Alexander (Vol. 2)

by Manfredi, Valerio Massimo

  A cry rang out behind Hephaestion. ‘Commander, the King!’

  Alexander, at the head of the Vanguard, arrived at a gallop astride Bucephalas. Within moments he was alongside his friend and he lifted his eyes towards the tower, where the armour of the mysterious warrior shone brightly in the morning sun.

  He stared in silence and knew that he too was being observed: ‘It’s him. It is him, I can feel it.’

  At that moment in a far off place, beyond the city of Kelainai, along the road of the Great King, Barsine had stopped with her sons in a hostelry. She reached into her bag for a handkerchief to wipe her face and felt something unfamiliar there. She pulled it out and saw that it was a container with a sheet of papyrus inside. It was the sheet on which Apelles had drawn, with a few masterful strokes, a portrait of her husband, Memnon. Through her tears, Barsine read the few words which had been added at the bottom in a rushed and irregular hand:

  Your own countenance is impressed with equal force in the mind of Alexandre.

  24

  THE ENTIRE CITY could be seen from the top of the hill and as Alexander dismounted all his Companions immediately did likewise. It was truly a stupendous sight. A huge natural bowl, verdant with olive trees and here and there dotted with the dark flames of cypresses, gently sloping like a theatre down towards the massive stone walls which enclosed the city towards the north and the east, interrupted only by the huge reddish gash of the trench Memnon had had dug at some two hundred feet from the base of the walls.

  To the left was the acropolis with its sanctuaries and its statues. At that very moment smoke from a sacrificial rite rose from the altar up towards the clear sky, petitioning the gods’ help in defeating the enemy.

  ‘Our priests have offered a sacrifice as well,’ said Craterus. ‘I wonder who the gods will listen to.’

  Alexander turned to him, ‘To the strongest.’

  ‘The engines will never manage to get anywhere near that ditch,’ said Ptolemy. ‘And at that distance we will never succeed in breaching the walls.’

  ‘That’s certainly true,’ said Alexander. ‘We’re going to fill in the trench.’

  ‘Fill in the trench?’ asked Hephaestion. ‘Do you have any idea how much . . .’

  ‘You will start straight away,’ continued Alexander, without batting an eyelid. ‘Take all the men you require and fill it. We will cover you with catapult fire at the walls. Craterus will take care of that. What news is there of our war engines?’

  ‘They have been unloaded in a small inlet some fifteen stadia from our camp. Assembly is almost complete and Perdiccas will transport them here.’

  The sun was just beginning to descend towards the horizon above the sea, exactly midway between the two towers which watched over the entrance to the harbour. Its rays steeped the gigantic mausoleum that rose at the middle of the city in a bath of molten gold. Atop the great pyramid the four-horse chariot looked as though it was about to set off into the emptiness, to fly galloping through the violet clouds of sunset. Some fishing boats entered the port, sails fully open, like a flock of sheep returning to its pen before darkness. The fresh fish would soon be transferred into baskets and sent off to the houses where the families of Halicarnassus were preparing supper.

  The sea breeze blew through the trunks of the age-old olive trees and along the paths that led up through the hills. The shepherds and the peasants were all returning peacefully to their homes, the birds to their nests. The world was about to nod off in the peacefulness of the evening.

  ‘Hephaestion,’ said Alexander.

  ‘Here I am.’

  ‘Have a night shift organized for the labourers. The work must be incessant, just as when we cut the stairway out of the rock face on Mount Ossa. Even if it rains or hails, you must keep on without any interruption. I want movable shelters set up for the labourers. And have the blacksmiths make tools if necessary; the engines must be in position within four days and nights at the latest.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better to begin tomorrow?’

  ‘No. Right now. And when it is dark you will work by torchlight, or light bonfires. This work does not call for precision – all you have to do is to shovel the earth into the ditch. We will not eat supper this evening until we have put the ballistae in place and begun the shovelling.’

  Hephaestion nodded and returned to the camp at a gallop. Shortly afterwards a long line of men with spades, shovels and picks, followed by carts drawn by oxen, headed towards the trench. Alongside them came the ballistae, pulled by pairs of mules. These were gigantic bows made of laminated oak and ash, capable of propelling iron bolts a distance of some five hundred feet. Craterus had them take up position and as soon as a group of enemy archers began to let fly with arrows from the tops of the city walls, he gave orders for a return sally and a volley of the heavy iron missiles cleared the battlements.

  ‘You may start your work!’ he shouted, while his men rushed to reload the ballistae.

  The labourers jumped down into the trench and then clambered up on the other side, by the dyke, and started shovelling soil into the trench which lay gaping behind them. The dyke itself protected the workers, so that there was no need, at least during this stage of their work, to cover them with the mobile roofs. Craterus, seeing that his men were now safe, had the ballistae aim at what was known as the Mylasa Gate and the smaller side gate to the east, in case the besieged Halicarnassians attempted any sudden sorties against the labourers.

  Hephaestion gave orders for other teams to move up towards the hills with saws and axes – wood for burning, for illuminating the site during the hours of darkness would soon be required. The huge enterprise was under way.

