Memnon (47 page)

Memnon hung back from the fighting. He focused his attention on the heart of the camp, on where the inevitable counterattack would originate. Soon, Alexander would realize the limit of this sortie and mobilize his entire corps. His officers would rein in their men, their iron discipline would reassert itself, and they would seek to push the Persians back. Better yet, the Companions would try to cut off their retreat, reach the Mylasa Gate before it could be closed. Memnon could not allow it. His men had one more minute before he ordered their withdrawal.

A stack of fodder blazed to his left. Through the rolling smoke Memnon saw enemy cavalry massing. “Back to the city! Trumpeter, sound the retreat!” The order echoed above the din, its long last note trailing off.

His men didn’t tarry. With a parting shot, a last spear thrust, they disengaged and turned for home. Nor was it a disorganized retreat with troops running pell-mell for Halicarnassus. They acted like men aware they were in sight of their fellows—brothers, friends, and lovers watched from the walls and their scrutiny lent the soldiers on the plain an insurmountable valor.

Macedonians pounded after them, mounted and on foot, howling with rage. Twice, their proximity forced Memnon to turn and hold them at bay. His archers slaughtered their horses, his slingers went after their infantry, and his hoplites waited in close formation to skewer any who penetrated that cordon of bloodshed.

As they neared the Mylasa Gate, archers on the battlements rained death on their pursuers. Horses screamed, their dusty flanks gashed by iron-barbed shafts. Soldiers skidded to a halt and sought cover behind their shields as their prey made good their escape.

Persian horsemen clattered over the bridge, followed by the light troops. Hoplites brought up the rear. Inside, raucous cheers and shouts of victory could be heard. Memnon was the last man to cross back into Halicarnassus. He stopped in the middle of the bridge, turned. Out of range of Persian arrows a lone Macedonian horseman watched him. There was no mistaking the intensity of his gaze, or the red horsehair crest and white kestrel feathers adorning his helmet. Alexander’s men trudged past him, their eyes averted, faces downcast with the shame of being outfoxed. They had failed their king and knew it.

Memnon could hear the soldiers of Halicarnassus chanting his name. The Rhodian sketched an exaggerated bow to his enemy, filling the gesture with every ounce of scorn and mockery he could summon. It said to the young king: “You are but a boy playing at war; I am a soldier.” And with a calculated shake of his head, Memnon crossed beneath the Mylasa Gate to the adulation of his men.

Now we’ll see how well Alexander’s learned his father’s lesson on the folly of judgment-clouding anger.

 

B
Y MIDNIGHT
M
EMNON KNEW THE COST OF THAT FIRST SORTIE
. E
IGHTEEN
of his men were slain, another thirty-eight wounded. Of the wounded, twelve would likely never recover; the rest received only minor injuries. The Rhodian ordered the names of the dead be inscribed on a marble
stele
and enshrined in the temple of Zeus Polias.

“How many men did Alexander lose, you think?” Pharnabazus asked. The Persian brought Memnon the latest reports from sentries stationed at the Mylasa Gate—great bonfires blazed on the edge of the Macedonian camp, now bristling with pickets, a sign of their heightened vigilance.

“Twice our casualties, perhaps more,” Memnon replied. He stripped off his armor and sat on the edge of his narrow cot, in a room he commandeered at the rear of Zeus’s temple atop the acropolis. A faint breeze stirred the papyrus scraps on his makeshift desk.

“When do we go again? The men are ready for another—”

The Rhodian held up a hand, forestalling his nephew’s exuberance. “Patience, Pharnabazus. Now we wait, gauge Alexander’s response. Go take your rest. Tomorrow is going to be another long day.” Grudgingly, Pharnabazus agreed. He left Memnon stretched out on his cot.

An hour later, the Rhodian exhaled and sat up. He could not sleep. The scar on his right shoulder ached and the pain triggered memories of a golden mist, of a young-old voice:
a messenger, some call me.
Nor could he keep himself from brooding over his separation from Barsine. Never had they faced such a long parting; in the quiet dark he could not rest for the questions that thundered through his mind:
Where is she? Is she safe? How are the girls?
Memnon longed for the gift of flight, for the winged sandals of Hermes, so that he might be at Alexander’s throat by day at Barsine’s side by night.

Memnon rose and went to his desk—a lofty term for five old planks spiked to an uneven trestle. A sheet of papyrus spread out before him, its frayed corners weighted down with lead bullets. On it, he was in the process of recreating from memory the map Parmenion used on his campaigns in Thrace and Macedonia. Near it sat a stylus and a waxed writing board full of notes on what an invasion of Macedonia would entail—what spies would he need and where, what allies could he rely on, how much bullion would be required to buy off Alexander’s Greek troops …

He picked up the writing board, read its contents again, and dropped it back onto the desk. Tonight, not even the minutiae of strategic planning offered Memnon solace. He needed air. Perhaps a turn along the walls would clear his mind. Barefoot and wearing only a
zoma,
the short kilt soldiers wore under their armor, Memnon settled a cloak about his shoulders and caught up his sheathed sword.

From the rear of Zeus’s temple, Memnon crossed to the stairs and ascended to the battlements of the acropolis walls. Here, a sea breeze tugged at his cloak. To the east, acrid smoke yet rose from the Macedonian funeral pyres; staring at the greasy orange glow, the Rhodian wondered at Alexander’s state of mind. Had he succeeded in goading the young king? Would he make a potentially deadly mistake out of anger? Memnon’s instincts told him he would not. Alexander was Philip’s son through and through; he would act when the time was right—likely launching his assault in a day or two.
Pity,
Memnon thought,
I had such hopes for his temper.

