“Then why not go home...”
“Because, Thymondas,” Ephialtes interrupted, “he has no home. Alexander saw to that.”
“Well, General, technically,” Dimitrios said with a cough, “my home, well, rather, my house, is still there. For some reason Alexander spared it, as it is the house of my ancestor, Pindar.”
“The poet?”
“Yes, General Thymondas. Apparently Alexander has some regard for my ancestor's poetry. It is about the only building he left standing in the city. Thebes is a dead city – and a city of the dead. There is nothing there to go back to...other than painful memories of the glory that was once Thebes, and the graveyard Alexander made of it.”
“Ephialtes,” said Memnon, “could surely find you a place in the ranks if you wish...”
“I do, General, most assuredly, I do...”
“Yes, I am sure, but Captain, I have many good men who can stand in the line of battle, and officers, good officers aplenty, to lead them. What I do not have, however, are men whose honor and loyalty I can trust – present company excepted, of course, gentlemen. In this empire, loyalty is a currency worth more, and more rare, than gold. I want you by my side, on my staff.”
“But General, I am a combat soldier...”
“Yes, but also a man of learning – and of commerce, if what Ephialtes has told me of you is true. You understand the art of the deal, are exceptionally observant, and have a talent for survival. You are courageous, and resourceful, and true to your comrades. Those are each in themselves rare qualities, and they are in short supply not just here, but everywhere, in the empire and beyond.”
“But I want to fight, your honor, and not...”
Memnon raised his hand gently in a signal that Dimitrios was to stop talking and listen. “Oh, have no worries on that score, my Theban friend. There is much fighting to be done and you, lad, will be in the thick of it.”
41
The Necropolis
Alexander Storms Miletos
As dawn broke, the guards on the still yet unfinished outer defenses heard a strange muffled rumble to the south. It came from the direction of the outer city, that area beyond the defenses which had fallen to Alexander during the night, without a blow. The sound came from within the mist that had yet to burn off. It grew steadily louder, but was still indistinct. One guard thought it sounded like the pounding of the waves – but those would have come from the three seaward sides of the peninsula, not from the landside. As that soldier turned to ask the corporal of the guard if they should report this to the officer of the watch, a flight of arrows suddenly exploded from the mist, puncturing the necks and shoulders of the guards, or piercing the eyes of those who had the misfortune to look up as the rain of arrows fell.
A second, then a third flight followed, and with them out of the mist came a loud shout and the sound of singing. That served to announce the serried ranks of Macedonian infantry who burst out of the fog, first at a walk, and then at a dead run. Many carried ladders, ropes with grappling hooks, and bundles of sticks to fill ditches. Others carried logs, which could also be used to fill or bridge ditches or be placed against the low wall to help the attackers climb up the ramparts.
The surprise attack had indeed been a surprise, and had caught the defenders quite literally napping – but not for long. The sounds of battle washed over the walls, through the camps, and into the town itself. Within moments these sounds were answered by the blaring of trumpets, the banging of signal drums, and the shouting or orders by sergeants and officers who hurried to get their men up to the battlements.
“Alexander's attacking!” shouted Dimitrios as he burst into Memnon's quarters in the citadel.
“Of course he is,” agreed the general, whose knowledge of the attack as well as his calm demeanor both came as a surprise to the young officer.
“How did you know, General?”
“Because I'm not deaf,” he replied with a little laugh. “I also knew he couldn't long resist the chance to capture the outer walls, which, as anyone on his side of them could see, are very lightly held – and incomplete. What general could resist such a temptation, eh?” he added with a grin. “Certainly not someone as impetuous and certain of himself as our young Macedonian kinglet, right?”
“You knew he'd attack this morning?” asked Dimitrios, quite perplexed by the general's reaction.
“This morning. Tomorrow morning. One morning next week...I knew he'd take the bait eventually,” replied the general as he calmly splashed water on his face and grabbed a towel. “It was just a matter of time.”
