by Oden, Scott
“How many men do you estimate the satraps have gathered?” Pharnabazus asked.
“Thirty or forty thousand,” Memnon replied. “But only a fraction of them are soldiers. The rest are an armed rabble.”
Memnon signaled a halt as a mounted Persian officer in a jacket of brilliant green, shimmering with gold embroidery, met them on the road. He reined in and raised a manicured hand in greeting. “Memnon of Rhodes? Lord Arsites bids you welcome. I am Niphates and I have been instructed to show you to your camp site.”
“Greetings, Niphates,” Memnon said, bowing at the waist.
“Lord Arsites also bid me remind you that the council of war begins the third hour after dawn tomorrow.”
“I would speak with him tonight.”
“Alas, that is not possible,” Niphates said. “Lord Arsites is closeted with his brother satraps, and they have commanded that no one disturb them. They will speak with you tomorrow, sir.”
“Which satraps, good Niphates?” Memnon felt the initial sting of exclusion turn to suspicion.
“The lords Spithridates and Rhosaces,” Niphates said. “Arsamenes of Cilicia, Mithrobarzanes of Cappadocia, and Rheomithres of Greater Phrygia. If you will follow me, sir?”
Memnon gestured for him to lead the way and followed with his troops.
“A rogue’s gallery,” Pharnabazus muttered, in Greek. “And we arrived just in time, I think.”
“I don’t believe they would have summoned us at all,” Memnon said, “if not for your father’s influence with the Great King.”
“Will this council be a waste of time, you think? If they have already decided on a plan of action …”
Memnon shrugged. “I doubt it. They will drink tonight and dicker tomorrow, each man jockeying for the most advantageous position. For myself, I will say and do what is best for the kingdom, no matter how uncomfortable it makes our hosts. We’re all fighting for the common good, after all.”
Pharnabazus nodded to their guide. “Let us hope they realize that, as well.”
Niphates escorted them to a dusty field close to a mile down river from Zeleia. Crude tents already clogged a portion of the field. Tribal levies, Memnon reckoned, noting their rough homespun tunics and leather leggings, men of the river valleys and hollows of the Phrygian interior. Curious eyes watched as glittering ranks of Greek infantry filed onto the field. Memnon ignored the implied insult that came from billeting his men at the ass-end of the army and bid Niphates farewell.
“Send my compliments to Lord Arsites,” he said, smiling as the smug Persian trotted off. When Memnon turned back to the sons of Artabazus, his eyes were as cold and hard as flint. “Ari, find who commands these levies and ask them to join me. Pharnabazus, we will share our food with them, our wine. Instruct the men to fan out and get to know our neighbors. I want them to be our allies by dawn.”
He would show these satraps how well he could play their political games.
BY THE SECOND HOUR AFTER DAWN, MEMNON’S OFFICERS HAD THE PHRYGIAN levies on the drill field, inculcating in them the necessary skills to fight a Macedonian phalanx. They were light troops—javelineers and slingers mixed with a few hundred archers. Omares made new battalions out of them, assigning animal totems they would recognize from their homeland: fox, lion, and bear. While he taught them flank and cover, augmenting the Phrygians’ already prodigious skill at hit-and-run, their headman, Bocchus, stood off to one side, grinning in approval.
Leaving orders for a day of merciless exercise, Memnon and Pharnabazus took their horses and cantered up the Aisopus to Zeleia. Both men cut striking figures, grim-faced and armored in glittering bronze with gold and silver ornaments. Beneath his armor, Memnon wore the plain chiton and leather kilt of a Greek soldier; Pharnabazus opted for the richly worked tunic and trousers of a Persian lord.
The castle of Zeleia, with its tall turrets and ancient stables, bustled with activity as servants scurried to do their lord’s bidding. Arsites had commandeered every inch of space, evicting the town’s ruler and his family so he might have extra room for courtiers, kinsmen, soothsayers, and musicians. Graciously, he offered shelter his brother satraps Arsamenes and Mithrobarzanes who did not have palaces nearby, their personal entourages adding to the swirling chaos.
Niphates met them in the crowded castle yard. “I trust you slept well, sir?”
Memnon and Pharnabazus dismounted and passed their reins to a pair of grooms. “Exceptionally well, good Niphates,” Memnon replied through a mask of politesse. A hint of mockery clung to the Persian as he gestured for them to follow.
