by Oden, Scott
“Then we will find new harbors, my friend.”
“Where? The islands?”
Memnon heard a splash from the stern, then another; in low voices, the marines wagered on which body would lure the sharks first. “Macedonia,” he said finally. Autophradates fell silent. Memnon reckoned the Persian doubted what he had just heard. “No, your ears are not playing tricks on you.”
“A daring plan,” Autophradates said. “How—”
Memnon stifled his curiosity with a raised hand. “In due time. Can I confide something in you, and trust that it will go no further?”
“Of course,” the Persian replied. “I swear to you, on pain of death, that what you say to me will never leave my lips.”
Memnon nodded and inclined his head toward the city. “Halicarnassus isn’t going to fall. No, it’s going to be sold to Alexander. I’ve placed a high price on those walls and the only coin I’ll accept is Macedonian blood. When the boy has met my fee, when I can’t wring another bloody drop from him, I will give him Halicarnassus in return—and willingly. For too long I’ve fought on Alexander’s terms. It’s time for him to fight on mine.”
“My lord,” Autophradates said, his voice rising little above a whisper, “the Great King was right to put his trust in you.”
“We’ll see.” Before he clambered down into the skiff for his return to shore, Memnon leaned in close to the Persian admiral. “It is the easiest thing under heaven to form a plan. Only when you execute it will you begin to see where you’ve gone wrong. In the end, I fear this war will boil down to luck—mine versus Alexander’s.”
“I pray yours will be the stronger.”
“So do I, Autophradates,” Memnon said, climbing down the ladder. “So do I.”
23
THAT NIGHT, HALICARNASSUS SLEPT UNEASILY BEHIND WALLS OF STONE and fear, its aristocracy haunted by the fate of their children, its commoners by the fate of the six men hanged in the agora. Their corpses yet dangled from gibbets as reminders of Lord Memnon’s resolve to defend the empire at all costs. The moneylender in his mansion, the blacksmith in his foundry, the cripple in his hovel, all looked out their doors this sleepless night, beheld the shining pyramid atop the Mausoleum, and wished for a return to the halcyon days of King Mausolus and his Queen. They were trapped, the citizens of Halicarnassus, between the hammer of Macedonia and the anvil of Persia. Trapped, and unable to fight back …
UNEASY DESCRIBED MEMNON’S SLEEP, AS WELL, HIS DREAMS HAUNTED BY the young-old man with hair of silver and gold. The memory of his voice sent tendrils of pain lancing through the Rhodian’s scarred shoulder. The Moirai, the Fates, ration human existence. Memnon thrashed, sweat beading his forehead. They have rationed your existence, son of Rhodes. I have seen the weave of your life, its warp and weft; I have seen its colors and its textures. The Rhodian’s hands clawed at the material of his cloak, which he used as a blanket. And I have seen its end. The blade of Atropos, Memnon … the blade drifts closer with the passage of mortal years. Would you like to know the hour of your death? Come … let me show you.” A phantom touch on Memnon’s shoulder wrenched a gasp from him. “No!”
The Rhodian bolted upright. Pharnabazus stumbled back from the edge of his cot, alarmed by the rage in his uncle’s voice. A clay lamp burned on Memnon’s desk; in its dim light, Pharnabazus marked well the trembling of Memnon’s limbs, his rapid breathing, and the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.
“What … what is it, Pharnabazus?”
“There’s something afoot, Uncle. I believe Alexander’s preparing his men to attack this morning.”
Memnon nodded, ran his hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll meet you on the battlements.”
“Are you all right, Uncle?”
“I’m tired, Pharnabazus. Nothing more.” Rising, Memnon clapped the Persian on the shoulder. “Go ahead. I’ll be along in a moment.”
Concern etched Pharnabazus’s brow, but he did as Memnon asked; after a moment, the Rhodian stood alone in his small room. His armor hung from a wooden rack in the corner. In the sheen of bronze, Memnon imagined he saw the distorted reflection of a young-old face. Would you like to know the hour of your death?
“No,” he whispered. “No.”