“Take the bait?”
“Yes, Captain, the bait. That ancient outer wall was in such disrepair that we'd have had to tear it down in order to build a proper one. So I let it serve another purpose...and it has. It has lured Alexander into attacking prematurely. He thinks that I am lazy or didn't have time to repair those ruins of the old, outer city. His men will take them – but that will break up their formations and weaken their command structure. Instead of advancing on the city as an army in a solid line of battle, they will rush forward in groups, each isolated from the other. We can pick them off one at time that way. Understand? Good. Now, help me with my armor. We've a battle to fight.”
The thinly manned defense line did not delay Alexander's attack very long. It didn't have to. The broken ground and ditch in front of it, and the jagged, jumbled rocks, stones and timbers of the incomplete works proved more of an obstacle than did those guarding it. In their excitement and certainty of an easy victory, Alexander's men poured up, over and through every gap they could find. They were in such a rush to be the first into the city, that none of the units took the time to halt, dress ranks, and put themselves in proper order. Not that it would have been easy to do so, not in the mess and muck of what was basically a construction site.
The thin screen of defenders there, put up a short but sharp fight. When the trumpets blared a second time, they fell back upon each other to form small islands of resistance at key points in the line. Those portions of the defense were much more complete than most of the line, and intentionally so. Secure in these posts which offered protection, a fighting platform, and all-around security, the guards let the Macedonians flood past. Few of the attackers wanted to peel off to take on these isolated posts, lest others in the first wave get into the city before them and thus get the pick of booty and women. Besides, they knew there were more soldiers following, and their thought, when they had one, was to let those fellows do the dirty work of mopping up the strongholds they were bypassing.
From the citadel to the main town wall was barely a kilometer, and Memnon and Dimitrios covered the ground quickly at the jog. They climbed the steps two at a time to the top of these much sturdier, far more daunting, and thoroughly complete ramparts. When they reached the rampart they were treated to a panoramic view of Alexander's attack force. It stretched the width of the peninsula. It was an awe-inspiring sight, so many thousands of men all but tripping over themselves in rush to reach the city.
“Ever seen such a sight, Captain?” chuckled Memnon. “By the gods, I've never seen ten thousand men in a race before. Thymondas,” he said, turning to his nephew who had been waiting for them as they topped the wall, “now's your time.”
Thymondas raised an arm, looked to the left, then to right, and then made a sudden, violent chopping motion. At that signal banners rose, trumpets blared, and a barrage of bolts, rocks, and arrows erupted from the walls, as every piece of artillery and every archer fired into the tumultuous mass of Macedonians below. Below the walls, among the gravestones, monuments and altars of the Necropolis – the burial ground between the main walls and outer fortifications – more archers along with slingers and javelinmen rose to add their missiles to the shower of death from above. Between the large headstones and tombs, groups of spearmen with shields as tall as a man formed defensive hedgehogs to protect the light troops. Hundreds of the bravest, most impetuous, or most ignorant of the Macedon
ians charged forward, pushed from behind by thousands more, only to impale themselves on those spears.
What had begun as a mad, headstrong, and irresistible rush suddenly collapsed into a confused, disorganized, and impossible to lead muddle. Barred from going forward by the spears, assailed from above by a storm of missiles, and canalized by the defensive islands, the Macedonians found themselves caught in a trap – and a muddy one, and one into which more and more men unwittingly poured. The one-sided slaughter went on far longer than it should have, as none of the Macedonian officers were able to bring any order out of the chaos. They simply just could not be heard above the screams, shouts, and cries of surprise and pain.
From his observation post high above it all on the Old Citadel Hill that dominated the peninsula upon which Miletos was built, Alexander watched in helpless fury as his surprise coup de main collapsed into a bloody disaster. In his rage he tore off his helmet and hurled it at one of his young aides, beaning him soundly and knocking him off his feet. Whatever curses or commands Alexander was spewing were soaked up by the thunderous clamor from below. As he hurried down the path from the tall hill, pebbles and dirt scattering as he ran, his aides and the other generals on the hill soon got the message that they needed to follow the king, wherever he was going.