Their path took them through the heart of the castle and out onto a stone-paved terrace overlooking the Aisopus River. At its center, slender columns carved of local hardwood supported a loggia, its roof tiled in slate and terracotta. In true Median fashion, gardeners had positioned pots of fragrant shrubs and flowers around the loggia; divans awaited their repose while servants and wine stewards stood close at hand, ready to answer the satraps’ needs. Under the loggia, a map table awaited their perusal.
Memnon spotted the gaunt form of Spithridates reclining on a divan, his eyes serpentine and his beard peppered with gray; his brother Rhosaces and other high-ranking officials, perhaps a dozen men altogether, clustered around him, laughing and chatting amiably.
“Is this a council of war or a garden party?” Pharnabazus muttered.
Niphates announced them. “My lords, Memnon the Rhodian and Pharnabazus, son of Artabazus.”
Heads swiveled.
“My lords,” Memnon said. He and Pharnabazus sketched slight bows, a minor obeisance reserved for perceived equals. After a pause conversation resumed; Memnon and his nephew exchanged glances. They were to be ignored, it seemed. But two men detached themselves from the rest and approached Memnon. One was tall and well muscled, perhaps thirty, with jet-black hair and beard. His companion was older by twenty years, at least, with the expansive girth of a man accustomed to rich foods and wines. His flushed face, all wattles and jowls beneath an unruly beard, bore scars of debauchery rather than battle.
“You are the brother of Mentor?” the younger man asked.
“I am.”
“It saddened me to hear of his passing. I am Arsamenes. This is my uncle, Mithrobarzanes.”
“Rhodian,” the fat Persian burbled.
“My lords.” Memnon indicated Pharnabazus. “This is—”
“He needs no further introduction, Rhodian. We all know whose son he is.” A third satrap drifted over. Arsites of Hellespontine Phrygia, a slightly built man with a thick mane of dark hair and a narrow hatchet-face, curled his lips into a sneer of disgust. To his credit, Pharnabazus refused to rise to the baiting. “I have heard that your officers were putting the Phrygian levies through their paces this morning,” Arsites said. Over his shoulder, he called to another satrap. “Have you heard this, Rheomithres? The Rhodian hopes to make your hillmen into better fighters.”
“They are sneak-thieves and curs,” the satrap Rheomithres replied. He was a barrel-chested Persian with a light olive complexion; his russet hair and beard, both painstakingly curled, betrayed his Armenian ancestry. “It would be a better use of your time if you could teach my dogs to dance.”
Memnon accepted a goblet of wine from the steward. “I disagree. Under the proper leadership your Phrygians would make excellent light troops.”
“And whose is the proper leadership? Yours?”
“Or yours, if you would but take the time.”
Rheomithres bristled. “My time is none of your concern, Rhodian! Neither are my Phrygians!”
Spithridates rose from his divan. “We have not assembled here to discuss your wretched Phrygians!” he said. Shadowed by his brother, the Iranian crossed to the map table. Memnon and the others followed. “Philip’s whelp seeks to make a name for himself outside of his illustrious father’s shadow. The Great King has charged us with stopping him.”
“He is a boy, this Alexander?” Arsamenes asked. He and Mit
hrobarzanes, both hailing from deeper inside Asia, had heard very little about Macedonia’s young king, save rumor and innuendo gleaned from Greek traders. “A lad of twenty?”
“If that.”
“He is twenty-two,” Memnon said. “But do not judge him based solely on his age. He learned warfare at the foot of one of its greatest practitioners—his father—and he’s inherited a veritable machine of destruction in the form of the Macedonian army. His soldiers revere him. What’s more, he has the backing of Philip’s men, Parmenion and Antipatros among them. No, my lords, the whelp is just as dangerous as the sire. Perhaps more so.”
“Where is he, and do we know the disposition of his forces?”
Memnon looked to Pharnabazus, who stepped up to the map table. “At last report, our spies put the Macedonians near Cardia in the Chersonese. That was several days ago. I would wager he has reached Sestos by now and is crossing the Straits to Abydus as we speak. The bulk of his army is infantry—six phalanx battalions, the Foot Companions, supported by various light and missile troops—but his true striking power is in his cavalry, the elite Companions and the famed horsemen of Thessaly. All told, Alexander commands close to forty thousand men.”
