“I agree. Despite having been insulted when I last tried – perhaps the young Macedonian will now be more reasonable. You said Memnon was down, but did not answer my question. Is Memnon dead or not?”
“Frankly,” sighed Hegisistratos as he drained his second cup and held it out again for a refill, “I could not tell if he was living or dead. I did not have time to wait around and see, lest that smelly Greek soldier that has been following me around came back. All I know is that he was carried in, and that he has been taken to the hospital by the Southern Agora, the one that insufferable physician from Thebes has set up.”
“Well, then,” said Glaucippos thoughtfully, “perhaps we should send a man to make sure.”
“Make sure of what?” asked the governor as he made his way down to a couch to rest and enjoy his third cup of wine.
“To make sure he is dead,” smiled Glaucippos with a hungry look, “or that he soon will be.”
47
Miletos
Alexander's Camp
“I saw him, I tell you Hephaestion, I saw him!” screamed Alexander through gritted teeth as he hurled his helmet across the tent, knocking over cups and bowls and everything else that was on the shelf he hit. “I had him right there, almost in the palm of my hand,” he added angrily, stretching out his hand and then closing it tightly.
“Who? Who did you almost have?” Hephaestion asked.
“Memnon! Memnon, that's who! He was right there, no farther than the other end of this tent from me. There were only a handful of men with him. Some were carrying him, the others were trying to protect him with their shields. Greek shields, too, damn them!”
“What happened?”
“A troop of Persian cavalry burst out of the main gate at the last moment, and I was forced to stop and defend myself. The usual way, you know, with them calling out their own names in challenge...what could I do?”
“Yes, yes, of course, what could you do?” said Hephaestion with just a careful hint of mockery in his voice. “It is not as if you could have let, say, one of a hundred Royal Companions step in between you and them and answer the challenge for you, so you could have charged after Memnon.”
“Are you making fun of me, Hephaestion?” Alexander shot back, his anger and ardor still hot from the battlefield. “Are you?”
“Never, my King,” said Hephaestion soothingly as he came closer and rubbed the back of his hand across the king's sweaty cheek. “Never,” he cooed softly, as he repeated the gesture.
“Well, you had better not. Not you, Hephaestion,” sighed the king, visibly calmer and suddenly sweeter, “I could not bear it, you know. I could not bear it.”
“Of course, I understand...Alexander,” replied Hephaestion, genuinely sorry he had been a bit catty with the king. “But you may have already 'got him,' in a way,” he added.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said he was being carried. That means he was either dead or wounded, and if the later, perhaps it is a fatal wound. Even so, dead or alive, hurt or hearty, he's penned up tight in that city, and he's not going anywhere.”
“No, he's not,” said Alexander as he again gritted his teeth. “No, he's not,” he added as he walked quickly over to where he had thrown his helmet, retrieved it and placed it firmly back on his head. “Come on, Hephaestion, we've got work to do.”
Hephaestion knew better than to ask. It wouldn't matter anyway, because where Alexander went, Hephaestion always followed... eventually if not sooner.
“Parmenion!” Alexander shouted as he stormed out of his tent, Hephaestion in tow. “Parmenion! Somebody get me Parmenion!”
“Here I am, my King,” said the old general, hurrying as best as he could through the mud.
“Parmenion,” Alexander said sternly as he walked over to meet the old soldier and put his hand on the general's shoulder. “I don't hear the siege weapons firing. Why is that, Parmenion? Why do I not hear the 'whoosh' of fireballs, the 'zap' of giant bolt being shot across the field, or the 'thud' of the stone-throwers when their arm hits the padded bar and they let loose their boulders upon the city? Why not, Parmenion? Why do I not hear such things?”
The old general looked genuinely puzzled, yet took care to give a reasoned and measured response. “It is still night, majesty, and it is a waste of time to try to bombard what the crews cannot see. Besides, there was a battle in the way, as you well know,” he added with a grin. “And congratulations, by the way. Nice work, chasing Memnon off as you did.”