As he tumbled to the bottom he called for his horse, which had been adorned with its best trappings in preparation for what Alexander assumed would be a triumphal procession into the city. Such plans, he now realized, had been quite premature. Instead of riding calmly in a victory parade, the helmetless king kicked his horse's sides violently, as he raced to restore order to his men caught in Memnon's abattoir.
He need not have bothered, for by the time he reached the open ground on the Macedonian side of the front line, his men were already rushing back in panic. Hundreds of soldiers raced past their king, having thrown away their weapons, shields, and even helmets so as not to slow themselves down in their flight. The wave that had crashed so violently over the outer defenses now receded with equal if not greater force, and even Alexander and his mighty warhorse, Bucephalus, could not go against that human tide.
As the Macedonians fled, the defenders followed, but in an orderly, steady, and determined manner. When they reached the outer works they stopped, lined its uneven ramparts, and continued to plink away at the routing enemy. Those Macedonians who had been wounded, separated from their units or otherwise left behind were put to the sword by the Persian soldiers and Greek mercenaries as they scoured the slaughter pen between the main and outer walls. Despite the urging of Thymondas and Ephialtes to go over those walls and pursue the Macedonians, Memnon ordered his men to halt at the outer wall.
“But surely we should keep going,” pleaded Ephialtes. “We have them on the run! We could follow them right up into the camp, burn their tents, maybe even nab Alexander himself!”
Thymondas seconded the opinion of the old Greek general, and offered to put himself at the head of the pursuit.
“Alexander took the bait and made a mistake,” said Memnon as he again refused their advice. “Let us not make the same mistake, and in doing so snatch defeat from the jaws of this victory. Our losses appear to have been light, and our men have seen that they can not only withstand but defeat Alexander. The myth of invincibility that he has been carrying and spreading about since even before the Granicos, has been shown to be just that – a myth. That makes this a double, even triple victory. Let us savor it,” Memnon added, “and let Alexander choke on it.”
Ephialtes grumbled his unhappy acceptance of Memnon's decision. Thymondas, although his blood was still up, held back from further argument. Memnon had made up his mind, and that was that.
“Don't worry, my valiant Thymondas and loyal Ephialtes, there will come another day, and soon, when you can kill as many Macedonians as you like.”
“You think he'll try again, after this?” asked Thymondas.
“Of course,” replied Memnon, “for three reasons. First, Miletos is second only to Halicarnassos in importance to anyone who seeks to control the coast of Asia Minor and the seas around it. Both are major cities, with important harbors. Both are key bases for our navy, and both are heavily fortified. To advance on the second, however, Alexander needs to take the first. He cannot leave Miletos threaten his rear as he advances into the Persian Empire.”
“Can't he just seal off with a siege and a blockade and move on?” asked Ephialtes.
“No,” replied Memnon. “His fleet cannot stay here forever, and especially not with our navy nearby. As for the land side, well, he'd have to leave half of his army here to maintain a siege – and even that would not be enough to prevent us from breaking out and then hitting him in the rear. He also needs this as a base for supplies – and needs to deny it to us as well. That is why he will try to take this place.”
“And the second reason?” asked Thymondas.
“The second reason is because his pride has been stung. We taught him a lesson today, and he does not like being schooled. He cannot abide defeat, let alone humiliation, and today, today,” he laughed broadly, “today we have humiliated him. He will be back, and when he does, this will be the rock upon which I will break him.”
“Excuse me, General,” Dimitrios interrupted. “You said Alexander would attack for three reasons. What's the third?”
“Me,” chuckled Memnon. “He'll attack because I'm here. He wants me, and now he wants me bad.”