  Only then did Alexander return to the camp and invite his companions to supper, but he had given orders for them to organize regular reports on the progress of the work and the development of the situation.

  The night passed without incident and the work progressed according to the King’s orders. The enemy could do nothing to prevent it.

  By the fourth day sufficiently large areas of the trench had been filled and levelled, so that the siege engines could move forwards to the walls.

  They were the same engines Philip had used at Perinthus – towers up to eighty feet high with suspended battering-rams at various levels, manoeuvred by hundreds of men safely sheltered inside the structure. Soon the great bowl of the Vale of Halicarnassus resounded with the rhythmic crash of the iron-headed rams beating ceaselessly against the walls, while the labourers continued to fill the trench below.

  The defenders of the city had not envisaged the filling in of the trench in such a short time and they found it impossible to impede the work of the towers; within seven days a breach had been opened and much of the bastions flanking the Mylasa Gate had been reduced to rubble. Alexander sent his assault troops in over the piles of stone with orders to open up the road towards the centre of the city, but Memnon had already lined up his defence and he drove the Macedonians back without too much trouble.

  The battering-rams continued their work over the following days, driving into the walls to widen the breach, while the ballistae and the catapults were brought up to keep the besieged troops under pressure. Victory seemed close at hand, and Alexander called his commanders to his tent to organize the final thrust.

  Only those troops who were manning the assault towers and a certain number of forward sentries, arranged at regular intervals along the line of bastions, were left under the walls.

  There was a new moon that night, and the sentries called to one another in the dark to maintain contact, but Memnon was listening to them as well. Wrapped in his cloak, he stood motionless on the battlements, looking down into the darkness and concentrating hard to try to catch what the sentries were saying to one another.

  A few days previously some Macedonian nobles, friends of Attalus and the late Queen Eurydice, had come to offer their assistance to the inhabitants of Halicarnassus in their struggle with Alexander.

>   Memnon suddenly remembered this group and ordered his field adjutant, standing there with him in the darkness, to bring them to him immediately. It was a peaceful night – a light sea breeze was gradually refreshing the heat of the late spring day and Memnon occasionally lifted his eyes to the huge starry vault that curved away to the eastern horizon. He thought of Barsine and of the last time he had seen her naked on his bed, opening her arms and gazing at him with fire in her eyes. At that moment his feeling of loss was a sharp, physical pain.

  He realized he wanted to face Alexander in a duel, convinced that his desire for Barsine would give him a devastating, indomitable power. The voice of his field adjutant woke him from this reverie: ‘Commander, the men you asked me to call are here with me.’

  Memnon turned and saw that the Macedonians had come armed and in battledress. He had them approach.

  ‘Here we are, Memnon,’ said one of them. ‘We are ready, at your service.’

  ‘Can you hear these men calling to one another?’

  The men listened out. ‘Of course. These are Alexander’s sentries.’

  ‘Good. Now, take off your armour and keep just your swords and your daggers – you will have to move with great agility out there in the dark, and in silence. This is what I want you to do: exit from the side gate and each one of you will seek out one of Alexander’s guards, creep up behind him and take him out of action. But you must be ready to take his place immediately and to reply to the signals. You all have the same accent and the same pronunciation – no one will realize what has happened.

  ‘As soon as you have taken control of a substantial tract of the guard line, you will give a signal – an owl call – and we will send an assault division with torches and incendiary arrows, to burn the towers. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly. You may count on us.’

  The Macedonians set off and shortly afterwards they took off their armour and went down the stairs to the walkway which led to the side gate. When they found themselves out in the open they split up and crawled on all fours towards the sentries.

  Memnon waited in silence on the battlement, looking out towards the big assault towers which loomed in the darkness like giants. Then he thought he recognized the voice of one of the sentries – perhaps part of the plan had already succeeded. Some more time went by and then he heard, quiet at first but then loud and clear, the call of an owl coming from a point along the wall at an equal distance between the two towers.

  He went down the stairs quickly and approached the division which was getting ready for the sortie.

  ‘Be careful. If you go out like that, with torches lit, you will be spotted straight away and part of our advantage will be wasted. Here’s my plan: you must get as close as possible and as silently as possible to the point where our soldiers have replaced the Macedonian sentries – down there, between the two towers. Remain there hidden away until a second group brings you a covered brazier and amphorae full of bitumen; at that point blow the trumpets with all the breath you have and attack the Macedonian garrison, while the others set fire to the towers.

  ‘The Macedonians believe they have virtually won the siege and they do not expect to be attacked now. Our sortie will be a success. Now, it is time, go now.’

  The men headed for the side gate and, one by one, slipped out into the open, followed by the group carrying a jar full of embers and amphorae full of bitumen. Memnon watched on until the last of them had gone out and the iron gate had been closed, then he crossed the city on foot, towards his quarters. He did this almost every evening, strolling incognito among the people, listening to their talk, savouring their moods. The house he was staying in rose at the foot of the acropolis, and it was reached by first walking up a stairway and then along a narrow, steep path.

