Memnon (42 page)

“My lords.” Memnon indicated Pharnabazus. “This is—”

“He needs no further introduction, Rhodian. We all know
whose
son he is.” A third satrap drifted over. Arsites of Hellespontine Phrygia, a slightly built man with a thick mane of dark hair and a narrow hatchet-face, curled his lips into a sneer of disgust. To his credit, Pharnabazus refused to rise to the baiting. “I have heard that your officers were putting the Phrygian levies through their paces this morning,” Arsites said. Over his shoulder, he called to another satrap. “Have you heard this, Rheomithres? The Rhodian hopes to make your hillmen into better fighters.”

“They are sneak-thieves and curs,” the satrap Rheomithres replied. He was a barrel-chested Persian with a light olive complexion; his russet hair and beard, both painstakingly curled, betrayed his Armenian ancestry. “It would be a better use of your time if you could teach my dogs to dance.”

Memnon accepted a goblet of wine from the steward. “I disagree. Under the proper leadership your Phrygians would make excellent light troops.”

“And whose is the proper leadership? Yours?”

“Or yours, if you would but take the time.”

Rheomithres bristled. “My time is none of your concern, Rhodian! Neither are my Phrygians!”

Spithridates rose from his divan. “We have not assembled here to discuss your wretched Phrygians!” he said. Shadowed by his brother, the Iranian crossed to the map table. Memnon and the others followed. “Philip’s whelp seeks to make a name for himself outside of his illustrious father’s shadow. The Great King has charged us with stopping him.”

“He is a boy, this Alexander?” Arsamenes asked. He and Mithrobarzanes, both hailing from deeper inside Asia, had heard very little about Macedonia’s young king, save rumor and innuendo gleaned from Greek traders. “A lad of twenty?”

“If that.”

“He is twenty-two,” Memnon said. “But do not judge him based solely on his age. He learned warfare at the foot of one of its greatest practitioners—his father—and he’s inherited a veritable machine of destruction in the form of the Macedonian army. His soldiers revere him. What’s more, he has the backing of Philip’s men, Parmenion and Antipatros among them. No, my lords, the whelp is just as dangerous as the sire. Perhaps more so.”

“Where is he, and do we know the disposition of his forces?”

Memnon looked to Pharnabazus, who stepped up to the map table. “At last report, our spies put the Macedonians near Cardia in the Chersonese. That was several days ago. I would wager he has reached Sestos by now and is crossing the Straits to Abydus as we speak. The bulk of his army is infantry—six phalanx battalions, the Foot Companions, supported by various light and missile troops—but his true striking power is in his cavalry, the elite Companions and the famed horsemen of Thessaly. All told, Alexander commands close to forty thousand men.”

“What forces are at our disposal?” Memnon asked Spithridates. The satrap studied the map.

“We are rich in cavalry drawn from regions where men are born on horseback: regiments from Media, Bactria, Hyrkania, and Paphlagonia. Add your own allied Greek cavalry and we have over ten thousand horsemen. We have gathered another ten thousand infantry, mostly levies and your own mercenaries.”

Concern crossed Memnon’s face. “Twenty thousand men? Can we expect more from the Great King?”

“We must rely on what we have.”

“Then we must hope Alexander splits his forces or leaves enough behind to guard his lines of communication. It would be best if we could avoid a face-to-face battle—”

“You would have us play the coward?” Arsites snapped. “Advise us to run and hide, and hope the boy grows bored and decides to move on?”

Memnon kept his calm. “Nothing of the sort. I suggest we strike Alexander where he is most vulnerable—his supply line. We know Philip beggared Macedonia with his constant warring and political machinations, leaving Alexander with scarcely two
drachmas
to rub together. Thus, the young King is wagering his future on finding all the forage and supplies his army will need in our rich granaries and fields. We must deny him access.”

“What
are
you suggesting, Rhodian?” Spithridates asked.