MEMNON, BUCKLING THE LAST STRAP OF HIS BREASTPLATE, ASCENDED THE acropolis wall as the rising sun set fire to the eastern horizon. Sparrows whirled in the sky above, their voices competing with the plaintive cries of gulls hovering over the forest of masts in the harbor. Though cloaked still in gray shadow, he could tell the valleys surrounding Halicarnassus seethed with men—half-glimpsed figures of bronze and iron like the shades of dead warriors before the cold throne of Hades. The Rhodian could hear their voices, the clatter of their harness. He could hear the windlasses creaking on Alexander’s siege machines, the rattle of iron bolts and stone missiles.
“They are coming,” Pharnabazus said.
Memnon nodded, glanced up and down the battlements. “Rouse the tower garrisons, but quietly. Let Alexander make the first move, not react to our alarms. Send word to Thymondas and Amyntas to bring their archers to the parapet. Have runners dispatched to Salmacis and Arconessus. We have little time, Pharnabazus. Go!”
Memnon would send no heralds across the no-man’s land between Halicarnassus’s walls and Alexander’s battle lines to seek indulgences, to buy time, or to offer diplomatic solutions; no embassies from the city would be allowed past the gates. He knew Alexander’s intentions as clearly as the young king knew his. Neither would insult the other with wasted parleys and empty rhetoric.
Which part of the wall will he attack first? Memnon scanned his own defenses, wondering what weaknesses Alexander had detected. Would he assault the gates? Would he use logs to form makeshift bridges in order to bring ram crews to bear on the stout timbers of the Mylasa Gate? Or would he fill in sections of the dry moat, paving the way for the rolling towers he used at Miletus? In truth, he reckoned it made no difference to the men freshly roused from sleep and filing into position atop the parapet. The archers and slingers, spearmen and javelineers would engage the Macedonian regardless of where he chose to launch his attack.
“Don’t wait for my order,” Memnon said as he walked among his men. “Loose as soon as you have a clear target. Keep pressure on them, but don’t get reckless. Remember—they have archers, as well.”
“What say the gods, my lord?” one of his kardakes asked, a pale young man who gripped his bow white-knuckle tight.
“What say the gods?” Memnon replied, grasping the young man’s upper arm. “They say we are thrice-blessed and today will be a day of slaughter and red ruin for the Macedonians! Make ready!” His words cheered those men in earshot; confidence spread from man to man, from tower to tower. Soldiers shrugged off their fear and trepidation. They waited with arrows nocked, sling bullets pouched, javelins selected. Memnon drew his sword.
The sun crested the hills, flooding the vale of Halicarnassus with light.
Alexander’s point of assault became evident by the thousands of Macedonians massing just out of bowshot northeast of the acropolis, at a spot between the city’s main gate, the monumental Tripylon (so called for its three protective towers), and the Horn, the northernmost extremity of Halicarnassus. At the Horn, the wall turned sharply south and began its descent down the hillside to the Mylasa Gate and the harbor fortress of Arconessus. The Macedonians carried baskets of fill dirt—meaning Alexander intended to bring his towers to bear—and shield-bearers moved among them to provide cover as best they could.
Behind the mass of troops the Rhodian spotted Alexander’s siege train—another legacy of Philip’s. Dozens of katapeltoi were trained on the wall near the Horn, each machine capable of discharging a six-foot dart of wood and iron or a stone the size of a large stew pot. Beyond them, four siege towers waited. These were fifty-foot-high frames of timber covered with planking and hide and mounted on reinforced wagon wheels. Memnon had seen such monstrosities before. Each had three levels—the low
est sported a suspended battering ram; the second and third levels were slitted for archers. With the amount of manpower he could draw upon, Memnon reckoned it would take Alexander no more than two days to fill in enough of the moat; then, the towers could be rolled into position. The Rhodian resolved to make it a costly two days.
From the Macedonian lines a salpinx wailed. In response, the katapeltoi bucked as engineers discharged them. Seconds later Memnon heard the choonk of horizontal torsion bars, like giant bow-staves, striking the wooden frames. Soldiers ducked down behind the battlements as several darts hissed overhead; others struck below the parapet, splintering against the dressed stone of the wall. A cheer erupted as the archers stood and loosed a volley at the Macedonians advancing on the dry moat. A hail of iron-heads scythed through the front ranks, cracking on shields and piercing flesh.
