His ship's lead continued to lengthen, but just as they cleared the island and prepared to swing south, two more ships came into view. Both were rounding the tip of the island from the south, just as Abibaal was about to change his heading to that direction.
“I thought you said they weren't so stupid as to scramble the fleet!” yelped Klemes.
“They aren't, and they haven't,” he replied. “They must have sent a signal across the island to the guard ships on this side of Lade. I didn't think there would be many or even any here. Damn it!”
“So now what?” asked Dimitrios. “We can't turn back and we can't go ahead – so what do we do now?”
“Well, my Greek friend. I'm heading for the open sea. They won't follow too far from their station.”
“But what about me? What about getting me, my brother, and Ari into Miletos?”
“Well, Dimitrios,” the captain said as he spat over the side. “You have two choices.”
“What are they?”
“Well,” he replied as he looked to the open sea, “you can either stay with us and go back to the fleet or...”
“Or what?”
“Well, that depends,” the Phoenician captain said with a laugh.
“Depends on what?” asked Dimitrios.
“On how well you can swim!”
The guards on the seaward walls of Miletos had noticed the movement of the Greek guard ships and had sent a message up through the chain of command. Ephialtes, Thymondas, and Memnon were in council, planning their defense of the city when they were interrupted by the captain of the guard.
“Excuse me, General,” the young officer said as he entered the council chamber. “There is something unusual going on just outside the harbor, and I thought I should bring it to your attention.”
“What do you mean by 'unusual,' young man,” said Ephialtes, addressing the officer.
“It's the Greek patrol ships. Some of them have moved off station, and the beacon fires on the island are now lit.”
“Could it be our fleet trying to break through?” asked Thymondas, looking at Memnon.
“It shouldn't be,” he answered calmly and thoughtfully, as he rubbed his chin. “I can't imagine Admiral Autophradates would try something so stupid as a night action. He'd lose most of the fleet in the confusion.”
“Well, there is something stirring about out there,” replied Thymondas.
“Maybe the Greek sailors are seeing mermaids or sea serpents – it is awfully dark and scary out there” said Ephialtes with a mocking laugh.
“Perhaps,” replied Memnon with a little laugh of his own, “but whatever it is, it would be best to know about it. Soldier,” said the General to the young man who had brought the message, “go down to the docks and find the naval officer on duty. Miletos has a few ships of its own. Tell the officer there to put a couple of patrol ships out into the harbor to take a look. Tell him that he is just to take a quick look and then get back. After all, only a fool tries to fight on the sea at night.”
Captain Abibaal's plan to head out to the open sea turned out to be a non-starter. No sooner had he made his decision to do so than several more lights appeared from that quarter.
“Are those ships out there?” asked Dimitrios.
“Well, they're not sea monsters,” Abibaal sighed. “They must be part of an outer line of patrol ships. Nicanor, it seems, is very thorough – or very frightened – of our fleet.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Dimitrios. “There are Greek ships behind us, Greek ships ahead of us, and now Greek ships off our starboard side out to sea, and they're all converging on us.”
“There's only one thing to do...” said the Phoenician captain.
“Ship oars and surrender?” interrupted Klemes.
“Never!” growled the Phoenician. “We never give up. We never surrender. My people have been sailors since before any Greek ever got their feet wet in salt water.”
“Well, okay then,” said Klemes suitably chastised. “But you still haven't answered my brother's question: what do we do now?”
“Don't worry, I've got a cunning plan.”
“Good. What is it?” asked Klemes.
“You'll see soon enough,” barked the captain back at the physician.
“So, you don't really have a plan yet, then, do you?” scoffed Klemes. “I knew it. He's just making things up as he goes along. We're all going to die.”
39
Miletos Harbor
Midnight
Of the 160-plus ships of Alexander's fleet, all but about a score of lighter patrol ships were anchored in the shallows or had been hauled up onto the beaches of the Island of Lade. The island itself stood guard over the sea routes to Miletos, with its watchtowers and warning beacons set to look out for and give the alert should hostile warships approach. Lade and its small local garrison of watchers served their city well – or at least they had done so until a few days ago. That was when Admiral Nicanor and his grand fleet had arrived. Nicanor easily drove the small squadron based at Miletos back to the security of its sheds and moorings in the inner harbor. Since then, Lade had served Nicanor as his forward base.
It was to get past this base that Captain Abibaal and his crew were striving with all of their might. While there was little threat from the grand fleet itself, the Greek patrol ships were closing in from fore and aft, and even starboard. There were not many of them – four, five at most – but they were more than enough to catch the Phoenician scout ship in their net.
Abibaal was certain his men could outrow the pursuers coming up behind them, but the faster they rowed to get away from the ships aft, the closer they came to those coming from the other directions. Ari's skills as an archer had saved them once before – but that was from the threat of stern chase, and in daylight. In the nearly moonless dark, even as accomplished an archer as Aristophanes of Thebes would have little chance of seeing his target, let alone hitting it.
With no better plan in his head, Abibaal could do nothing more than trust in the sinews of the half a hundred men who sat the rowing benches to get them to the only safe haven available: Miletos harbor. Unfortunately, however, these veteran oarsmen were only human, and were nearing the end of their strength.
