“Yeah, yeah,” nodded Aristophanes. “You can stick with me – or should I say, I need to stick with you. I don't know this city well at all. You're going to have to lead the way – and we better get going now, if there's even still time to make a run for it!”
With that, the little fellow took a few steps back and then ran and launched himself across the space between their rooftop to another. Ari did his best to follow, but unlike the youngster who sailed across the alleyway, Ari was lucky to leap far enough to grab the edge of the next flat-roofed building. He did his best to keep up with the boy, who, at least, had the kindness to stop when he got too far ahead.
After the fifth or sixth such leap of faith, Ari had about had all he could take. His leg was throbbing, his heart was pounding, and he was having difficulty getting a deep breath, but at least the Macedonians did not try to stop him. They weren't looking up at rooftops, but were busy breaking into houses and shops, on the lookout for wine, women, and wealth to grab. A few of the better Macedonian officers were able to keep some discipline, and were thus able to keep at least a few of the soldiers moving forward in some kind of a fighting formation. It was good for them that their officers were able to do so, for as the leading clumps of invaders tumbled out of the warren of streets from the docks, they came upon a wall of shields, out from which poked the deadly spearpoints of those few trained soldiers Ephialtes had been able to rally and shove into the ranks.
The first bands of Macedonians to hit Ephialtes' blocking force paid dearly for their incautious, heady race for spoils. The men coming up behind them, however, who remained under the orders of their officers, fared much better. These were not the phalanx men of the Macedonian pike regiments, but marines, soldiers trained to fight from swaying, slippery decks, not in narrow streets. Still, they were disciplined and as deadly as any body of men in this battle. When the would-be looters were out of the way, the marines had a clear line of sight to Ephialtes' line – a line made up of home guards, members of the city watch, the walking wounded he had culled from the hospital – to Klemes' despair – and any other stout fellow who took up a spear, sword, pointy stick, or club to defend his city.
Their stand was noble – but brief. The marines cut them down in but a few minutes, and without mercy. Ephialtes tried his best to give them courage, but all of his brave words and bold cries were to no avail. The line gave way, and as the defenders broke, they swept Ephialtes away with them.
It was from one of the rooftops above this rout that Ari and his young friend spied Ephialtes. Ari leaped down, along with the boy, and the pair all but tackled the old general, before forcing down a door so the trio could take refuge in a wine shop. The old general was disconsolate, holding his head in his hands as he sat down heavily on a wooden bench.
“It's all over, Ari. I've failed him. I've failed him. The city is lost...”
“You did your best, General. None of us saw this coming – not even the great Memnon,” Ari replied with an unkind emphasis on their commander's name. “Speaking of Memnon, Dimitrios should be with him – and we need to find him, or them, before this mad mob sweeps south and hits them in the ass. So, here, General, grab a jug of wine, take a good stiff drink, and let's go and find them – before it is too late for them, or for all of us.”
But it was too late. Alexander's foot soldiers streamed through the now undefended breaches, and what few groups remained to stand in their way shattered like a clay pot when struck by the wild mass of Nicanor's men.
“Head for the harbor!” shouted Memnon, seeing their path back to the citadel was blocked. Few other than Dimitrios and those immediately around them heeded his call. Any thoughts of an orderly retreat were swept away by the hordes of wild Macedonians now gushing through the city. Unable to go due north, they turned northwest, toward the harbor. The farther north they went, however, the more of Nicanor's men coming south they met.
“Where can we go, General, we can't go that way!”
“There! Over there!” Memnon pointed with what remained of a spear, its haft broken just below the point. “The Temple of Athena! You can just make it out above the buildings!”
The Temple of Athena was one of the many grand temples in the city. If Miletos was a hand, and the citadel its pointer finger, then the piece of land on which the temple was situated was its thumb, with the commercial harbor in the space between the thumb and fingers. Easily seen from the sea by day, its golden tipped spire shining brightly in the sun, it was a welcome beacon both by day and by night, when fires were lit around it to guide sailors to the harbor. There was no citizen of Miletos nor any visitor to their city who had not at least seen the temple from a distance. Memnon chose it for his rallying point for that very reason – and because from there he would at least have access to his only escape route – the sea.
The bulk of the Macedonian fleet was so preoccupied with ferrying troops from Lade to the harbor that only a handful remained to maintain the blockade. Even the crews of those ships had their attention drawn toward the city, where fires raged and great plumes of smoke now rose to the sky, to be carried deeper inland by the offshore breeze. Those sailors did not have their mind on their duty, but were agitating their captains to head for the town to get their share of the plunder. As a result, hardly anyone was watching the sea like they were supposed to be doing. Had they done so, they would have spied a few Persian warships that were rowing hard for the coast.
Captain Abibaal had been rewarded by the admiral with yet another scout ship, albeit one that was in rather poor shape, not having been to a proper ship yard in months. Its planks sodden from too much time in the water, it was heavy and slow, but its crew, most of them from his previous ship, worked it hard. There were faster, better ships in the fleet, but the admiral chose this one and a few others to stay back and keep watch on the city while the rest made for the anchorage at Halicarnassos, farther to the south. Abibaal was no soldier, but even he could see that the death knell had sounded for the city and its defenders. There would be men, good men, who needed saving from that catastrophe. If he could pull even a few of them out to fight again another day, then he would have more than earned his pay this month.