The mere mention of Memnon's name felt like a stab in the side to Alexander, and did nothing to soothe his growing impatience.
“What do you mean they cannot shoot at what they cannot see, Parmenion? It's a city. A big city. It stretches the whole width of this peninsula and thousands of paces back from that. They don't have to 'see' anything. All they have to do is make sure their weapons are pointed in the right direction and fire. Their weapons are pointed in the right direction, are they not?”
“Yes, my King,” nodded Parmenion.
“Good. Well then, rouse them from their warm beds, pull the blankets off them and their whores if you have to, but get them to their engines. It will be dawn soon, and if I don't hear the siege engines firing before then, I will load them myself – with the bodies of the crewmen themselves. Tell them that, Parmenion. That should light a fire under them. Oh, and one more thing...” he added as he spun about, heading back for his tent.
“Yes, my King,” asked the old general.
“They are to keep firing, all day. And all night, and all day tomorrow and so on. Work them in shifts, draft men from the baggage train or the regiments if you need to, but keep them firing. Memnon thought he could burn my siege engines, did he? Well,” he added, rubbing his hands together with glee, “let us remind him, and his soldiers, and the citizens of Miletos that he failed, and that failure has consequences. Pour it on them, Parmenion, pour it on them. And don't stop until those walls start to crumble.”
The steady rain of rocks, stones, bolts, fire pots, and fire balls that Alexander unleashed did drive home the point of how Memnon's attack had failed. Those inside the city it did not dishearten or frighten were few. Even the most steadfast defenders began to cringe and cower when they heard the missiles coming. It was a reflex motion, and one once learned, hard to put aside. In the hospital where Klemes and the other physicians labored, the bombardment took another toll – as many of the feverish and wounded cried out in fear when they heard the smashing of the big stones upon the walls, or the unmistakable crash of a house collapsing from the boulders. Those whose courage was still strong were nonetheless affected, as they were the ones putting out the fires, or dragging the injured to the hospital, or freeing those trapped in the rubble. They were weary, so weary that they could no longer feel fear. Rather than seek cover when they heard or saw the missiles coming, they sought them out, trying to track them to see where the big stones and fire pots hit.
One small group inside the city, however, took a small pleasure from the bombardment. Glaucippos, Hegisistratos and their small clique of wealthy merchants, officious bureaucrats, and haughty temple priests believed that each rock that fell, each house that was smashed, and each body that was broken moved the mood of the populace one step closer to accepting the surrender they planned to broker. True, Alexander had spurned that offer once, but now they planned to sweeten the pot, and sweeten it with the one treat they were certain Alexander could not resist: Memnon.
“How is the 'great man?’” Glaucippos asked Hegisistratos. “Has he resumed consciousness yet?”
“No, not entirely. My informers in the hospital say he wakes from sleep once in a while, but only to shake or mumble something incoherent, and then falls back on his bed, not to stir again for hours.”
“Is he wounded?”
“In a manner of speaking, apparently so. It seems a bullet shot out from some slinger struck him just here,” the governor said, pointing to the bridge of his nose. It lef
t a dent and a mighty nasty bruise – his whole face is bruised, I might add. Pity, I suppose. He never was a terribly beautiful man, but he was at least a bit dashing. Now I doubt his own wife would be able to look upon him without shuddering,” he added with a sly laugh.
“Ah, yes, the beautiful Barsine. Well, she was widowed once already,” said Glaucippos smacking his lips, “and it seems like she will be again, and soon. Perhaps when this is all over I should pay her a visit...”
“As if she would deign to admit you to her presence,” laughed Hegisistratos. “She is not only painfully beautiful and serenely haughty, she knows her value. A princess of the true blood, that one. She fears no one, needs no one, and her favors cannot be bought – only taken, except, of course, if she gives herself willingly...”
“As she did to Memnon, and to his brother, her late husband, before him?”
