Too big and heavy to beach, the quinquiremes stayed on the water until they could be towed inside the giant ship sheds at major naval bases – and Mycale was not such a base. It was little more than a supply port in a harbor protected from storms by the peninsula and the mountain that loomed above it. Captain Abibaal climbed aboard the flagship, made his report to the Admiral, and was back aboard his own ship in short order.
“Well, Captain, how did the Admiral take your report?” asked Dimitrios. “Did he say why the navy is here rather than at Miletos, like you thought?”
The Phoenician captain wiped the sweat from his brow, adjusted his tunic and called for his other officers to attend him. When they were assembled, he responded to the Greek soldier's question so all could hear.
“I did not tell the Admiral anything he did not already know. Seems the fleet had to leave Ephesos when the mob took control of the city and welcomed in the Macedonians. As for the ships we met, well, that, too, was old news to the Admiral – or, rather to his aide, to whom I reported. The Greeks slipped around Samos in the storm and beat us to Miletos. They have about 160 warships there, based on the island of Lade which commands the approach to the harbor.”
“Well, then they have trapped themselves,” said one of the officers gleefully. “There must be easily twice as many ships here – so when do we head south to sweep them from the sea?”
“The aide did not confide in me the plans of the Admiral,” Abibaal grinned. “It is obvious that the fleet took some damage from the storm and is doing what it can to refit, make repairs and revictualize. That will take another few days, I guess, as there are far too many ships for this place to handle.”
“Well, we'll get our turn soon enough, I imagine,” the officer said, nodding his head in understanding. The other officers muttered their agreement, and looked relieved at the prospect of some rest, some time to stretch their legs and to perhaps buy and cook a proper meal ashore.
“Unfortunately, no,” the captain responded. “Too many scout ships were either lost or so badly damaged in the storm that the Admiral needs us to go back to sea. We are, after all, the eyes and ears of the fleet,” he added with pride. “As soon as we can take on fresh water and some rations, we are to head due south, to scout the enemy around Miletos, and to make contact with the garrison. The Admiral wants to let them know that we are coming. He also needs to learn from them their situation, and anything they can tell us about the Macedonians. That,” he said turning to Dimitrios, “should be welcome news to you and your friends.”
“How’s so?” asked Dimitrios.
“The Admiral's aide says Memnon is already in Miletos. You wanted to get back into the fight, well, come along with us and we'll make your wish come true.”
37
Miletos
Alexander on the March
Alexander's journey south to Miletos was not so much a military march as a pleasant saunter – an unhurried victory parade with delegations from cities and towns either side of the route stumbling over each other to shower praises upon and assure their conquerors that they would be good, loyal subjects.
There was even music to add to the triumphant atmosphere. Flutes and pipes, horns and drums, and voices of men singing their rude marching tunes, joined in with the trampling of hooves, the creak of leather, the jingling of bronze, the tread of hob-nailed boots, the slapping of sandals, the creaking of wheels – and the joking, and cursing, and catcalling of voices from a score of Greek and Asian dialects. All of this was quite literally music to the ears – especially to the ears of the supremely confident victor of the Granicos, Alexander.
The two flying columns, each of 5,000 men, that swept through the Aeloian and Ionian towns, were greeted with flowers rather than arrows, and with gifts of amphorae of local wines, rather than tubs of burning oil hurled from their battlements. Some of the locals did indeed welcome Alexander as something of a liberator, but most simply understood that resistance was futile. Better to make the best of the situation and give willingly, rather than to lose all by trying to fight back.
It was the same logic that drove Glaucippos to make his proposal to Hegisistratos about opening the gates of Miletos to Alexander. As Thymondas and his troops quietly entered the main gate, Glaucippos and a few of the more adventuresome of the city fathers had slipped out of Miletos through a lesser gate. Hegisistratos had made sure that it was his men on duty there that night, so that the plotters could go out unnoticed. They were almost immediately intercepted by some of the Macedonian scouts based on the Old Citadel Hill, who, after having been well-rewarded for not killing them outright, agreed to escort the party north. The next day, they encountered the outriders of the main army, and after another bag of silver changed hands, were escorted to the king's tent.
“What is all of that commotion out there?” Alexander asked of Parmenion as they viewed a sketch of Miletos that had been prepared by their staff.
“Probably just another gaggle of 'grateful' citizens from some dirt water town or another wishing to offer their thanks and praises – and to plead that we spare their jumble of huts from the excesses of our army. They appear to like being 'liberated,' provided we don't 'liberate' them of their goods.”
The staff officers allowed themselves a little laugh at Parmenion's jibe, but Alexander did not seem amused. To the contrary, he bid Parmenion to have them enter. “It has been hours since anyone bowed and scraped and kissed my boot,” he said in a tone his staff was not certain was joking. “It has been a long day, and I can do with some refreshment of this sort.”
With little ceremony, the guards ushered Glaucippos and his party into the royal presence, as they had done with dozens of similar delegations for the last few days. The merchant and his friends nearly stumbled over one another in their eagerness to supplicate themselves before the king. Alexander let them go on singing his praises and humbling themselves for a few minutes longer than he knew they would be comfortable doing (as he found himself enjoying the adulation) but eventually bid them rise.
