“I don't know why I bother,” sighed Klemes. “So,” he said, changing the topic, “do you know where we are going?”
“Diospolis. That's where Oxy said we should go to meet the other courier.”
“And do you know where that is?”
“Halime does. She says to just follow the brick-lined road.”
“Oh?” Klemes said, raising his eyebrows and smiling broadly. “So you are letting a woman tell you where to go? Did she by any chance tell you what lies between here and there?”
Dimitrios lowered his head, looked down at his horse's mane and mumbled in response, “I didn't ask her.”
The journey to Diospolis was uneventful – boringly so, perhaps, but Dimitrios had suffered enough delays and distractions already, so he welcomed the boredom. He wondered if Halicarnassos was holding out, or if his commander, patron and, in some ways, friend, Memnon was still alive. All he did know was that he had been given a mission, had made a promise, and had a duty to do as his general asked: find his wife and get her to safety far, far away from the fighting. At least the war had not caught up with him on this road, or not yet, nodded the captain to himself. But, he wondered, how long before it does?
Diospolis was not a great city or even a large town, but compared to Bogdan it was a gleaming metropolis. There was a grid pattern to the streets, few and short as they were, and the place appeared quiet and orderly, yet also very much alive. Today was market day, if the gathering of shoppers and stalls in the marketplace was any indication. While not a grand agora in the manner of the Ionian Greek cities on the coast, there was an arcade for some of the more permanent shops, a caravanserai for traders and travelers and, wonder of wonders, a small public bath fed by a local stream. Even more important, at the end of the main street stood a stable – and a building which flew the banner of the imperial courier service.
“Ari,” said Dimitrios to his young friend. “See to the stabling of our mounts. Halime will translate for you if need be. Merchants stop here, so there must be some people here with a working knowledge of Greek. Anyway,” he added with a grin, “no sense separating you two at this stage.”
The longer they traveled together, the more the archer and the girl had become inseparable – or at least she had become more willing to allow Ari to follow her about.
“Klemes,” said Dimitrios, as he dismounted, “Do you think you can manage to find us lodging while I go to the courier post?”
“Well, I'm a physician, not an innkeeper,” he grinned, “but I will see what I can do about finding us a bed for the night and a hot meal. As you said, there is probably someone in there with a smattering of our mother tongue – or what passes for it after these Ionian Greeks garble it.”
Dimitrios accepted his brother's windy response as a “yes,” dismounted, handed the reins to Ari, and made his way to the courier post. It was not a very large or impressive building, but it was a definite mark that signaled clearly that this small town was part of the great Persian empire. The couriers that came and went through here to exchange spent horses for fresh ones, bore missives, news and commands that originated as far away as the Persian trading posts in China to the imperial garrisons along the Aegean coast. It was the one place to find out the real story of what was going on in the world, as compared to the wild and exaggerated rumors that swirled about the taverns and the caravanserais. Not that the couriers read the messages they carried, but at least they passed on what they had heard or seen en route.
As Dimitrios entered the small building, the clerk behind the desk asked him to identify himself and to state his business. He did so in remarkably clear if heavily accented Greek.
“How did you know I was a Greek?” asked Dimitrios.
“The same way I know that you are a man,” sighed the clerk. “I looked at you. From your dress, your manner, the shape of your beard – which, by the way, cries out desperately to be trimmed, curled, and oiled and properly so – the only way you could be more obviously a Greek is if you had a sign hanging from your neck that proclaimed: 'Hello, I am a Greek.' So,” he added with an impatient clearing of his throat, “state your business. I haven't got all day, you know.”
Dimitrios went into great detail as to how he and his friends had come all of this way from Halicarnassos, and of how they had encountered a young courier named Oxy and...
“Will you please stop prattling on and get to the point, soldier, for it is also obvious that such is your profession,” interrupted the clerk, who made no attempt to hide his impatience, or his annoyance at having his routine disturbed. “I do not need or want to know the story of your life. I have work to do, so if you want a message to be sent, dictate it to me.”
Dimitrios was too tired from the many days on the road to take umbrage at the clerk's officious manner, but neither was he too tired to not finish his story. Eventually, despite the clerk's incessant drumming of his stylus, he got to the point about Oxy, Aleph and the message from Barsine.
“It is highly irregular, I shall have you know,” responded the clerk, peering over his long, sharp, pointy nose. “For a courier to disclose the recipient let alone author of a document he carries is just not done. And you say he actually let you read it, as well?” he added, visibly agitated.
“More than that,” replied Dimitrios, reaching into the small satchel at his hip, “he gave it to me.”
“He did what!” screamed the clerk as he shot up from his desk. “I will have his head for that! That is in direct violation of the postal code, section 17, part three. Wait until I tell my superiors! And you, Greek,” he continued, making his displeasure crystal clear, “you will hand over that letter – and at once! At once!”
Dimitrios was not used to being spoken to in such a manner, but, frankly, was too tired, and too weary of all of this to argue.
“I only wanted to know if another of your couriers, one named Aleph, was around or due in anytime soon.”
“And why is that?” the clerk asked sharply, his hand still outstretched, palm up, waiting to receive the letter as he had demanded.