“That we withdraw our forces ahead of him and lay waste to the countryside,” Memnon said, staring at the Persian lords in turn. He gestured to the map. “Destroy anything he might be able to use: livestock, crops, wells. Foul the rivers and the lakes. Gut those towns where he might seek succor. Burn every leaf, every branch, and even the grass underfoot. Deny him the luxury of forage, gentlemen, and I promise you he will be forced to return to Thrace before the month is out. That’s when we strike. Bring up the fleet from Cyprus to contest his passage back to European soil. Then, we can crush Alexander in one combined action, on land and sea.”

Arsamenes of Cilicia nodded, clearly impressed with Memnon’s thinking, while the faces of his fellow satraps registered a gamut of reactions—from disbelief to anger to moral outrage.

“All well for you to propose the destruction of our lands,” Arsites said, “when your own estates are elsewhere!”

“I will burn every scrap of land I own if it means Alexander’s defeat,” Memnon said.

Arsites, though, shook his head. “No! I will not consent to such desolation, not in my lands! You, brothers, may vote to override me and bring poverty and horror to this district, but I will have no part in it!”

“Nor will I,” Spithridates said. “And to even suggest it is an affront to the gods.”

“Were I you, my lords, I would worry less about offering offense to the gods and more about failing the Great King. His Majesty wants Alexander stopped,” Memnon said, “and we do not have the luxury of squeamishness.”

“We must stop him, yes, but at what cost? You would have us destroy the very lands we fight to preserve! It is madness!” Rheomithres said. “Listen, brothers! We must give our cavalry free rein! Allow them to do as they have done for centuries—strike and retire, strike and retire! Let them harry the Macedonians back to the Straits!”

Spithridates absently knuckled his beard. “No,” he said. “This calls for a decisive stroke.”

“You think we should meet the boy head-on?” Rhosaces folded his arms over his chest. The brothers exchanged looks.

“This bald-faced challenge to His Majesty’s suzerainty demands nothing less. We must meet Alexander face to face; albeit on ground of our own choosing—ground that will negate their numbers.”

“You mean to engage the cream of Macedonia’s army,” Memnon said, a measure of disbelief in his voice, “with tribal levies and inexperienced soldiers?”

“No.” Spithridates’ eyes narrowed. “I mean to engage it with the cream of Asia’s cavalry. Our horsemen outnumber theirs, Rhodian. If we make this a fight between cavalry corps, how can we not grind this whelp’s ponymounted hillmen into dust?”

“Do you understand the threat you’re facing?” Memnon replied. “I have seen the Macedonian army in action, gentlemen, in Thrace. It doesn’t fight as you think it should. Have you ever stopped to wonder why Philip outfitted his phalanx with the sixteen-foot
sarissa,
surely the most unwieldy weapon ever devised? No? Because of its ability to hold an enemy at bay. It is the anvil to his cavalry’s hammer. Philip trained these elements to fight in unison, not as separate arms. The phalanx holds a foe immobile while wedges of Companions slice through their ranks. In battle after battle I’ve seen it used to the same grisly effect. Our levies, our cavalry, will not fare any better!” Memnon slapped the map table with the flat of his palm, emphasizing his words. Words lost on the Persians. He read defiance in their sneers, their flared nostrils. They would listen to no other options.

Memnon shook his head in resignation. “As you wish, my lords. If open confrontation is the course you choose, my best advice would be to select ground that can be held against infantry and cavalry, a place where the cohesion of their phalanx would be in jeopardy.”

The satraps stared at the map, the Troad and Hellespontine Phrygia delineated on papyrus in fine black ink, major towns and roads marked in red. Where? Where could they face the Macedonians and have the advantage of position?

“A riverbank,” Pharnabazus said suddenly, breaking their silence. He gestured to a spot on the map a day’s travel from Zeleia. “This is the plain of Adrasteia—horse country, well-watered by streams and small rivers flowing from Mount Ida to Propontis. Most are wide and shallow, though swift, but this one, the Granicus, has an eastern bank that rises to the height of a man over the riverbed.”

“I know this place,” Arsites said, nodding to Pharnabazus. “It is perhaps eighty feet across, thigh-deep in places, with a bed of mud, clay, and loose rock. The western bank has little or no elevation.”