“What forces are at our disposal?” Memnon asked Spithridates. The satrap studied the map.
“We are rich in cavalry drawn from regions where men are born on horseback: regiments from Media, Bactria, Hyrkania, and Paphlagonia. Add your own allied Greek cavalry and we have over ten thousand horsemen. We have gathered another ten thousand infantry, mostly levies and your own mercenaries.”
Concern crossed Memnon’s face. “Twenty thousand men? Can we expect more from the Great King?”
“We must rely on what we have.”
“Then we must hope Alexander splits his forces or leaves enough behind to guard his lines of communication. It would be best if we could avoid a face-to-face battle—”
“You would have us play the coward?” Arsites snapped. “Advise us to run and hide, and hope the boy grows bored and decides to move on?”
Memnon kept his calm. “Nothing of the sort. I suggest we strike Alexander where he is most vulnerable—his supply line. We know Philip beggared Macedonia with his constant warring and political machinations, leaving Alexander with scarcely two drachmas to rub together. Thus, the young King is wagering his future on finding all the forage and supplies his army will need in our rich granaries and fields. We must deny him access.”
“What are you suggesting, Rhodian?” Spithridates asked.
“That we withdraw our forces ahead of him and lay waste to the countryside,” Memnon said, staring at the Persian lords in turn. He gestured to the map. “Destroy anything he might be able to use: livestock, crops, wells. Foul the rivers and the lakes. Gut those towns where he might seek succor. Burn every leaf, every branch, and even the grass underfoot. Deny him the luxury of forage, gentlemen, and I promise you he will be forced to return to Thrace before the month is out. That’s when we strike. Bring up the fleet from Cyprus to contest his passage back to European soil. Then, we can crush Alexander in one combined action, on land and sea.”
Arsamenes of Cilicia nodded, clearly impressed with Memnon’s thinking, while the faces of his fellow satraps registered a gamut of reactions—from disbelief to anger to moral outrage.
“All well for you to propose the destruction of our lands,” Arsites said, “when your own estates are elsewhere!”
“I will burn every scrap of land I own if it means Alexander’s defeat,” Memnon said.
Arsites, though, shook his head. “No! I will not consent to such desolation, not in my lands! You, brothers, may vote to override me and bring poverty and horror to this district, but I will have no part in it!”
“Nor will I,” Spithridates said. “And to even suggest it is an affront to the gods.”
“Were I you, my lords, I would worry less about offering offense to the gods and more about failing the Great King. His Majesty wants Alexander stopped,” Memnon said, “and we do not have the luxury of squeamishness.”
“We must stop him, yes, but at what cost? You would have us destroy the very lands we fight to preserve! It is madness!” Rheomithres said. “Listen, brothers! We must give our cavalry free rein! Allow them to do as they have done for centuries—strike and retire, strike and retire! Let them harry the Macedonians back to the Straits!”
Spithridates absently knuckled his beard. “No,” he said. “This calls for a decisive stroke.”
“You think we should meet the boy head-on?” Rhosaces folded his arms over his chest. The brothers exchanged looks.
“This bald-faced challenge to His Majesty’s suzerainty demands nothing less. We must meet Alexander face to face; albeit on ground of our own choosing—ground that will negate their numbers.”
“You mean to engage the cream of Macedonia’s army,” Memnon said, a measure of disbelief in his voice, “with tribal levies and inexperienced soldiers?”
“No.” Spithridates’ eyes narrowed. “I mean to engage it with the cream of Asia’s cavalry. Our horsemen outnumber theirs, Rhodian. If we make this a fight between cavalry corps, how can we not grind this whelp’s ponymounted hillmen into dust?”
“Do you understand the threat you’re facing?” Memnon replied. “I have seen the Macedonian army in action, gentlemen, in Thrace. It doesn’t fight as you think it should. Have you ever stopped to wonder why Philip outfitted his phalanx with the sixteen-foot sarissa, surely the most unwieldy weapon ever devised? No? Because of its ability to hold an enemy at bay. It is the anvil to his cavalry’s hammer. Philip trained these elements to fight in unison, not as separate arms. The phalanx holds a foe immobile while wedges of Companions slice through their ranks. In battle after battle I’ve seen it used to the same grisly effect. Our levies, our cavalry, will not fare any better!” Memnon slapped the map table with the flat of his palm, emphasizing his words. Words lost on the Persians. He read defiance in their sneers, their flared nostrils. They would listen to no other options.