“Haven't you listened to a word of what I've been saying,” groaned the captain. “Because Oxy thought Aleph may have received the letter directly from the hand of Barsine. Or that he could at least point me to where up the line it may have originated.”
“And why is that?” demanded the clerk.
“Because,” said Dimitrios with an exhausted sigh, “because she is the wife of my general, and I have urgent business with her.”
Unmoved, the clerk once more thrust out his hand, and asked “who is this 'general' of which you speak, and who is this tart of a wife you are prattling on about?”
“My general's name is Memnon, perhaps you've heard of him?” replied Dimitrios, almost too tired to care anymore. Desperately in need of a proper bath, a decent bowl of wine and some hot food, Dimitrios was tired of this game. “And his wife is Barsine. She's a royal princess.”
The clerk lowered his hand to his side. He drew himself up to attention, and blinked twice.
“Well,” he said with a harrumph to clear his throat, “why didn't you just say so in the first place. And I suppose you have some proof to offer that you come from him?”
Dimitrios did not answer. He fumbled about in his kit bag until he produced the medallion he had been given by the general.
“Let me see it,” said the clerk, more respectfully than before. “It appears genuine.”
“Well,” sighed Dimitrios, “now that we've settled that, can you tell me where I can find this courier? This Aleph fellow?”
“Better than that,” the clerk said with a smile, “I can tell you where to find his wife.”
77
Halicarnassos
Siege
“That bitch!” screamed Alexander. “That stupid, bloated, pompous, lying, royal bitch! No wonder her brother was able to topple Queen Ada from the throne.”
“Now, now, my King,” said Cleitos, trying to calm the king. “
This is, after all, your mother you are speaking of.”
“My adopted mother, only my adopted mother – and she did that all on her own. That was none of my doing,” grumbled Alexander.
“Well, it did seem like a good idea at the time,” sighed Hephaestion. “It also seemed quite logical that there would be people in the city willing to rise up – after all, this is not only Persia, but that part of Persia that has Ionian Greeks, ancient Carians, all sorts of foreign mercenaries, and who knows how many inbred families, if they followed the example of Ada and her lot. That's a heady brew even in peace time, let alone in a besieged city under martial law.”
Alexander was pacing around his tent, reaching out for things to throw and smash, and if they did not break when they hit the floor, he started kicking them. All the while he simmered, seethed, and cursed – and drank. Oh, how he drank.
“From all reports,” said Hephaestion in as calm a voice as possible, “there was indeed an uprising in the city. Several, in fact. That 'fifth column' you and the queen talked of did rise, in a manner of speaking. Unfortunately, however, it was more like five different columns, each of which, it turns out, hated each other more than they loved Ada. They rose up – and then used that as an excuse and as an opportunity to settle old scores. My spies in the city tell me that the city guard did not so much put down the uprising as contain it. Then they sat back, let it burn itself out, and then just set about cleaning up the debris, like a fire.”
Hephaestion's measured and accurate report did little to temper the king's anger. Parmenion, Perdiccas, and Ptolemy, who had also been called to the royal command tent, watched in silence while the king raged on. None knew what to say. Each knew, in their hearts, that their men had given their all. This was not a rebuff, like the last time, when they had been overhasty and overconfident in storming the city, but a defeat – a solid, serious defeat, and one that was felt as such not just by the commanders, but by every man in the Macedonian army. It was a feeling that this ever-victorious army had never felt before, not under Philip, and not under his son.
“So, my King,” continued Hephaestion, “the question is, what shall we do next?”
Had any other man in the tent said that, the young king would have taken it as an insult or a jibe, and would have reacted to it violently. As Alexander's closest friend, confidant, and occasional or former lover (or so it was rumored), Hephaestion was the one and only person in the world who had ever been able to soothe him when he got like this. Inseparable in their boyhood (and there were many who made jokes about this being a physical as well as an emotional union), Hephaestion and Alexander had grown even closer as they grew to manhood. Other than his own mother, Olympias, Hephaestion was the only person who dared tell the king the truth, and in such a way that he would believe them. Parmenion, of course, always spoke the truth, but from the old general it always seemed to Alexander more that he was being lectured by an elderly uncle or somehow compared (and found wanting) to his late father. For that reason Alexander's first reaction to anything Parmenion would say was defensive, and his reaction often negative, like a spoiled child reacting to a scolding.
With Hephaestion, however, Alexander, when he did get angry or was made unhappy by his friend's remarks, would then express remorse or even seek comfort in his embrace. This is something Alexander's other boyhood companions, including Ptolemy for one, understood early on – but which Parmenion never learned, or even cared to learn. He prided himself on always speaking his mind. That had been the key to his close relationship with the late king – and the very thing that kept him from having a similar kinship with the son. Put another way, Parmenion did not know when to keep his mouth shut; such is the burden of many who sincerely believe themselves to always be in the right.
“The army's spirit is shattered, Alexander,” continued Parmenion. “We need to abandon this siege, fall back, call for reinforcements and regroup. There is a time to press on – and a time to know when to retire and lick one's wounds. In my opinion, this is that time.” Parmenion might have been right, and perhaps might have made Alexander see that, had he stopped talking. Parmenion, however, added one of the two phrases that was certain to make the king do just the opposite of what he recommended. The first was “that was what your father would have done.” The second was “that is what I would do.” In this instance he did not utter just the first, but also the second as well.