Memnon walked the battlements under cold and distant stars. In his mind’s eye he watched the Macedonian attack unfold, a spectral tragedy conjured from dust and starlight—a ghostly
Iliad
bereft of immortal heroes. In the chirp of crickets he could hear the snap of enemy bowstrings and the crash of siege engines as they provided cover for the sappers struggling to fill sections of the dry moat. In his own heartbeat he heard the echo of rams battering at the walls’ foundations. He heard his own voice, faint, calling a rain of death down on the besiegers’ heads.

Shouts and screams, the clash of iron, the crunch of bone mixed with strains of the
paean
to Ares drifted on the night breeze; already, Memnon could feel the War God’s presence at his shoulder, as familiar as that of a brother or a trusted companion. The sensation raised gooseflesh on his arms as he continued walking.

Reaching a part of the wall where the towers were farthest apart, where the contour of the terrain provided respite from the glow of distant fires, Memnon stopped. He frowned as a noise intruded on his thoughts. No aural phantom this, but the very real clink of metal on stone, followed by the hiss of an exhaled warning. The Rhodian dropped to a crouch. Half a dozen paces ahead of him, a figure clad in dark clothing and moving with exaggerated care crept up the stairs from the base of the wall, a rope trailing from his waist. Another figure followed.

“Keep down so the sentries don’t see you,” a voice whispered. “You positive you know what you’re doing?”

Memnon saw the first man give a sharp jerk of his head. “Make sure you get your part done. You and the others seize control of the gate and get it open. Don’t want the Macks to think I’m setting them up.”

Memnon ground his teeth in rage. Traitorous bastards! Through his anger, Memnon felt a sense of relief that these weren’t his men. They were locals, citizens of Halicarnassus most likely. No matter. Greek or Carian … their perfidy stopped here.

Memnon sprang, exploding from the shadows in a swirl of cloth. The man with the rope tied about his midsection saw him first. His eyes widened; he might have bellowed a warning had Memnon’s callused fist not cracked against his jaw, knocking his head into the cold stone of the embrasure. The blow felled him like a sapling in a squall.

His companion turned, hand clawing for the knife at his belt. Memnon gave him no opportunity to use it. In one fluid motion, the fingers of the Rhodian’s right hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword; he jerked it clear of the sheath, driving the weapon’s pommel into the would-be traitor’s nose with a satisfying crunch. The fellow howled, his hands flying to his face. Blood from a shattered nose spurted between his fingers. None too gently, Memnon shoved him against the battlement and leveled the point of his sword at him.

“Guards!” Memnon roared. “Traitors at the wall!”

The rope went slack; he heard the desperate footfalls of men retreating into the night. The first soldiers to reach him recognized the sharp crack of their commander’s voice. “There were others! Search the base of the wall and the surrounding houses! Find them! Bind these fools with their own rope! Go!”

A soldier brought a lantern. By its thin light, Memnon paced while his men trussed up the two Carians like suckling pigs. The one with the broken nose wept and blubbered about his innocence, “A v-victim of ill f-fortune!” he said.

“Ill fortune?” Memnon replied. “Stupidity breeds ill fortune!”

“But, my lord! I—”

At a gesture from Memnon, a soldier stepped in and planted his sandaled foot in the man’s belly. The
whoof
of air silenced his protestations, if not his sobs.

Amid the chaos Pharnabazus arrived from the acropolis with another squad. The Persian had been awoken from a deep sleep; his hair hung in disarray about his shoulders and he wore wrinkled trousers and an open robe. He clutched a naked saber in his fist. “Uncle! What goes?”

“We have traitors in our midst, Pharnabazus!” Memnon said. “Citizens who’d rather side with our enemy! Deploy your men and double the guard at every gate and on every tower! I want you to organize walking patrols atop the wall and along its base! Arrest any civilian who approaches wall or gate, no exceptions!”

“What about these two?”

Memnon looked down at his captives, one still unconscious, the other trying not to choke on his own blood. “Take them to the harbor and have Autophradates hold them in the belly of his ship. I want them questioned. If they tell me everything I want to know, perhaps they’ll have a brighter future than will their cronies who escaped. Those men are to be executed on the spot.”

“As you wish.” Pharnabazus’s squad hoisted the captives and made for the harbor, leaving Memnon alone again atop the wall.

No, not alone,
he thought, feeling the familiar fury of the War God at his side.
Never alone.

 

F
IRST LIGHT BROUGHT MARKED CHANGES TO THE STREETS OF
H
ALICARNASSUS.
On Memnon’s orders, soldiers rounded up the eldest sons of the town’s most prominent citizens, the heirs of merchant princes and tradesmen of renown, of orators and politicians. From young men in their thirties to babes in their mother’s arms, they were dragged from their houses, from their beds, herded to the harbor and packed aboard ships bound for Cos. Their aggrieved fathers came to the acropolis demanding answers.

Memnon met them on the steps of the temple of Zeus Polias. Haggard from little sleep, nevertheless the Rhodian cut a magnificent figure in full armor, his cloak billowing in the warm breeze that presaged another cruelly hot day. Orontobates, in the robes of his satrapal office, stood in attendance as did Ephialtes and Amyntas, both men glittering in panoplies of war. Still, the voices of three dozen men rose in anger.

“Why have you done this?”

“Where have you taken our sons?”

“There are men among you who think it wise to take an interest in my business,” Memnon said, “who think it best to welcome Alexander into the city with open arms … by opening my gates to him! As you have inserted yourselves where you are neither needed nor wanted, I have decided to return the favor! Your sons are now my property!” A hush fell over the assembled men. Memnon had not used the word ‘guest’ or even ‘hostage,’ rather a word whose connotations meant ‘slavery.’ They stared at the Rhodian, aghast. “They will be well cared for, but their continued existence depends wholly on your behavior! Should one man here cross me—just one!—then all of your sons will suffer for it!” Memnon let that promise sink in.