Memnon shook his head in resignation. “As you wish, my lords. If open confrontation is the course you choose, my best advice would be to select ground that can be held against infantry and cavalry, a place where the cohesion of their phalanx would be in jeopardy.”
The satraps stared at the map, the Troad and Hellespontine Phrygia delineated on papyrus in fine black ink, major towns and roads marked in red. Where? Where could they face the Macedonians and have the advantage of position?
“A riverbank,” Pharnabazus said suddenly, breaking their silence. He gestured to a spot on the map a day’s travel from Zeleia. “This is the plain of Adrasteia—horse country, well-watered by streams and small rivers flowing from Mount Ida to Propontis. Most are wide and shallow, though swift, but this one, the Granicus, has an eastern bank that rises to the height of a man over the riverbed.”
“I know this place,” Arsites said, nodding to Pharnabazus. “It is perhaps eighty feet across, thigh-deep in places, with a bed of mud, clay, and loose rock. The western bank has little or no elevation.”
“And,” Pharnabazus added, “it is on the road to Dascylium. Alexander will have to attack if he hopes to dislodge us, thus breaking Philip’s cardinal rule of warfare—make your enemy come to you.”
“Praise Mithras!” Rhosaces thumped Pharnabazus on the back. “The son of Artabazus has hit upon something! An excellent plan!”
“What say the rest of you?” Spithridates said. One by one, the satraps voiced their assent. Finally, the Iranian lord raised an eyebrow at Memnon. “Rhodian?”
Memnon glanced from man to man then back to the map, chewing his lip. “I strenuously urge you to reconsider this,” he said. “Nevertheless, Pharnabazus is right. It’s perfect ground for the confrontation you desire.” He placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
Spithridates nodded; he leaned over the table, his weight resting on his balled fists. “Granicus it is, then. And it must be decisive, brothers. Decis
ive. I do not doubt that the Great King will be generous to the man who brings him the head of Philip’s son!”
SUNSET TURNED THE RUSHING WATERS OF THE GRANICUS RIVER TO BLOOD. Memnon crouched on the high bank and contemplated an approaching rider. The horseman, a Persian by his dress, forded the river and guided his mount up the treacherous eastern bank. Watching his struggle, Memnon knew Pharnabazus had been right. This river, properly held, would be the rampart upon which Alexander’s soldiers shattered themselves.
“But it must be properly held,” the Rhodian muttered, rising. And therein lay the problem: the satraps had no conception of what was needed to properly hold the Granicus against Alexander. “Put infantry and missile troops in the center,” Memnon had told Spithridates that very day, as they surveyed the ground from horseback. “Put strong contingents of cavalry on both flanks and another to the rear of the infantry, in reserve. Let Alexander exhaust himself on our spears, then rake in from the flanks and finish him!”
The satrap, though, had disagreed with him. Honor demanded he meet Alexander’s threat of cavalry with his own. “We will line the bank with horsemen,” Spithridates said, nodding as he imagined ranks of armored riders glittering in the sun, heir horses pawing the ground in anticipation, the breeze snapping their bright pennons. “The infantry can have our leavings.”
In the end, Memnon saw his counsel tossed aside yet again. In the order of battle he would anchor the Persian left with the horsemen of the Troad; beside him would be Arsamenes and the half-wild Cilician cavalry. Arsites would come next at the head of the riders of Paphlagonia, a country on the southern coast of the Euxine Sea, their war-gear of the finest manufacture, from iron-rich Sinope. Spithridates would hold the next position with the Hyrkanians of the Caicus Valley—the same Hyrkanians who had helped defeat Artabazus nearly two decades ago—and the white-cloaked Lydian lancers; Rhosaces would be on his brother’s flank with a hodge-podge of Ionians, mercenaries for the most part, and in Memnon’s reckoning the weakest of the cavalry contingents. Mithrobarzanes and Rheomithres would anchor the right with the Bactrian and Median troops, respectively—more military settlers brought west in the early days of the empire, and who maintained their cultural identities despite the passage of two centuries.