards or so on their hands and knees. “A handsome crew,” he said to a beaming Mazaios.

  “Thank you, your celestial highness. I’m very proud of them.”

  Finally, the scions of the newly-reappointed satrap of Babylonia and Mesopotamia made it to within spitting distance of our horses and collapsed onto their bellies and faces, awaiting the command to rise.

  Alexandros let them wait, perhaps a beat too long.

  *******

  Ishtar Gate, named in honor of the Babylonian goddess of sex and fertility, was the ceremonial entry point into the city. It was also the most elaborate of the eight gates that pierced the inner walls of Babylon.[17] (We had already passed the outer wall.) It was more a complex of defensive fortifications than a gateway in any conventional sense. First, greeting the approaching traveler, was the Northern Fortress. Its walls and towers, built of fired brick and clad with blue enameled tiles, flanked the roadway. The two tallest towers were connected by a bridge above the road. A crenelated parapet ran all around shooting platforms at the top of the towers. All the edges of the towers, the parapet, and the connecting bridge were outlined with contrasting enameled bricks. We couldn’t see any soldiers inside or atop the towers but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  Beyond the towers rose the Sothern Fortress, a huge, rectangular building, perhaps seventy feet tall and a hundred and fifty feet wide. The formidable defensive walls of Babylon adjoined this massive edifice on either side. Despite its enormous size, however, this building looked, at least from our perspective, like an exquisite jewel box. The broad expanse of the wall was covered with more of the gleaming, glazed tiles but these were three-dimensional, sculptural tiles, forming large, naturalistically colored mosaics of sacred animals, projecting from the surface of the wall in bas-relief. There were alternating rows of bulls and dragons, running all the way to the top. In addition, all the edges of the building, including the crenellations at the top and the large, arched opening at the bottom, were once again delineated using bands of colorful bricks, assembled into intricate, repeating, geometric patterns.

  At ground level, in the center of the front wall, stood a tall, elegant, arched entrance that gave onto a passageway from one side of the building to the other. We could see a bright patch of light at the far end, which was presumably the arched exit orifice of the vaulted corridor, but from where we stood, it was difficult to tell how deep the building and hence how long the tunnel through it might be.

  Flanking the opening at the proximate end of the gateway were two gigantic wooden doors that, when closed, matched precisely the shape and size of the arched doorway. The doors were painted blue and decorated with copious quantities of gold leaf and lapis lazuli. Presumably, a similar set of doors was installed at the far end of the passageway as well. Various apertures suitable for raining down missiles, boiling tar, and stinking excrement on the heads of invaders trapped in the corridor below were undoubtedly incorporated into the sides and ceiling of the structure but these remained invisible to us.

  Almost lost between the Northern and Southern Fortresses was a deep, wide moat, more canal than ditch, which channeled water from the Euphrates all around the
inner walls and then back into the river. A wooden bridge, supported by massive chains, carried the roadway across the moat, unless of course the bridge had been raised, using some kind of windlass mechanisms hidden within the bowels of the Southern Fortress.

  *******

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mazaios repeated. “Shall we proceed through the tunnel?”

  Alexandros remained rooted to the spot. “Yes, it’s beautiful. How many soldiers are required to man the two fortresses?”

  “These are functional fortifications, your majesty, in addition to being a splendid point of entry. They can accommodate hundreds of armed men but naturally they are empty right now. We have no need of defenses against our liberators.”

  Alexandros gave him a cynical smile. “That’s where we disagree, my man. Fortifications should never be left vacant.” He turned back to Perdikkas. “Take a battalion of infantry and occupy these buildings to make sure no harm comes to them.”

  Perdikkas beamed with evident satisfaction. “Yes, sire!” In a few minutes his men set off on the double toward the two fortresses.

  Only when he could see the heads of our men peeking above the parapets and out of the myriad shooting portals did Alexandros turn back to Mazaios. “We’re ready to start the tour you mentioned, satrap.”

  “What about the rest of the walls?” Hephaistion asked. “Shouldn’t we occupy those as well?”

  “Sire, you don’t have enough men to occupy the walls of Babylon.” Mazaios fought hard to hide his irritation.

  Hephaistion was unrestrained by any similar compunction. “You don’t say.”

  Alexandros stepped in before a dispute could develop. “How big are the walls?”