Abibaal could see that the harbor was choked with Macedonian ships and that there was a ragged line of blockaders still between him and the anchorage. The beaches near the outer wall and along the lower city were swarming with Macedonians, but there was one rocky beach that still appeared to be vacant – that just below the Temple of Athena. If there was any place people would go to seek solace and sanctuary left in Miletos, it would be there.
And so that is where Captain Abibaal would go.
57
Miletos
Temple of Athena
“Where do we rally, General?” Aristophanes asked the old Theban warrior.
“The Temple of Athena,” he answered, breathing hard. “From there we can at least see the harbor, and the agora below it will make a good place to stand our ground. From there, we can try to strike south and join up with Memnon on the town walls...and let him know his back is no longer secure.”
“You know the way?” Aristophanes asked the young lad who had refused to leave his side, even after the other boys had done as Ari had commanded to go find their families.
“Of course,” laughed the boy. “Everyone knows the way. You really aren't from around here, are you?” he chuckled.
“No, I'm not,” replied Ari, “and it doesn't look like I'm going to be around here much longer. This city is dying – and we've got to find a way out of it.”
“First thing’s first,” huffed Ephialtes. “We've got to try to get to Memnon. He has to know...”
Whatever else Ephialtes said was lost in the tumult as yet more fires roared and more people ran screaming through the streets. The blaring of trumpets and shouts of triumph coming from both the harbor behind them and the lower city before them only served to confirm what both Ephialtes and Ari feared. The Macedonians were flooding in f
rom both sides now, which meant that Memnon's line, too, had crumbled.
Still determined to reach the Temple of Athena, the trio pushed on, past and through the fleeing mob of citizens and soldiers who raced about seeking shelter and safety wherever they could find it. As they entered the agora at the foot of the temple, Ari saw a familiar figure on its steps. There was Dimitrios, standing wearily on guard over another man whose visage he had come to know so well – that of the commanding general, Memnon. A handful of soldiers, Greek mercenaries mostly, along with a few Persian archers, clustered about him. A few were trying to form some kind of line of battle across the steps of the temple, but their exhaustion and their sense of defeat was evident. These men, like their general, were beaten, and they knew it. All that remained was to decide how they would die, and how many Macedonians they could take down with them.
“Ephialtes?” said Memnon as he spied the veteran soldier coming across the marketplace, its shops shuttered and its vendors' carts long gone. “Ephialtes!” he cried, as he ran down the steps, arms wide open to embrace his old comrade. “Have you come to rescue us?”
“No, my General,” Ephialtes said sadly. “I bear hard tidings. The Macedonians have the harbor. Nicanor brought hundreds, maybe even thousands of soldiers across from Lade. They've cut the city in two from east to west. Our men still hold the citadel, but there is no way for us to get back there. I fear that I have come not to rescue you, but merely to be by your side when the end comes – and that end is nigh.”
The roar of battle and destruction rose up once again from the city, to which was added what could only be cheers of victory by the Macedonians. “That sound can mean only one thing,” Memnon remarked. “Alexander himself is in the city. I suppose he is looking for me, so he can gloat as I surrender the garrison,” the general added, as he drew his sword, “but he'll get no satisfaction from me. I will show him how a general of the Empire dies, and it will be on my feet, sword in hand, cutting my way through his bodyguard.”
“Why give him that gift?” said Klemes, who suddenly appeared from inside the temple. “Better to live to fight another day than to throw away your life – and the hopes of your king – in a senseless act of sacrifice. Besides, would you make your Barsine a widow twice-over?”
“Klemes! Brother!” Dimitrios managed to shout. “I never expected to see you again. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for a way out of this bloody city,” he replied rather matter-of-factly, “and I've found it.”
“What?”
“While the lot of you have been moaning, and groaning, and talking of death, I've spotted some of our ships out there, just off those little islets out to the west. There's not many, but they should be able to take a few of us out of here – including our generals.”
Dimitrios dropped his shield and ran up the steps to the top of the temple. Memnon, Ephialtes, and a dozen others, including Aristophanes and his young archer, followed.
“There, over there, do you see them?” Klemes asked, pointing to the few Persian ships in the distance.
“Yes,” groaned Memnon, “I do. They are ours, by the looks of them. But we've no way to reach them – and there's no place they can land. Nicanor has the harbor, and those rocks down there will tear the bottom out of any ship that tries to come inshore.”
“Spoken like a soldier,” Klemes scolded the general. “You're thinking only with your feet, not your head. Look to your shield, general. Look to your big, round, concave shield.”
“What about it?” the general replied, genuinely perplexed.
“It is a shallow dish – it will float. It's most wood and leather at its core. You can't sit in it, but you can use it to help you get out to sea, once you take off your armor and drop your weapons, of course. We hold on with our hands, let the outgoing tide take us, and we can probably make it to those little islets out there. I'll bet the ships can take us off from there.”