To keep them going a bit longer, Ari, Dimitrios, Klemes and two of the sailors went about the benches with bowls of bread soaked in wine and flasks of well-watered wine. The rowers could not pause to take any refreshment with their hands, so the others had to serve them, popping small bits of the bread into their open mouths and pouring the wine into their mouths. Another sailor splashed water on the rowers to cool the sweat-soaked, overheated oarsmen.
“We need more speed!” the captain yelled to the boatswain, who was also beginning to show serious signs of fatigue from constantly beating the cadence on his drum. “Pick up the beat!”
“These men are giving all they've got, Captain,” the boatswain yelled back in reply. “They can't take any more!”
“They have to!” bellowed the captain, “and they will! Isn't that right lads!”
Abibaal knew his men could not spare the energy or break concentration to cheer or sing out in agreement, but he could see from their faces that they were indeed digging deep within themselves to find something, anything they had not already drawn on. He also knew that whatever they could find, that would be all that was left. Abibaal could see the lamps on the Greek ships to his fore and starboard get brighter and brighter as they got closer and closer, and he knew they were losing the race. There was only one thing more that could be done, and it was an order no captain wanted to give.
“Dimitrios!” the captain roared. “The mast. It has to go! Now!”
Before a galley went into battle, its mast, sails, block and tackle, and other sailing gear would be taken down and stored in port, or on a beach. Captain Abibaal had not done so, as he had bet on his sail to get him to Miletos and let him slip quietly into the harbor. While rowing, however, the heavy timber mast only
weighed them down and, worse, slowed them down. To heave it overboard was as difficult a maneuver as it was a painful choice – but he knew it was their only hope.
The captain turned the tiller over to his first mate and, axe in hand, began chopping away at the mast. There was no time to go through the laborious task of shipping the mast as they would were they to store it on shore. It had to go, and go now, and since it did have to go, the captain decided that he should be the one to do the deed.
Dimitrios put down the bowl and flask and moved amidships to help him. As Abibaal chopped, Dimitrious pushed the mast, hoping to use its own weight against itself. One of the sailors went about cutting the yards while another began tossing blocks and tackle and rope overboard. Yet another grabbed anything else that could be thrown out to lighten the ship. Water casks, loose gear, anything that was not battened down – or which could be unbattened, went.
This sacrifice gained them ground in their race with the Greek ships to their starboard and aft – but only brought them closer to the one ship that was coming straight at them. The lighter Abibaal's ship became, the faster it bolt, and that meant that the speed at which his vessel and the Greek patrol ship dead ahead would collide would be all the greater. To ram her, however, was out of the question. Abibaal's scout vessel did not have a bronze ram, for that was not its purpose. The Greek vessel, however, might be so equipped. In the dark, Abibaal had no way of knowing, nor could he see beneath the water as the Greek's prow cut the waves, to get even a glimpse of bronze. To ram the Greek ship would bring him to a dead stop, and probably break the back of both small vessels. But there was one trick left – one last trick that could see them to safety, if it worked.
As the mast went down, Abibaal tossed the axe overboard and raced aft. He grabbed the tiller from his first mate and turned his ship to aim dead on for the oncoming Greek patrol ship – the last barrier to finding safety in Miletos. Would the Greek captain take up the challenge in this game of nautical chicken, or would he sheer off – and if so, which way – to port, or starboard?
Faster and faster they closed, leaving the ships to the aft and starboard of the Phoenician vessel farther and farther behind. As the clouds parted briefly, Abibaal could see the enemy captain on his deck in the moonlight. There was no panic in him, that was clear. Like the Phoenician, his visage was grim and warlike, and there was no sign of fear in his body or his face. Seconds before the two ships would crash bow to bow, Abibaal swung the tiller, first hard to port, then quickly back hard to starboard. The Phoenician ship leaped to his touch – and as he screamed the command “Up oars!” his men did so, and at once. Their oars straight up, the ship drove forward like a missile – and sheered and splintered the oars on the starboard side of the oncoming Greek warship.
Their momentum carried the two ships away from each other, and as soon as his vessel was clear, Abibaal gave the order for his men to put their oars back into the water and to row hard. He spared but a moment to glance over his shoulder, where the Greek warship floundered, its crew as bloodied and battered from the splintered oars as their ship itself. Abibaal had turned their own oars against the Greeks, and left their ship awash in blood as men had been torn apart by the shattering of the oars in their hands.
That was the scene aft. Ahead were the lights of Miletos, and a pair of local galleys that were coming to escort them in.
40
Miletos Harbor
After Midnight
As the Phoenician ship glided into the port, Dimitrios expected that the crew, and especially the oarsmen, would collapse. To his amazement, they did just the opposite. Such was the pride they had in each other, their ship, and their captain, these men who had been sweating blood only moments before sat up and rowed in unison to the much slower but still steady beat of the boatswain's drum. When the captain gave the command to “Ship, oars!”, they did so with a precision and style that left the hoplites captain speechless.