And so the battle began.
It quickly became a duel between archers, with clouds of arrows darkening the sky from both directions. The Macedonians fought to clear the battlements and give their comrades time to work on the ditch. Arrows and darts raked the walls. Rocks flung by the siege engines were too soft to damage the granite of Halicarnassus’s defenses, but on impact the stones shattered into razored shards capable of punching through a shield’s bronze facing and tough oak chassis. A sharp crack, an explosion of dust, bodies falling, and runnels of blood marked each strike. Horrific screams rippled from the wounded.
Memnon directed his men’s rage. From the Tripylon’s three sturdy towers and from the Horn, he ordered his archers to rain shafts down on the center of the Macedonian line; to his slingers he gave the more nerve-wracking task of targeting the enemy archers. They worked in pairs, ranging up and down the battlements in search of their prey. Taking turns, one acted as lookout while the other, exposing his body to Macedonian missiles, stood and loosed. More times than not their lead bullets found their mark. On occasion, though, the Rhodian saw his soldiers’ daring repaid in blood. One pair, seconds after killing a man, were literally ripped apart when a katapeltes stone struck the embrasure next to them. Debris from the same stone tore a jagged gash across a nearby archer’s eyes. He rose, clutching his mangled face, and stumbled into the path of a whistling dart. The oversized arrow transfixed his body, knocking him from the parapet and into the growing ruin of stone, wood, and flesh inside the wall.
Each death caused redoubled effort among the living. Memnon and a squad of hoplites, better protected by their heavier armor, braved the hail of stone and iron to drag the wounded to safety and replenish empty quivers.
“Keep up the pressure!” Memnon roared. “Don’t let the bastards draw breath!”
By midday, Pharnabazus brought news of similar attacks against the Mylasa Gate and its twin in the western wall of the city, called the Myndus Gate, though neither as ferocious as the one at the Horn.
“The others are feints,” Memnon said. “Meant to draw men from the center to reinforce our flanks. It’s a tactic Alexander has some fondness for.”
“He used it at the Granicus.”
“To good effect,” Memnon said. Rock dust plastered his face, his hair, mixing with sweat and blood from the injured to create a ghastly mask. The Persian handed him a skin of water. He sucked the warm liquid down, and then held the stream over his head, sluicing away the accumulated grime. “We need to double the casualties we’re inflicting on him.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Send word to Autophradates. Have him ransack the fleet, the harbor, the warehouses, any place he can think to look, and bring me every drop of bitumen he can find in Halicarnassus. While he’s doing that, you loot the potters’ workshops for clay jugs.”
Pharnabazus grinned. “Incendiaries?”
“Crude, but effective,” Memnon said. Pharnabazus nodded and rushed off. The Rhodian returned to the thick of the assault, calling for the archers to keep low while water-bearers passed out their skins.
The day wore on. Bowstrings and staves snapped from relentless use. Arrows ran low; while runners fetched more from the fleet, archers had only to stoop and seize spent shafts off the bloody parapet—yours or theirs, it did not matter. Iron warheads knew nothing of loyalty.
At the base of the wall, Macedonian bodies tumbled into the moat … that portion no longer dry thanks to the fluids pouring from their pierced and riven corpses. Twice, Memnon spotted Alexander himself in the wrack, surrounded by a guard of shield-bearers, exhorting his men to greater effort. The Rhodian felt a grudging sense of admiration for the young king, as one man who leads by example to another.
By the time Pharnabazus returned the sun was beginning its descent into the West. “The incendiaries are ready, Uncle,” the Persian said. “Over two hundred jars, each filled with a mix of bitumen and lamp oil. And so you know, when we did not take the bait Alexander ordered his men back from the Mylasa and Myndus Gates. Feints, as you said.”
“Our casualties?”
“Minimal,” Pharnabazus replied. “As were his.”
Memnon scowled. “Let’s see if we cannot compel him to pull back from the Horn, as well. Bring up the incendiaries.” The Rhodian started to turn away.
“There is more news, Uncle. Patron has returned from Crete, and he’s brought a guest.”
Memnon’s head snapped around. “Patron’s returned? Thank Poseidon! Where is he? Who is this guest he’s brought?”