“So, you have come to surrender Miletos to me, then?”
“Yes, honored lord, yes. By all means, yes,” blathered Glaucippos. “The city is yours to enter. We welcome all visitors to our fair city, Greek, Macedonian, Persian, all.”
While Alexander was smiling as Glaucippos began his little speech, by the end of the second sentence he began to frown.
“Excuse me...what is your name, and just who are you, again?” the king asked.
“My name is Glaucippos, my King. I represent the merchants and city fathers of Miletos, if it pleases your grace,” he said, fawning and scraping in his best interpretation of a worshipful subject.
“Then tell me, Glaucippos,” the king said slowly and warily, “are you here to surrender the city or not?”
“Well, yes...and no...maybe” said the fat merchant, swallowing hard between each jumble of words.
“Yes? No? Maybe?” Alexander responded testily. “You are either here to surrender the city or not. There is no 'maybe' about it.”
“Well, sort of, you see, great King,” said Glaucippos haltingly, “we mean that you are of course welcome to visit our city and to enjoy our hospitality. Should you or your army require anything, we of course would be more than accommodating, and would give you the best prices...even a discount...and of course if you yourself, well...”
“Enough!” shouted Alexander, suddenly angry. “You blithering, greasy, slimy little idiot. Do you presume to put conditions on your surrender? With a wave of my hand I could raze your city to the ground and sell you and your families into slavery. I could erase all evidence of your petty little city's existence! Just as I did with Thebes! While Thebes will live on in the histories, I will see to it that yours does not. The very name of your city will be erased and forgotten. So,” he added loudly, putting his face so close to that of the merchant that their sweat and breath were as one, “would you care to rephrase that little speech of yours?”
; “I...I...I...meant...surrender, of course, surrender,” the merchant managed to say with great difficulty. “Surrender. Complete surrender. We throw ourselves at your mercy...your mercy for which you are renowned...”
“Mercy? Mercy is for friends,” said Alexander with growing disdain and evident impatience.
It was at this point that Hephaestion joined the conversation, and moved to place himself between the King and the merchant.
“Tell me, good man,” said Hephaestion with grace, respect and in a calm voice, “are you in a position to surrender Miletos? We had a missive last week from the governor, one Hegis...Hegis...”
“Hegisistratos, lord,” said Glaucippos, relieved for the respite from the king's ire. “I have conferred with him, yes, and we are of the same mind.”
“Ah, good, then,” said Hephaestion, smiling his most diplomatic smile, and looking back and forth between the merchant and the king. “See, it was just a little misunderstanding. So, dear Glau...Glau...”
“Glaucippos, lord. Glaucippos.”
“Yes, quite,” said Hephaestion, clearing his throat gently. “Glaucippos. What of the garrison? They are ready to march out and lay down their arms, are they not?”
“Well...” replied Glaucippos hesitantly. “Almost.”
“Almost? What do you mean by 'almost'?” asked Hephaestion, who had not expected any answer other than a totally affirmative one.
“It is just a small matter, really. I mean, our city militia, of course, they are more than willing to do anything you ask, but...”
“But what?”
“Well, you see, it is a bit delicate of course,” mumbled Glaucippos. “There is a small matter, just a minor hiccup, nothing really...”
“Spit it out you idiot!” the king interrupted.
“Memnon.” said Glaucippos quietly, his head down and his eyes averted.
“What?”
“Memnon,” said Glaucippos a bit louder.
“Is Memnon in Miletos?” Alexander asked excitedly.
“Yes. Yes he is,” said Glaucippos. “But don't worry, your worship, the governor and I, we have a plan to...”
“Oh shut up you fool!” interrupted the king. “Did you hear that Hephaestion? Parmenion? We have him! At last! Quick, break camp – and I mean break camp now! Parmenion, seal off the peninsula. No one gets out of Miletos! And send a messenger to the engineers, I want the siege train up here, and now! Clear the roads of anything between the advance guard and them – I want those siege engines up front, assembled and ready for action by tonight, and if they are not, someone will pay for it. Someone will have their head catapulted into the city if those engines are not ready!”
“But, sire, but...” Glaucippos all but screamed.
“I said shut up, you sniveling little worm of a man,” spat Alexander in disgust. “You dare insult my intelligence by pretending that you can surrender a city defended by Memnon? He would never surrender. And I would not want him to. Go back to Miletos. Go tell your people to prepare to defend themselves. And do not waste any time, for when the dawn comes, our siege engines will begin their bombardment. Go back to your little city, you worm. Oh, and one other thing...”
“Yes...yes...Lord” said Glaucippos, a large wet spot now evident on his robe just below the waist, “what...what is it?”
“Tell Memnon I am coming.”
38
The Island of Lades
Captain Abibaal Makes His Run
Captain Abibaal knew the waters off Miletos like he knew the back of his hand. Unfortunately, the night was so dark that he could not see the back of his hand, or much of anything else for that matter. What little moon there had been, was now shrouded in a thick blanket of clouds. If not for the small lamps aboard the Greek patrol galleys that were strung across the harbor entrance, he would have most assuredly rammed into one of them by accident in the darkness.