If Hephaestion had poured oil on the waters to calm them, Parmenion had tossed in a flaming torch. The ensuing conflagration was predictably violent.
No scribe was present at this meeting, and if one had, he would never have been able to keep up with the flood of comments that flowed from the king's mouth – most of them so rushed and garbled in his sputtering rage as to be almost incoherent. If the exact words were not understandable, however, their meaning was crystal clear – and were made even more so when Alexander grabbed a javelin and hurled it at Parmenion.
The old general had only one good eye, but it was a practiced one. At the very last breath he managed to take a step back out of the path of the deadly missile as it sped past him and tore through the side of the tent. The scream of pain and the solid thump of a body falling down on the far side indicated that if the javelin had not hit its intended target, it had hit someone. While a few in the tent were likely aware that a fellow soldier had been wounded or worse by the king's toss, none said a word. They only looked at their king in disbelief. Even Hephaestion was speechless and unable to react. Cleitos, however, kept his head.
“Friends, I believe this council of war is concluded for now. The king needs his rest, and I believe you should all leave him to it. It has, after all, been a long and taxing day for us all.”
No one argued with Black Cleitos – or Cleitos the Dark, whose nickname came as much from his mood as the color of his hair and complexion and his low birth (being the son of Alexander's nursemaid). The strong, brave and powerful bodyguard bowed to no man – not even Alexander, such was his character and proven valor. In saving Alexander's life at the Granicos, Cleitos had more than earned the king's gratitude and respect. As Cleitos ushered the others out, Alexander slunk down to the floor of the tent, his anger and his energy spent like a skin of water with a gash in the side, through which all of its contents have spilled.
Hephaestion was the last to reach the tent flap. He turned to look at the king, but before he could make a move to comfort Alexander, Cleitos shot him a look that would freeze fire. As Hephaestion turned and made his way out of the tent, he heard Parmenion talking in a whisper to the other generals.
“Well, lads,” grumbled the old campaigner, “seems like this time we're truly fucked.”
“And what are you going to do about it?” asked Hephaestion angrily as he strode forward.
“Me? Me?” laughed Parmenion pointing his thumb at his own chest. “Why, get rip roaring drunk. And then get fucked. Truly, deeply, royally, and repeatedly fucked.”
Meanwhile, a very different scene was being acted out in the headquarters in Halicarnassos. Memnon, Ephialtes, Thymondas, Orontobates, and even the dour Hydarnes – along with the admiral of the fleet, celebrated the repulse of the Macedonians with copious bowls of barely watered wine. Much of the populace, baring those that died in the abortive rising, as well as among the garrison (at least those still on their feet) did the same. Although worn and weary from the most intense day of battle that any could recall, even the storied veteran Memnon, the defenders of Halicarnassos partied, and partied hard, or at least partied as long as they could stay on their feet, or awake.
“Surely, the Macedonians will now retreat,” said Orontobates cheerfully. “By all of the rules and practices of war, they must do so.”
“Aye, we have given them a bloody nose,” said Ephialtes as he refilled and then hoisted another bowl of wine. “Like a dog in the street that comes yapping at your heels and runs away yelping after you give it a good kick.”
The admiral said nothing, but nodded
in agreement as he, too, lifted his bowl.
“General Memnon,” said Hydarnes, who had taken only the barest sip of wine, “do you also believe the Macedonians will now depart?”
Memnon allowed himself a moment to down his bowl in one great gulp, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and replied with a hearty “no.”
“What?” said Orontobates in his surprise, echoing what Ephialtes, Thymondas, and the admiral were thinking. “Of course the Macedonians will withdraw. It is inconceivable that they would not. Inconceivable.”
“I am not sure you fully understand what that word means,” said Memnon quite seriously. “The Macedonians might indeed withdraw – but Alexander will not. He cannot. And as he is the king, no matter the counsel of his generals, or the rules of war, or logic itself, he will stay.”
“But why? Why would he, after taking such horrendous losses today? The Macedonians gave it their all,” said Ephialtes. “What more do they have to give?”
Hydarnes did not wait for Memnon, but offered a possible explanation. “Alexander is not a mere general. He is a king. A king cannot flee from a battlefield and remain king. Even the great Cyrus himself fought on after being bested by the Scythians...”
“...who took his head in the process,” observed Orontobates. “Their damned bitch of a queen sent his head back to Persia...”
“And in a wineskin filled with blood,” added Memnon. “Queen Tomyris, or so the legend goes, sent it along with a note saying 'I told you I would quench your thirst for blood'...but then again, that may just be a story.”
“Ah, but you know what they say, don't you?” replied Orontobates. “When the legend contradicts the facts, repeat the legend. Makes for a better and more memorable lesson – and a better story.”
“Well,” chuckled Ephialtes, fumbling with his scabbard, “if Alexander's head needs cutting off, I've the blade for it! And we've already got empty wineskins aplenty.”
A Captain of Thebes Page 46