  A servant was waiting for him with a lighted lamp. He opened the door that led in to the courtyard and accompanied his master towards the entrance portico. Memnon went to his bedchamber on the upper floor, where the handmaids had prepared a warm bath. He opened the window and listened: the sound of a trumpet had suddenly torn through the silence of the night, from the north-eastern side of the walls. The assault had begun.

  A handmaid approached: ‘Would you care to take your bath now, my Lord?’

  Memnon did not reply and waited until he saw a reddish glow and then a column of smoke ascending and twirling its way into the dark sky.

  Only then did he turn and unlace his armour. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  25

  THE ORDERLY WAS BREATHLESS as he rushed into the tent, but he managed to shout nevertheless: ‘Sire! An attack! They have set fire to the assault towers!’

  Alexander jumped to his feet and grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘What do you mean? Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘They took us by surprise, Sire . . . they killed the sentries and managed to break through. They had amphorae full of bitumen and we simply couldn’t put the flames out.’

  Alexander pushed him to one side and ran outside: ‘Quickly! Raise the alarm! Get all the men out! Craterus – the cavalry! Hephaestion, Perdiccas, Leonnatus – send out the Thracians and the Agrianians . . . quickly!’

  He leaped on to the first horse that came his way and set off at top speed towards the line beneath the wall. The fire was clearly visible now and two columns of flame and smoke stood out, rising and twisting in dense swirls into the black sky. When he reached the trench he heard the noise of fighting coming from each of the five assault towers.

  In a matter of instants Craterus’s heavy cavalry together with the Thracian and Agrianian light cavalry reached Alexander and rushed on ahead, engaging the attackers. The men from Halicarnassus were promptly forced to retreat to safety through the side gate. But two of the towers were completely lost – enveloped in smoke, they collapsed one after the other with a great crash, releasing a vortex of sparks and fresh flames which soon devoured what was left of their structure.

  Alexander dismounted and walked towards the inferno. Many of his soldiers were dead, and it was clear that they had been taken by surprise in their sleep because they were not wearing their armour.

  Hephaestion appeared soon afterwards: ‘We’ve driven them back into the city. And now?’

  ‘Gather up the dead,’ replied the King, his expression as dark as the night around them, ‘and set about rebuilding the towers. Tomorrow we will continue our attack with what we have left.’

  The commander of the troops in service on the towers arrived, his head bowed, his spirits low: ‘It was my fault. Punish me if you will, but do not punish my men because they did what they could.’

  ‘The losses you have suffered are sufficient punishment for a commander,’ replied Alexander. ‘Now we must understand where the mistake was made: was there no one checking the sentries?’

  ‘It seems impossible, Sire, but I had done the rounds just before the attack began and I heard the calls of the sentries. I had given orders to use only the thickest Macedonian dialect in order to avoid any problems . . .’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘With my own ears I heard all of them call out in perfect Macedonian, but you must find this hard to believe.’

  Alexander ran his hand over his forehead. ‘I believe you, but from now on we must be continually aware that this opponent is the most cunning and the most dangerous we have had to face so far. As of tomorrow double the number of sentries and change the passwords at every change of guard. Now, gather up the dead and have the wounded taken back to the camp. Philip and his surgeons will take care of them.’

  ‘I will do exactly as you have ordered and I promise that nothing like this will ever happen again, even if I have to stand guard myself.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ replied Alexander. ‘What you should do instead is have our naval men teach you how to signal at night with a polished shield and the light of a fire.’

  The commander nodded, but just then his attention was drawn by a figure walking around the embers of the burned towers, ever
y now and then bending over as if inspecting something on the ground.

  ‘Who is that?’ he asked.

  Alexander looked in the direction indicated and recognized the man as he turned and his face was illuminated for an instant in the flames.

  ‘No need to worry – it’s Callisthenes.’ And as he spurred his horse on towards his official chronicler, he turned and shouted to the commander: ‘Take care! If it happens again, then you’ll pay for this time as well!’

  Soon he was alongside Callisthenes, who was crouching down, observing one of their dead soldiers, definitely a sentry because he was dressed in full armour.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked the King as he leaped to the ground.

  ‘Dagger,’ replied Callisthenes. ‘They used a dagger. A single stab wound to the back of the neck. And down there is another one – identical.’

  ‘So the attackers were Macedonian.’

  ‘What does this have to do with using a dagger?’

  ‘The duty commander told me that all the sentries, right up to the very last moment, replied to all the calls in Macedonian dialect.’

  ‘Does that surprise you? You certainly have no shortage of enemies back home – people who would be very pleased to see you humiliated and destroyed. And some of them will have come here to Halicarnassus – it’s not such a long journey from Thermai.’

  ‘What exactly are you doing here now?’

  ‘I am a historian. The autopsy is essential procedure for anyone who aspires to being a true witness to events.’

  ‘And so Thucydides is your model? I would never have guessed. Such unadulterated rigour does not become you – you enjoy living it up too much.’

  ‘I take what I can wherever I find it, and in any case I have to know all there is to know: I decide what should not be told, what should be told and how to tell it. This is the historian’s privilege.’