Alexandros squinted at the tablet. “I can’t read it. Say it for me.”
The translator frowned. “No one is allowed to say god’s name.”
Alexandros looked quizzical. Everyone in the tent held his breath. Finally, the king burst out laughing. “This is the queerest bunch we’ve seen yet.”
“You’re lucky the king is in a good mood,” Hephaistion informed the translator. “Now, what does your man want? And make it quick because the king’s patience may be wearing thin.”
Jaddua’s equanimity didn’t waver. Perhaps someone had briefed him concerning Alexandros’s interest in local deities or maybe he was guided by his faith. In any event, he discoursed at length, through his translator, about the power of his god. He also shrewdly promised Alexandros military success if the Macedonian king protected the freedom of the Judeans to worship their one true god. To our collective amazement, it appeared that he’d found a receptive audience.
Alexandros told Jaddua that Jerusalem would continue to enjoy the same degree of autonomy as it had under Persian rule and that its taxes and dues wouldn’t be increased but merely redirected. He told him that Jerusalem didn’t have sufficient strategic importance to warrant a garrison. He politely declined an invitation to visit, explaining that the city wasn’t on his planned marching route. He assured the priest that the religious freedom of the Judeans would be protected. Before dismissing the high priest, he reached, apparently on a whim, for the gold wreath left by the Hellenic League delegation and gave it to the old man. “For your temple,” he said. “Make a sacrifice and hold a service to your god on my behalf.”
The high priest took the wreath, spun on his heels, and left, without saying a word.
“I liked that guy,” Alexandros said after the delegation filed out. “Don’t ask me why.” Perhaps you’re tired of all the adoration, I guessed. It was an incorrect conjecture, as the course of events would demonstrate soon enough. “Are we done?”
Hephaistion’s hands rose in a gesture of apology. “There’s one more group. I saved the best for last.”
“Who are they?”
“They’re Dareios’s ambassadors. They have another letter from the emperor for you.”
“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. Stop calling him the Persian emperor. He’s to be referred to as the Persian coward. Got it?” Suddenly, Alexandros’s patience was at an end. “I’ll see them tomorrow. But in the meantime, bring me the letter.”
*******
Dareios’s letter was not much different from the previous letter he’d sent after the Battle of Issos. His salutation conformed to Alexandros’s demand that he be referred to as King Alexandros. Of course, the first letter had used that salutation as well, before it had been changed in Kallisthenes’s forged version, but Alexandros had forgotten that detail. Dareios’s tone had softened a bit but, in terms of territorial concessions, he was still offering all the territories west of the Halys River. (Of course, that had been a breathtakingly generous concession in the first place.) In addition, he raised the proposed ransom payment for his family, whom we had captured in the aftermath of the Battle of Issos, to 20,000 talents. Finally, in a new wrinkle, he offered his eldest daughter Stateira in marriage to Alexandros, with the clear implication that, as Dareios’s son-in-law, Alexandros would accrue all the benefits due to a member of the Persian royal family. In a concluding paragraph, Dareios pointed out the obvious: Persia was a vast country with limitless resources. It was only a matter of time before it swallowed Alexandros’s small army, unless there was a peace agreement.
This time, Alexandros didn’t see any need to substitute a forged version before showing the letter to his command staff. And the staff knew better than to argue. After Tyros, and after all the casualties we’d suffered, it was obvious even to Parmenion that Alexandros was not in a compromising mood.
Alexandros handed his reply to Dareios’s ambassadors the next morning. His rejection was as subtle as a stroke of lightning. In response to the emperor’s new offers, he observed tartly that he didn’t need Dareios’s permission to marry Stateira, if he was so inclined, since she was already in his possession. As far as the increased ransom payment was concerned, he informed Dareios that he had already seized more treasure than Dareios had offered and he expected to collect a lot more. Finally, he advised Dareios that, if he wanted to keep his empire, he’d better come and fight for it because he, Alexandros, intended to find him and hunt him down. It wasn’t a response calculated to lead to an amicable resolution.
*******
In Pella, there was a steady stream of visitors as well. They tended to arrive alone, after dark, without the benefit of attendants, bodyguards, or even torchlight. They wore dark, inconspicuous garb. By the time they were ushered into Antipatros’s presence, their boots and sandals were frequently steeped in horse manure. That was a small price to pay, at least as far as Antipatros was concerned, for maintaining the secrecy of these surreptitious audiences.