“Yes, Glaucippos. And you, if you will forgive my honesty, are not the strapping handsome hero type she goes for. Your vast riches mean nothing to one of the blood. Besides, we are being a bit premature, aren't we? Her husband is only mostly dead...and mostly dead is not yet entirely dead.”
“I can arrange for that...” said Glaucippos with an evil, lascivious grin.
“You can, but you will not,” said Hegisistratos as he waved a cautionary finger at his fat co-conspirator. “If you want to truly make Alexander an offer he won't refuse, we need to keep Memnon alive.”
“But why?”
“Because if you give Alexander a corpse, he will moan and groan and lament the foul murder of a hero, or go on about how great a foe Memnon was. That lunatic will hold funeral games and make a bonfire to send his body to the gods – and he won't send it alone, mind you. Not Alexander. He's read too much Homer, and is too fond of drama. No, we need to give him a live Memnon. One he can show off as a trophy, or challenge to single combat...like a Persian Hector to his Achilles.”
“A who to his what?” asked a puzzled Glaucippos.
Hegisistratos gave a deep, purposeful sigh to show his annoyance at the fat merchant's ignorance. “You really should read more, you know, Glaucippos – and something besides your account books or those erotic scrolls your agents sneak in from Egypt. Hector. Achilles. They are heroes from that book Alexander keeps beneath his pillow. He is so taken by it that he has made himself believe he is a descendant of Achilles. His mother, that witch Olympias, has encouraged that belief – along with the claim that her boy was sired by Zeus.”
“But how can anyone be descended from some character in a book that someone made up?” replied the fat merchant. “And as for being fathered by Zeus, well, as beautiful as Olympias may have been, why would the gods come down and sleep with mortal women when they have all of those lucsious goddesses and nubile nymphs wandering about half-clothed up there among the clouds?” he added with a puzzled sigh. “Anyway, it is all just stories and legends and what not, isn't it? I'm not an unlearned boor, although you may think I am...I do read, you know. Why, I've even sponsored plays for the theater...”
“Where you make a tidy profit from selling food and wine and little trinkets, and take a cut from the prostitutes who ply their trade outside. Yes, I know. Such a thespian you are, such a muse you must be to the poets,” grinned the governor.
“Well, you've never turned down your share of the profits, if memory serves me right, my dear Governor, or any other share of anything. You be careful how you treat me, Hegisistratos. After all, I have the money, so why do I need you to make a deal with Alexander? What exactly is it that you bring to the table, hmmm?”
“Why, gravitas, my fat friend, gravitas.”
“And what the hell is that?” asked the merchant.
“It's a word I picked up from a scholar who had toured Sicily and the lands to the north of it, Latium or some place. It is a word they use to denote a person who deserves respect, whose intellect and bearing are of the highest caliber, and whose words should be taken seriously. In other words, my fleshy, flaccid fellow...me.”
48
Miletos
The Hospital
“I wish I knew more about this type of injury,” said Klemes to his friends, Ari and Dimitrios, as he examined the still unconscious Memnon.
“How about the other physicians and men of learning in Miletos, have you asked for their advice?” Dimitrios asked his brother.
“Pshaw! Charlatans and butchers, with a few soothsayers and priests thrown in for good measure, that's all they are. I have been advised to bleed him, pack him in ice, throw him in a cold bath, poke needles into his head and every other conceivable part of his anatomy, including places I would never, ever stick a sharp object. And, oh, my favorite, was to bring in a couple of flute girls – both to play the flute and then, ahem,” said Klemes with a bit of embarrassment, “play his flute, if you know what I mean.”
“And the priests?”
“That was the idea of the priests,” explained Klemes. “In this city it seems the flute girls work for the temple. Men are actually encouraged to go to the temple, meet with the girls, consummate their visit on holy ground, and then make an offering to the gods – which, of course, means to the priests. Quite a racket, if you ask me, but I guess it fills the temple with warm bodies.”