“A Spartan, Uncle. Who he is, I do not know,” Pharnabazus said. “But, they both await you in Zeus’s temple.”
Memnon’s brow creased. A Spartan? “Take over here. Hold off on the incendiaries until I return.”
DESPITE THE TUMULT OF THE SIEGE A PALL OF SILENCE CLUNG TO THE TEMPLE of Zeus Polias. Memnon paused on the threshold of the open doors and waited for his eyes to adjust, the clotted shadows providing a welcome respite from the searing heat of battle. Bronze braziers spewed sweet-smelling incense into the cool air; fluted columns lined the central hall, the cella, where the stern visage of Zeus looked down on worshipers from his marble throne. The Thunderer, Lord of Dark Clouds, clement in his own fashion but implacable when aroused, Memnon mouthed a silent prayer that the Lord of Olympus might grant them victory. No doubt Alexander had asked the same boon for his own people. When Greek fought Greek, whom would the gods love more?
From within, Memnon could hear voices—one familiar, the other clipped and raspy. The Rhodian moved to his left, passed between the columns, and spotted Patron and his guest at the rear of the temple, near a side door that opened on the peristyle ringing the building. Though still as lean as from his days piloting Circe, the passage of time had scarred Patron, adding deep creases to his face and gray to his hair and beard. His plain blue chiton, worn cinched at the waist with a belt of old leather, stood in marked contrast to the finery of his companion.
The Spartan at Patron’s side cut an impressive figure—tall and well muscled with a full beard and long, immaculately groomed hair, both chestnut-colored. He sported a cuirass of fine bronze, etched and silver-inlaid, and greaves embossed with the faces of Nymphs. In spite of the heat, he wore the scarlet cloak of a Peer, a member of that ever-dwindling class comprised of full Spartan citizens.
“You speak of superiority,” Patron was saying. “But under Spartan standards would Alexander not be the superior man by virtue of his being a king?”
“Superior to other Macedonians, perhaps, but not to Spartans. In the company of lions, does a king of mice crow about his exalted position?”
“Only if the mouse has the wherewithal to align himself with the eagles,” Memnon said.
The two men turned.
“Zeus Savior, lad!” Patron said, grinning. “You look like a man whose been scrapping in the dust with a pack of dogs!” The Spartan nodded approvingly.
Memnon glanced down at himself. A rime of dried blood, sweat, and dust caked his limbs and armor. He grinned back. “Not all of us get the plum missions, Patron. How were the whores of Crete?”
“They send thei
r regards,” he replied. Patron gestured to the Spartan. “This is Callicratides, envoy of King Agis of Sparta.”
“Greetings, noble Callicratides.”
“Rhodian. Patron speaks highly of you. So much so that I felt compelled to meet you in person, to take your measure back to Agis.”
“Just so you know,” Memnon said, winking. “Phocaeans are inveterate liars, Callicratides, worse than Cretans. Still, what’s mine is yours, for the duration of your stay. Before you depart for home, though, I would like to draft a letter to King Agis, something that defines my position in the plainest possible terms. I ask from you the added burden of delivering it into his hands for me.”
“Of course,” Callicratides said.
Through the open side door came the distant echo of a salpinx. Memnon frowned, cocking his head to the side. “That sounds like the call to withdraw. Surely Alexander’s not had his fill for one day?”
“How goes the fight?” Patron asked.
“Well enough. For all Alexander’s faults, he is tenacious and he has an inventive streak in him. Though we’re enemies we must respect his ability to lead men, to inspire them. Already his Macedonians would march to the gates of Tartarus and spit in Cerberus’s eyes just to please their king.”
“Respect?” Callicratides snarled. “Faugh! The gods have marked the slayer well, and in the end the black Fates always destroy the lucky but too lawless man! Philip, at least, was a worthy adversary who knew his place!”
“You mangle Aeschylus’s words but at least you’re familiar with them, my good Spartan,” Memnon said, recognizing sentiments from that poet’s Oresteia. “It’s exactly because Alexander doesn’t know his place that he has the potential of being a far more terrifying adversary than Philip could have ever dreamed of being. There’s little need to fear the man who recognizes his boundaries, Callicratides. Myself, I fear the man who doesn’t.”