As regent of Macedonia, Antipatros entertained many official visitors, ambassadors, and invited guests from various member states of the Hellenic League, as well as from some of the “friendly” neighboring barbarian tribes. They were all received, with a great deal of pomp, in the newly-refurbished official audience hall of the Pella royal palace, with Antipatros seated on an elevated throne, with lots of officious aides, resplendent servants, and heavily-armed bodyguards in attendance, and with endless speeches, courtesies, and professions of loyalty. Almost invariably, not a single sincere word or item of useful information passed anyone’s lips. It was all theater and deceit.
All the utile conversations took place after dark, in the royal stables, attended only by Antipatros, one or two bodyguards, occasionally Antipatros’s son Kassandros, and the person being interviewed. One of the visitors was a short, fat, balding man, acutely distressed that the hem of his fancy, expensive robe had become stained as he tried to navigate across the malodorous stalls. “Surely, we could have found a more convivial venue for this meeting,” he exclaimed upon spotting Antipatros in a pool of torchlight at the back of the stables.
Antipatros smiled in response. “It is nice to see that you haven’t changed a bit, Demades, since the last time we met.”
“Last time we met, as I recall, we were reclining comfortably on soft couches, sipping excellent wine, attended by comely young lasses, discussing important matters of state.”
“I find these horses more discrete,” Antipatros observed drily. “Tell me, how are the conspirators getting on in Athens?”
“Well, first of all, sire, Athens is awash in Persian darics. In all honesty, I could’ve become a rich man by now, if I weren’t held back by my friendship and loyalty to you.”
Antipatros burst out in laughter, slapping his thigh and unable to speak for a moment. “That’s why you’re my favorite diplomat, Demades.” He finally caught his breath. “It takes brazen balls to profess poverty while being paid off by all sides. By the way, here’s your current installment.” He handed over a heavy sack filled with clinking coins.
“Sire, you do me injustice,” Demades protested in a hurt tone, while accepting the proffered bounty. “My loyalty to King Philippos and now to you has never wavered.”
Antipatros clapped the fastidious, paunchy, pouting short man on the shoulder. “Have a seat, my friend.” He pointed to a soiled stool. “Sounds like you have a lot to tell me.”
The two men talked late into the night, mostly about the Spartan king Agis and his tireless efforts, funded by Persia, to organize a general uprising of all the Greek city-states against Macedonia. “Athens is in play,” Demades warned. “My fellow citizens dream of a return to the glory days of Athenian greatness and chafe at Macedonian primacy.”
“Do they think they’d achieve primacy if the Spartans were in charge? Have they forgotten the Peloponnesian War?”
“As you know, sire, the Peloponnesian War ended more than seventy years ago. It’s only be
en six since your victory against us at Chaironeia. There is nobody alive who fought against Sparta but there are plenty of Athenians who fought against Macedon.”
“Including you, my friend.”
“The funny thing, sire, is that no matter what they say about me, I was born an Athenian citizen and I’ll die an Athenian citizen and if my city goes to war, I’ll be standing in the front rank of the Athenian army. But right now, what we’re debating in Athens is what’s in our city’s best interest. I’ve always thought Macedonia was the rising power in Greece and it’s in the best interest of Athens to hitch our wagon to the Macedonian Pegasos. And that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to convince my fellow Athenians to do.”
“Glad to hear it, Demades. Glad to hear it.”
“But money can be more eloquent than the most forceful orator and at the moment there’s an awful lot of Persian money rising to address our Assembly.”
“Don’t worry about the money, my friend. We’ve got a little money of our own and, more importantly, we’ve got the better soldiers. The arc of history favors the strong over the rich, so you’re on the right side of history.”
“I think so too.”
“But it never hurts to apply a few hammer blows to the arc of history, just to make sure that it maintains the right curvature.” Antipatros laughed. “So, here’s what I have in mind.”
They spent half the night developing a detailed strategy to keep the seething cauldron of Athenian discontent from boiling over.
“And now you’d better sneak out before people start to wake up. There are spies everywhere, including those employed by the queen mother.”