“And,” Pharnabazus added, “it is on the road to Dascylium. Alexander will have to attack if he hopes to dislodge us, thus breaking Philip’s cardinal rule of warfare—make your enemy come to you.”

“Praise Mithras!” Rhosaces thumped Pharnabazus on the back. “The son of Artabazus has hit upon something! An excellent plan!”

“What say the rest of you?” Spithridates said. One by one, the satraps voiced their assent. Finally, the Iranian lord raised an eyebrow at Memnon. “Rhodian?”

Memnon glanced from man to man then back to the map, chewing his lip. “I strenuously urge you to reconsider this,” he said. “Nevertheless, Pharnabazus is right. It’s perfect ground for the confrontation you desire.” He placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

Spithridates nodded; he leaned over the table, his weight resting on his balled fists. “Granicus it is, then. And it must be decisive, brothers. Decisive. I do not doubt that the Great King will be generous to the man who brings him the head of Philip’s son!”

 

S
UNSET TURNED THE RUSHING WATERS OF THE
G
RANICUS
R
IVER TO BLOOD.
Memnon crouched on the high bank and contemplated an approaching rider. The horseman, a Persian by his dress, forded the river and guided his mount up the treacherous eastern bank. Watching his struggle, Memnon knew Pharnabazus had been right. This river, properly held, would be the rampart upon which Alexander’s soldiers shattered themselves.

“But it must be properly held,” the Rhodian muttered, rising. And therein lay the problem: the satraps had no conception of what was needed to properly hold the Granicus against Alexander. “Put infantry and missile troops in the center,” Memnon had told Spithridates that very day, as they surveyed the ground from horseback. “Put strong contingents of cavalry on both flanks and another to the rear of the infantry, in reserve. Let Alexander exhaust himself on our spears, then rake in from the flanks and finish him!”

The satrap, though, had disagreed with him. Honor demanded he meet Alexander’s threat of cavalry with his own. “We will line the bank with horsemen,” Spithridates said, nodding as he imagined ranks of armored riders glittering in the sun, heir horses pawing the ground in anticipation, the breeze snapping their bright pennons. “The infantry can have our leavings.”

In the end, Memnon saw his counsel tossed aside yet again. In the order of battle he would anchor the Persian left with the horsemen of the Troad; beside him would be Arsamenes and the half-wild Cilician cavalry. Arsites would come next at the head of the riders of Paphlagonia, a country on the southern coast of the Euxine Sea, their war-gear of the finest manufacture, from iron-rich Sinope. Spithridates would hold the next position with the Hyrkanians of the Caicus Valley—the same Hyrkanians who had helped defeat Artabazus nearly two decades ago—and the white-cloaked Lydian lancers; Rhosaces would be on his brother’s flank with a hodge-podge of Ionians, mercenaries for the most part, and in Memnon’s reckoning the weakest of the cavalry contingents. Mithrobarzanes and Rheomithres would anchor the right with the Bactrian and Median troops, respectively—more military settlers brought west in the early days of the empire, and who maintained their cultural identities despite the passage of two centuries.

Omares, at Memnon’s recommendation, would command the infantry in reserve, on a hillock some four hundred yards to the rear. All told, ten thousand horsemen would comprise the Persian front, which would stretch in an unbroken line for over a mile.

Memnon prayed it would be enough.

The Rhodian walked to where the Persian horseman waited, attended by one of the
kardakes
who held the reins of his mount. The disheveled and mud-spattered soldier was a scout. In the gloom Memnon could not tell whose man he was.

“What did you find?” he asked.

The scout saluted. “The Macedonians are near. They will be here tomorrow, by midmorning at the earliest.”

“Could you get close enough to discern their forces?”

The man shook his head. “They had a screen of light horse well forward of their main column.”

“Very good.” Memnon gestured to the
kardakes.
“Escort him to Lord Spithridates, and see that he gets food and wine. Draw them from my own stores.”

The scout bowed at the waist. “Thank you, my lord.”