Once they docked, however, the exhaustion overcame them all. Some men slumped at the bench, while others collapsed and slid or fell off onto the deck. The adrenalin rush having subsided, even the captain had difficulty staying on his feet.
“Well, my Theban friend,” said Abibaal in a raspy whisper in between taking hard breaths, “I promised I would get you and your friends to Miletos, did I not? Well, then, in the name of the Royal Navy, welcome to Miletos. It may not be the jewel of the empire, but it will be a hard gem for Alexander to crack.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Dimitrios replied, offering a sharp salute to show his gratitude and his respect, one professional to another. “I owe you a debt. I used to be in the wine trade, and maybe one day, when this war is over, we can take a different kind of sea voyage together, and one that will be easier, more enjoyable and, of course, profitable.”
Captain Abibaal offered his shaking hand along with a weary smile, in acknowledgment of the Theban's offer. “Perhaps I will take you up on that one day,” he replied with a grin. “After all, my men and I were simple merchant seamen before we were sailors of the king, and, hopefully, we will be so again.”
“What will you do, now, Captain?” Dimitrios asked.
“We will rest and refit – and then go back to sea. Don't forget, my mission is to scout the Greek fleet and then report what I saw to the admiral. I'm only half-way done, as I see it.”
“But how will you get out past the Greek blockade?”
“Well, I got in, didn't I?” he said with a little laugh. “Don't worry. I'll figure out something. And you, my friend, I imagine you will find some fellow exiles to join up with and get back to the fight as well? Best of luck to you, as I think you may need it.”
With a nod and a wave, Dimitrios, Klemes, and Aristophanes marched down the gangplank and onto the dock – where a very officious looking fellow in very crisp, clean clothes and with two impeccably kitted out soldiers to either side, awaited them.
“Hold on there, the three of you. Just who do you think you are and where do you think you're going?”
Despite his incredible fatigue, Dimitrios drew himself to attention and, with his best parade-ground manner, shot the official a stiff salute. “I am Dimitrios of Thebes, captain of one hundred in the army of Ephialtes, and a survivor of the battle on the Granicos. I have urgent business with General Memnon, if you would be so kind to escort me to him. As for these two, one is my brother, a physician in the army, and the other is my friend, a soldier of my company.”
So much information and such an attitude were not what the dock officer was expecting. That these scruffy, grimy looking fellows in their torn, dirty, and bloodied rags were soldiers in the army and not beggars or simple seamen, had not occurred to him. Nor did he expect one of them to be an officer, let alone one known to the great Memnon himself. Although his first instinct had been to drag these vagrants off to the garrison for questioning, the officer quickly changed his mind. If this man was someone Memnon wanted to see, then any officer who so delivered him to the general's presence might be rewarded, or at least recognized for having done the great man such a service.
“All right, come with me. I'll send word to the citadel and see if General Memnon knows you and wants to see you. In the meantime, let me find you something more presentable and, ahem, some soap and water. You men, frankly, stink, and are in desperate need of a bath.”
“But I have urgent...”
The officer cut off Dimitrios with a simple hand gesture. “I understand. I will, I assure you, pass you up the line if what you say is true, but not until I am sure you are at least clean and presentable enough. In your current state, your smell would knock a pig off a pile of manure.”
Half an hour later, a much cleaner, less pungent, Dimitrios stood at attention before the three generals who were charged with the defense of Miletos. Ephialtes was as surprised and as happy to see Dimitrios as the captain was to once again clasp hands with the mercenary commander. Thymondas, already informed of the young officer's method of arrival in th
e city, was suitably impressed, but it was Memnon whose attitude most surprised Dimitrios.
“I honor your courage and resourcefulness, Captain,” said the general with respect, “and applaud your loyalty. I also wish to express my regret at the loss of so many of your comrades, and your commander. I never expected that Alexander would refuse you all honors of war, let alone that he would refuse to offer terms, and slaughter so many fine and honorable soldiers. It is against all of the rules of civilized warfare. It is what his barbarian ancestors might have done, but I thought he had grown beyond that and become more civilized. I see, however, that I was wrong. I will forever bear the burden of having abandoned so many good men to his mercy – or lack of it.”
“It was not your fault, General,” replied Dimitrios, still at attention. “The Alexander you may have known when you were in Macedonia so many years ago is a different person now. I have looked into his face twice, first at Thebes and again at the Granicos. He is neither king nor man, but something...something...”
“Something, what?” asked Memnon quizzically.
“Something dark. Something frightening. Something not altogether...human.”
Dimitrios did not have to explain further. All three generals felt the horror that Dimitrios had felt and seen, so striking and convincing was his demeanor. It was not just what Dimitrios said but how he said it, and how he seemed to tremble with revulsion at the very mention of Alexander. The three said nothing, so lost were they in reflection upon the moment. Finally, Dimitrios himself broke the silence.
“I would like to get back into the fight, General, if I may. Me and my comrades.”
“Haven't you had enough of war,” asked Thymondas quietly and gently.
“In some ways, more than enough,” sighed Dimitrios honestly.
A Captain of Thebes Page 24