“That's ridiculous,” Ephialtes said. “We've not a chance of making it.”
“Well we might – or would you rather just let Alexander kill us all?”
“The physician is right,” said Memnon. “I was a sailor before I was a soldier, and I learned to swim long before I could sail. After all, I did grow up on an island. We could make it. At least it is worth a try. Anything to deprive Alexander of his glory. I'd rather see Poseidon's smiling face than that Macedonian upstart's triumphant grin any day.”
Memnon saw that many of the soldiers were hesitating, not sure what to do, so he took the lead. “Well, Klemes, don't just stand there. Help me off with my armor.”
“Damn it, General, I'm a physician, not a valet.”
“You are now, physician. As for the rest of you,” he said addressing the soldiers in and around the temple, “time to strip off your armor. Grab your shields. We're all going for a little swim.”
Memnon and the few dozen men with him did just that, leaving their armor where it fell as they made their way across the temple, down the steps on the far side and to the shore, where a tiny little shrine to Apollo stood by the matter.
“It's a sign from the gods!” shouted Memnon. “See, here's Apollo, and he's riding a dolphin!” he continued, as he pointed to a mural on the wall of the shrine. “So let your shield be your dolphin, say a little prayer to Apollo, and follow me,” added the general, as he jumped into the sea.
Dimitrios, Ephialtes, and the others, Greek and Persian alike, followed. Only Ari held back.
“What's wrong, sir?” the young archer who had been at his side all day asked.
“Well, it's just that...well...”
“What?” the boy asked again.
“I'm not that good of a swimmer.”
“That's all right,” laughed the young lad. “My father used to say I was part fish, because I swam so well. You'll be fine. I'll help you, sir.”
Ari, still embarrassed and a bit uncertain, nevertheless grabbed a shield and made for the water's edge, the boy right behind him.
“Drop the sir with me. Just call me Ari,” Ari said, turning his head to address the lad. “By the way, I never asked you your name.”
“It's Themes,” the lad replied. “Short for Themistocles.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Themes,” said Ari with a nervous laugh. “Now, let's see if you are as much like a fish as your father says.”
The men were lucky. Their shields helped them float out with the tide, and most began to kick to propel them a bit faster on their journey. Although weary and wet, most soon reached the group of little islets and rock outcroppings. As he made it to solid ground, Dimitrios stood up, walked to the far side of the tiny island and began waving his arms in hopes that those aboard the ships would see him. Others followed his example, and soon dozens of men were flailing their arms about wildly in an effort to grab the attention of the sailors. All except Ephialtes, that is, who sat rather glumly on a rock, dripping wet.
“Ephialtes, why aren't you waving at the ships like the rest of the men,” Klemes asked as he stooped down to examine the veteran soldier.
“I am a General, damnit, not a refugee...or a physician, for that matter,” he replied rather testily. “It is not dignified for a General to run about and wave his arms like some madman.”
Captain Abibaal could not help but see the men on the islets. He did not know who they were exactly, but he had a good guess. He turned his ship about and ordered the men to begin rowing against the tide, toward the islets. He signaled the other ships around him to do the same. As he drew closer, he could see that scores of other soldiers were in the water between the islands and the city. They had seen Memnon and his group make a swim for it, and they had followed their example. As Abibaal and his ship closed the distance, he saw a few men come wading out. To their mutual surprise, the first face he recognized was that of Dimitrios.
“You look like a drowned rat,” Abibaal joked as he called out from the prow.
“Drowning, not drowned,” Dimitrios managed to
quip with a little laugh. “And we're not all rats. You got room for a general or two?”
58
Miletos
Lion Bay
Alexander's onslaught was unstoppable. He rode the crest of that mighty wave up and over the wall and through the town, until it finally deposited him at the Lion Bay – the great, long, slender military harbor. Some twenty warships were in their sheds – and on fire, as their crews had decided to burn them rather than turn them over to the Macedonians.
“Damn, damn, damn!” cursed Parmenion angrily as he took off his helmet and, as he was want to do in such situations, hurled it to the ground with a loud clang. “We could have used those ships!”
“Let them burn,” said Alexander calmly. “We don't need them.”
“What?” replied Parmenion. “We're already outnumbered better than two to one at sea. Those ships...”
“Would not have changed that,” laughed Alexander. “Besides, I'm disbanding the fleet anyway. So, let them burn.”
Parmenion did not immediately reply. He just looked long and hard at Alexander, his surprise and disbelief warring on his face. The later emotion won out. “You can't be serious? Disband the fleet?”
“Why not,” replied Alexander. “It costs too much and, frankly, I don't trust most of the captains, especially the Athenian ones. They'd as soon work for the Persians as work for me – and the Persians pay better.”
“But it was the fleet that helped us win this victory...”
“You mean my victory?” Alexander replied with an unpleasant, scolding scowl. “They only attacked after I had breached the wall. Nicanor came late to the party, Parmenion. I'd already won by the time his men landed. All Nicanor did was make sure his boys were in for the kill – and to grab their share of the loot. And speaking of loot...”
A Captain of Thebes Page 35