“Well, at least we know the Greek fleet is still here,” muttered Klemes from his place on deck by his brother, their friend and the captain.
“Where else did you think they would be?” quipped Captain Abibaal. “The Admiral knows they are here; what he wants to know is how many ships are here and how they are deployed. My guess is that they have made a base over there, on the island of Lade, just to the west of the city. That seems to be where their patrol line starts.”
“How can you tell in this darkness?” asked Dimitrios.
“The last light over there, see,” replied the captain. “Past that ship everything is dark. That is right about where Lade is, as best as I can tell, considering the city is over there,” he added, pointing due south. “The lights stretch from there to...there, which is about where the beach should be.”
“So, what do we do, now?” asked Dimitrios. “You can't sail through that line?”
“No, but I can sail around it.”
“How? In the dark?”
“It won't be that hard. We'll just stay about this distance away from the lights, sail parallel to them and then keep on going until we clear Lade.”
“Captain, how will you see the island?”
“Easy. Where the lights stop, the island starts. As we pass the island, it will block out the lights of the city. I know the size of the island...approximately.”
“What do you mean, 'approximately,'” asked Klemes with a worried tone in his voice.
“I know about how long it should take at this speed to pass it by, and when we're there, I will turn us to the south, and we can slip into Miletos from the seawall side. The Greeks won't expect us to come from that direction.”
“And if your approximation is wrong?” asked the physician.
“We'll hit some rocks and start to sink,” Abibaal explained in a mock serious voice. “You can all swim, can't you?”
With a fresh wind blowing from the land, Captain Abibaal was able to keep his sails full and his oars shipped. That made for a quiet journey, one made all the more quiet by his orders to the crew to keep silent and to make as little noise as possible. There were twenty Greek patrol ships in that line, each with a small lamp at its fore and aft. Those ensured that they would not run into each other, and also let them keep their station as well as their distance from one another. As they sailed down the line, Dimitrios quietly counted to himself how many patrol ships they had passed. All went well until he counted “nineteen,” at which point the silence of the night was broken by a loud clatter. Klemes had gotten up from his spot aft to take a leak over the side. He had become entangled in some ropes and took a tumble, knocking into some of the rowers, knocking their shipped oars into one another.
The lamps on the patrol ships began to brighten and shine in their direction. Up and down the line more lamps were lit, and shouts of alarm were passed from ship to ship. Beacons soon flared on Lade, as the night watch came to life on the island.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Captain Abibaal whispered angrily at Klemes. “I told you to stay put and be quiet! Now look what you've done!”
“Damn it, Captain,” answered Klemes as he struggled to untangle himself from the ropes and oars, “I'm a physician, not a sailor.”
“Then it’s lucky for both of us that I am!” the Phoenician officer barked back.
“Captain, they're hailing us and demanding to know what ship we are and from where,” the first mate interrupted. “What should I tell them?”
“Tell them nothing. We're not going to play 'pretend' with them. They aren't that stupid,” he replied. “Oars! Out!” shouted the captain turning to amidships. “Row, damn you all, row! Fool speed as soon as you can!” he added as he turned to the coxswain.
“Did he just say 'fool speed?” Ari asked Klemes. “What the hell is 'fool' speed?”
“It's the same as 'full speed,'” remarked a nearby rower, “but with more desperation.”
“So the jig is up and we're turning back, then?” remarked Dimitrios.
“Hell, no, my Theban friend. We're going west – straight past
Lade, around and then down into Miletos.”
“But that's insane!” Klemes cried out. “Didn't you say their whole fleet is at Lade?”
“Yes, I did,” smiled the captain. “And all of those big ships will be beached or at anchor, and their crews snug and warm ashore. They're not going to scramble the squadrons, not at night, and not to catch one ship. They'd wreck the fleet if they tried -and like I said, they're not that stupid.”
The Phoenician oarsmen put their backs into it, pulling harder and faster as the boatswain set the beat to keep them rowing in unison. The Greek patrol ships were slow to give chase, as it took time for their captains to sort it out among themselves who should keep station and who should follow the unknown craft. Give chase, however, two of them did, although to little avail, as Captain Abibaal had a strong lead on his pursuers.
As they rowed furiously past the island, Dimitrios could make out small, flickering camp fires beyond the alarm beacons. Around them, he imagined, thousands of Athenians, Corinthians, and other Greeks from a dozen cities were telling stories, swapping yarns, sharing boasts of their prowess with the ladies, and arguing over whose city was better at what. Not so many years ago he would have been in among them, and he might be even now, had Alexander spared Thebes. But, he had not, and so tonight Dimitrios found himself not among his fellow Greeks but instead fleeing from them, his hopes for escape wagered on the backs of 50 foreign oarsmen, half a dozen Phoenician sailors, and their strange and mysterious captain.
“Faster, damn it, faster!” shouted that captain to the boatswain, whose skin was already damp with sweat from beating his drum. “I want to put the island between us and those patrol boats, and I want to do it now! Not later, not tomorrow, but now!”
A Captain of Thebes Page 23