Demades nodded, rose to his feet and attempted – unsuccessfully – to make his way out of the stable with his dignity intact and his footwear unsullied.
On another night, Antipatros entertained one of his leading generals, Zopyrion, in his pungent, private retreat. “I’m going to give you 30,000 men,” the regent was saying, “to persuade the Skythians to turn around and go back to whatever hellhole they crawled out of.”
“Yes, sire.”
“I’d rather take on that horde of nomads where they are now, to the north of the Black Sea, instead of waiting until we have to fight them on our doorstep. Because there’s no doubt in my mind; unless we stop them, they’re coming for us.”
Zopyrion nodded. “I’ve seen some of the same reports you have, sire. And I think 30,000 men should be a sufficient force.”
“Sufficient or not, that’s all I can give you. Alexandros, and his mother, are on my ass every day to send more troops to Asia. In fact, the reason we’re meeting in my, ahem, ‘private’ reception hall is because no one is to know about your expedition. We’ll put out word that this is a routine military exercise, in anticipation of a march across the Hellespont to join Alexandros’s forces. You’ll be the only one who’ll know your actual destination. Got it?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“I’m just the regent, Zopyrion, not any kind of majesty.”
“Yes, sire.” The general didn’t sound entirely convinced.
And so it went. Ostentatious receptions in the official audience hall, during which nothing of substance was accomplished, and midnight soirees in the stables, during which the de facto king of Macedonia exercised his extensive, albeit unofficial, power. No one, either in Pella or in Tyros, gave the slightest conscious thought to the possibility of a collision between the de jure and de facto kings of Macedonia, although in hindsight such a climax was almost inevitable. No one, that is, with the exception of Antipatros’s son Kassandros.
*******
When we finally left Tyros and resumed our march to Egypt, every city, port, village, and hamlet on, or anywhere near to, our route hastened to welcome Alexandros and advise him of its submission; every one, that is, except the city of Gaza. This large settlement was more a fortress than a city, located at the edge of the desert and inhabited by a mix of Philistines and Arabs, specializing in either trade or banditry, depending on whom one asked. Strategically situated perhaps a mile from the rocky Mediterranean coast, it controlled the caravan routes between the Levant and Egypt.
Babameses, a corpulent, dark-skinned man of uncertain ethnic extraction and obscure parentage, ruled Gaza as the local representative of the Persian emperor and as principal brigand. Ignoring the recent object lessons of Tyros, Babameses somehow conceived the notion that his desert fastness could withstand a siege by the pan-Hellenic army. In anticipation of Alexandros’s arrival, Babameses imported a large number of Arab mercenary marauders, stockpiled provisions and arms, and barred the city gates.
Alexandros, upon being told of Babameses’s defiance, was flummoxed. Gaza, even with its imposing walls, was a small city that could be easily surrounded and eventually starved out. What Alexandros didn’t realize was that Babameses was a stubborn man who believed that no army could ever storm his stronghold. More importantly, he fully expected the Persian emperor to arrive to his rescue in short order because of Gaza’s strategic importance and because of the loss of face entailed in permitting a foreign army to rampage through some of Persia’s most important trade routes and holdings. What Babameses didn’t realize was that Alexandros was equally stubborn and the Persian emperor was too busy assembling, equipping, and training his largest army yet to have time for rescuing minor provincial outposts.
It should have been easy for us to sack Gaza. It had fewer inhabitants than we had soldiers; its walls were not as tall as many that we’d previously scaled; it had no towers surmounting the walls and no moat surrounding them; and it was compact enough for us to circumvallate, thus precluding any opportunity for resupply. What it did have was sand. It turned out it wasn’t possible to undermine Gaza’s walls because, as soon as our sappers started to dig a tunnel or a trench, it would immediately cave in. It was also very difficult to clap ladders against its walls because the ladders would invariably sink into the sand and topple. Our siege engines continued to bog down in the shifting dunes. Even building an earthen mound around the walls proved to be challenging because sand is not a great building material.
When we started the siege, it was the end of summer. There was never any rain, there was no shade, and the scorching sun was relentless. If we made any headway with our siege equipment during the day, the defenders would sally forth in the night and destroy whatever we had managed to accomplish. And then there were the periodic sandstorms.