42
Old Citadel Hill
Parmenion and the Eagle
As Alexander's battered battalions limped back to their camps, Parmenion climbed the slope of the Old Citadel Hill. The panoramic view from the old acropolis of Miletos was stunningly beautiful, but it was not for the pleasure of such a sight that he made the rugged trek. From there Parmenion could look down upon the battleground and into the city, the port, the island of Lade, and beyond. He could see the layout of its defenses, even the deployment of its troops, and the placement of its artillery – or at least as much as Memnon allowed him to see. Looking out due north, past the city, he could see the broad bay, with the island of Lade and the Greek fleet to his left, and the headland of Mount Mycale in the distance beyond that. He could not pick out individual ships with any certainty, but he could see the Persian fleet was still there. Why it had not come from Mycale to engage the smaller Greek fleet at Lade, he believed was due to simple cowardice. The Persians, as he saw them, were no better than women, and sought solace in numbers to compensate for their legacy of defeat at Salamis and in many other sea battles with the Greeks over the last century.
Parmenion's grasp of history was as biased as it was incomplete, but it gave him comfort and stoked his confidence. Both needed stoking after today's debacle. He fumed at how his men had been tricked, massacred and, worst of all as he saw it, humiliated by those effeminate Persian soldiers, who painted their faces, coiffed their hair in greasy ringlets and, most disgusting of all, wore pants- and baggy pants at that. Such dress was meant for clowns and actors, not men, and certainly not soldiers. Yet despite their effeminate ways, the Persians had won the day over the true men of Macedonia. That had never happened before, or at least not on such a scale, and, he vowed, it would never happen again, at least not on his watch.
As he alternately fumed and raged, Parmenion suddenly spotted an eagle flying down from the clouds. The huge, majestic bird was bigger and grander than any he had ever seen before. It circled high above the camp, then flew twice around the city and out toward Lade, where it found a perch on a large rock near one of the Greek ships that was drawn up on the beach. Parmenion's heart leaped in his chest, and all of his anger, fears, and humiliation washed away. This was an omen, an omen of certain victory, an unmistakable message from the gods, no, from Zeus himself, that the Macedonians would triumph after all. All they had to do to make it so, Parmenion believed, was that they do as the message so clearly directed them to do – fight the Persians at sea!
Parmenion almost
fell several times as he raced down the hill toward the camp. He was moving so unusually fast that his young aides struggled to keep up with the old man, whose limp from an ancient wound for once did not seem to slow him down. Getting down the hill was quick and easy, however, compared to making his way through the madhouse that was the camp. Shattered, wounded men were lying about everywhere, their comrades either trying to help them, find help for them or carry them to someone who could help them. Others were racing about, trying to organize a defense of the camp, even though Memnon had shown no sign of coming out from behind his defenses. Then there was the king himself, his rage not only unabated but getting worse, as he struck out in anger at everything and everyone he could reach. Although Parmenion would normally have walked the other way and kept quiet when the king was in the midst of one of his frequent tantrums, this time he did not. Out of breath, his faced flushed, and his legs shaking, he nevertheless burst into the king's tent and shouted out so all could hear: “Victory! Victory my King! The gods have sent us a promise of victory!”
Everyone in the tent froze, even the king. The assembled generals, aides, servants and guards were sure that Alexander would explode in redoubled anger and hurl something heavy, sharp or equally deadly at his father's old friend and comrade. But he did not. His eyes blazed and his mouth opened wide – but then, as if someone had pulled a lever, he calmed down. Perhaps it was Parmenion's mention of the gods, or of victory, or just the sheer unexpected explosion of Parmenion onto the scene and in such a state, but whatever it was, it worked.
Alexander blinked twice, as if to clear the fog from his eyes, and stretched out his hands – one to clasp Parmenion on the shoulder, the other to take his hand. He drew the old general close, looked him in the eye and smiled.
A Captain of Thebes Page 25