“Very warm, I would suspect,” laughed Aristophanes. “Sure beats burning incense or sacrificing doves,” the young man giggled. “I have a sudden urge to 'pray,'” he added. “Either of you feeling particularly religious, today?”
Klemes chose to ignore Ari's playful comments, and continued with his description of the cure he had tried and had been advised to try. “There is one thing I saw on Cos during my studies, but I am reluctant to try it.”
“What is that, Klemes? If it is something that might cure the...”
“It means drilling a hole in his skull,” Klemes said, interrupting his brother. “I've never done it myself. I'm not even sure where to drill, or how deep to go. The oath I took at Cos warns physicians about this sort of thing. 'First, do no harm,' is how it goes. He could just wake up on his own, you know. The body has ways of healing itself that we've yet to understand.”
Dimitrios placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, looked him straight in the eye and said “I trust you. Do what you think best.”
“Even if that is to do nothing?”
“Even so, brother. But,” he added, “if he doesn't wake up soon, all will be lost.”
“How so? Isn't Ephialtes in charge for now? He's an able general, isn't he?”
“The trouble with Ephialtes,” explained Dimitrios, “is that he is a Greek. Not a Greek like Memnon, who comes from Rhodes and who has married into Persian royalty, but a Greek from Greece, and a mercenary at that. The Persians won't follow him, and the people have no confidence in letting a foreigner decide their fate.”
“Then Thymondas,” argued Klemes. “He's Memnon's nephew, born to a Persian mother. Surely he would do?”
“He's young, not much older than Ari, here. Thymondas is brave and a good soldier, but face it, brother, he has his rank because of who his father was and who his uncle is. The Persians know that. No, they need someone they can look up to, someone they can believe in, someone whom they can see as...”
“A hero? A savior? Is that what they need, Dimitrios?”
“Yes,” said Dimitrios with a sigh. “That, or a miracle.”
That miracle the people of Miletos hoped for came the next morning. The Persian fleet left its anchorage across the bay and began making for Miletos. People from all over the city rushed to the seaward-facing walls and to the harbor to see the parade of some 400 ships coming toward them. Among those on the wall were Ephialtes and his staff, along with Dimitrios and Aristophanes.
“Are they coming to save us?” asked Ari hopefully.
“I think they mean business this time. Look,” said the general. “There's not a single sail in sight.”
“Why is that?” asked Ari.
“That's because they've taken down t
he sails and stored them and everything else that is unnecessary on shore. They're manning the oars, not the sails. They've come decked out for battle, not for show.”
“Will the Greeks go to meet them?” asked Dimitrios.
“We shall see,” said the general. “We shall see.”
The Persian fleet kept on coming, in pristine battle array. Not a ship was out of place, or out of line. The highly trained Rhodian, Cypriot and Phoenician captains and crews maintained their formation and their steady speed, slowly coming closer and closer. As for the Greeks, Admiral Nicanor deployed his fleet – but to the far side of the island of Lade, and he kept it there. If the Persians wanted a battle, they would have to come to him. To do so they had to either go around Lade, or come between the island and the city, or split the fleet and do both. What Nicanor lacked in numbers, he hoped to make up for with Lade.
That large island to the west of Miletos provided cover from the weather to both of the city's main harbors – the commercial and the military, which were on that side of the peninsula. The small stone castle on the island was packed with artillery and archers – and defended by over 4,000 of Alexander's foreign mercenaries. That made it too strong to attack from the sea. Any force trying to land would be cut down before they could clear the surf and form up. The castle provided a formidable base of fire that could rain destruction down on the flanks of any ships that tried to row past it. That point was made painfully clear to the advance squadron of Persian warships that tried to do just that.
The Persian move was no more than a feint, a ruse meant to invite, taunt or otherwise lure Nicanor out from under the protection of Lade. It didn't work. The cagey admiral refused to be baited. Besides, Alexander had issued strict orders not to engage the Persians at sea unless the odds favored the Greeks. They would only do so if the Persian admiral came at them, and in doing so subjected his fleet to the artillery on Lade.
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