Having wasted the better part of a month with little apparent progress, Alexandros started to lose patience. One night, he decided to lead a small group of our most agile soldiers in an attempt to scale a relatively low segment of the wall on the south side of the fortress using nothing more than ladders. The assault was easily repelled by the defenders, leaving many of our soldiers wounded. One of the most serious injuries was sustained by Alexandros himself. He was shot in the shoulder and then lost a great deal of blood while Philippos the Physician struggled to extract the arrowhead. He was rendered hors de combat for a couple of weeks.
After a month and a half, the incessant pounding of the walls by our catapults began to tell. Sections collapsed and gaps appeared. When our soldiers attempted to clamber across these mounds of rubble, however, they were invariably stymied by the desperate resistance of the besieged. Finally, a substantial breach developed in the eastern wall and Alexandros had recovered sufficiently to lead another assault in person. All was proceeding reasonably well until a large rock rolled off an adjacent wall and pinned Alexandros’s leg. It was a miracle all the bones in his foot and ankle didn’t shatter but he was once again too badly injured to remain in the field.
Exactly two months after we had arrived at Gaza, our commandos finally succeeded in overrunning the walls. The Gazans defended their city to the last man. Ten thousand male inhabitants were put to the sword. The women and children were sold into slavery. Babameses was captured alive.
Alexandros was resting in his tent, his injured leg immobilized, when Le
onnatos and Philotas dragged in the contumacious, cantankerous commander and dumped him at Alexandros’s chair. Although evidently injured and bleeding, Babameses rose to his feet and stared defiantly at the Macedonian king. When Alexandros asked him, through an interpreter, whether he had anything to say in his defense, the corpulent condottiere maintained his sullen silence.
Alexandros had had enough. He ordered Babameses tied by his ankles behind a chariot and hauled himself, injured leg and all, into the outmoded conveyance. Then, fancying himself a modern-day Achilleus parading the corpse of Hektor around the walls of Troy, he circled the walls of Gaza. Of course, Hektor had been killed in honorable combat before Achilleus’s disgraceful display, while Babameses was still very much alive, at least for the first couple of circuits. Eventually, the abrasive sand stripped him to the bone.
Alexandros normally treated conquered enemy commanders with respect and dignity. He could be a ruthless warrior and a vengeful victor, when it suited his strategic purposes, but that day at Gaza was the first time I’d ever seen him descend into sadism.
Chapter 5 – Pharaoh
After the delay and carnage of Gaza, none of us wished to tarry in the inferno that awaited us. Our entire train – horsemen and foot soldiers, servants, hostages, and camp followers, wagons, carts, and beasts of burden – covered the remaining 130 miles of desert between Gaza and Pelousion, the first Egyptian municipality on our route, in seven days. We reached it in the late fall of 254 Z.E. [14]
We arrived at the ancient port sunburned, dusty, tired, and thirsty. When the sentries in the guard tower sounded the alarm, a jubilant mob rushed out to greet us. We’d thought, when we’d entered some of the Greek cities of Ionia, that we were the recipients of a warm welcome from the inhabitants but, by comparison to the Pelousians, those Greeks were a nonchalant band of ingrates. At this Egyptian port of entry, young girls came running, laughing, squealing, and showering us in flower petals. Weathered old crones, carrying clay bowls on their heads, ambled up and started washing our faces, hands, and feet. Other women brought dates and drinking water. The city fathers, wearing gleaming ankle-length linen skirts, broad necklaces on bare chests, and braided wigs topped by silly-looking cones, buzzed around behind their leader in an arrowhead formation, looking very much like a whirling mass of swarming bees. Finally, their leader located the object of his search, who happened to be our king, and they all sank in unison to their knees and then touched their foreheads to the scorching sand. When Alexandros motioned for them to rise, they regained their sandaled feet but continued to bow like woodpeckers, lacking only the staccato sound of beaks hitting timber. A large litter, carried by a dozen black men wearing nothing but loincloths, materialized in their midst, and their leader insisted that Alexandros mount the ceremonial throne atop the litter. To my surprise, Alexandros complied with this request and was carried into the city, surrounded by an ecstatic throng of overjoyed men, women, and children.
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