Memnon (48 page)

“When … when will they be returned to us?” asked Scopas, one of the sculptors working on the Mausoleum, whose eldest son was also his chief apprentice.

“When I am sufficiently convinced you and your comrades no longer harbor Macedonian sympathies,” Memnon said. “Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me I have business to attend to.”

From the back of the group he heard a shrill voice. “This is outrageous! I …”

The protestor, though, was not allowed to continue—his fellows silenced him with curses, punches, and kicks.

Memnon acknowledged their effort. “You learn swiftly. That bodes well for your children’s future. Good day, gentlemen.”

As they left, their anger replaced by fear, Memnon turned to Orontobates. “I leave it to you to assign men to watch them. Report the slightest instance of grumbling.”

The satrap nodded. “Will you rest and take some refreshment before you continue?”

“Perhaps later. I have business with the fleet that cannot wait,” the Rhodian replied. “Send word if there’s any change.”

Descending from the acropolis, Memnon made his way through the dusty streets to the harbor. A skiff waited to row him out to Autophradates’ flagship
Ganymeda,
a Cypriote trireme built on a Phoenician-style hull. The sailors going about their morning duties were a mixed complement of Greeks and Phoenicians, even a pair of whip-lean Egyptians, men chosen for their skill at seafaring from among the thousands of souls who comprised the Persian armada. A rope ladder was lowered as the skiff bumped
Ganymeda
s hull; Memnon ascended and met Autophradates at the railing.

“Have our prisoners given you anything of use?” Memnon asked.

The Persian shook his head. “They gave us the names of other sympathizers. Otherwise, nothing we were not already aware of. I believe their use is at an end.”

Grimly, Memnon gestured for Autophradates to lead the way. Into the belly of the ship they went, past the superstructure that secured the benches of the topmost rowers to the hull and into the bilges beneath the lowest bank of oars, a trio of leather-armored marines following in their wake. What light filtered down through the forest of wooden support beams gave the salt-heavy air of the bilges a grayish cast. The two men, naked with their hands cruelly bound, lay on their bellies in the rising bilge water. When their heads drooped, a fourth marine prodded them with the curve of a boathook.

“Get them up,” Autophradates barked. “On their knees.” The marines wrestled the shivering Carians upright, looping lengths of knotted rope about their necks to keep them from sagging. Both men bore the welts and bruises of a judicious beating on top of the injuries inflicted by Memnon.

“So these are the dogs who sought to betray me,” Memnon said. Hard-eyed, he stared at each man like they were offal he needed scraped from his sandals. “Tell me, what makes you think Alexander would be a more clement ruler than the Great King? Has he promised you freedom? Autonomy? Has he declared you exempt from the burden of tribute? I think not, on all counts. Why, then? Speak up!”

“W-We … thought …”

Memnon lashed out, cracking the back of his hand across the would-be traitor’s cheek. “You thought? What did you think? Speak up, damn you!”

“Gold!” the other fellow, the one whose nose Memnon broke the night before, stammered. “W-We thought Alexander w-would give us g-gold!”

“Greed,” Memnon said, his nostrils flaring. He shook his head. “Base and petty greed. A political motive I could at least respect; even vengeance is permissible in the eyes of the gods. Not so greed.” He turned to Autophradates. “They seek gold. Have you any?” The Persian produced a pair of coins, golden
darics
from the royal mint at Persepolis in the heart of the empire, each worth a month’s wages to a Greek. He handed them to Memnon, who held one of the coins up before the first captive’s eyes. “Good yellow gold. Open your mouth.”

The Carian blinked rapidly, sweat popping from his brow. He glanced at his companion and saw his own fear reflected.

“Open your mouth!” Memnon roared. The man flinched; trembling, his jaw inched open. Savagely, Memnon rammed the coin between his teeth. “For the ferryman, you son of a bitch!”

At Memnon’s gesture, the marine at the would-be traitor’s back put his knee into the fellow’s spine for leverage, and jerked taut the rope. Corded muscle bulged along the marine’s arms. His victim thrashed, his bound hands clawing at nothing. Gold gleamed amid splintered teeth as he sought to draw breath; his eyes pleaded with Memnon, but the Rhodian’s features remained impassive, unmoved by the death throes of a man who would have betrayed him to his enemy. The marine gave a final wrench of his shoulders and was rewarded by the wet snap of vertebrae. He dropped the dead man into the bilge water at Memnon’s feet. Nodding, the Rhodian’s attention shifted to the remaining man.

“M-Mercy! I b-beg you!”

Memnon raised his hand; the coin flashed in a stray shaft of light. There would be no mercy …

“Throw their bodies overboard,” Memnon said as the last Carian’s corpse crumpled beside that of his companion. “Send soldiers to arrest their confederates. We’ll execute them in the agora. I’ve made my case with the aristocracy; now, I want the common people of Halicarnassus to understand I will brook no betrayal.”

“I will see to it myself,” Autophradates said. Leaving the marines to dispose of the bodies, Memnon and the Persian retraced their steps from the bilges. On deck, a sea breeze alleviated the rising heat. Autophradates, staring at the rising terraces of Halicarnassus, scratched his short beard, his forehead creasing. Memnon had known him long enough to recognize a look of worry.

“What is it?”

“Have you apprehended Alexander’s strategy? He is cutting us off from our naval harbors on the mainland—Assos, Ephesus, Miletus, and now Halicarnassus. If this city falls we will lose our ability to operate along the Aegean coast for any length of time.”

“Then we will find new harbors, my friend.”

“Where? The islands?”

Memnon heard a splash from the stern, then another; in low voices, the marines wagered on which body would lure the sharks first. “Macedonia,” he said finally. Autophradates fell silent. Memnon reckoned the Persian doubted what he had just heard. “No, your ears are not playing tricks on you.”

“A daring plan,” Autophradates said. “How—”

Memnon stifled his curiosity with a raised hand. “In due time. Can I confide something in you, and trust that it will go no further?”

“Of course,” the Persian replied. “I swear to you, on pain of death, that what you say to me will never leave my lips.”

Memnon nodded and inclined his head toward the city. “Halicarnassus isn’t going to fall. No, it’s going to be sold to Alexander. I’ve placed a high price on those walls and the only coin I’ll accept is Macedonian blood. When the boy has met my fee, when I can’t wring another bloody drop from him, I will give him Halicarnassus in return—and willingly. For too long I’ve fought on Alexander’s terms. It’s time for him to fight on mine.”

“My lord,” Autophradates said, his voice rising little above a whisper, “the Great King was right to put his trust in you.”

“We’ll see.” Before he clambered down into the skiff for his return to shore, Memnon leaned in close to the Persian admiral. “It is the easiest thing under heaven to form a plan. Only when you execute it will you begin to see where you’ve gone wrong. In the end, I fear this war will boil down to luck—mine versus Alexander’s.”

“I pray yours will be the stronger.”

“So do I, Autophradates,” Memnon said, climbing down the ladder. “So do I.”

23

 

T
HAT NIGHT
, H
ALICARNASSUS SLEPT UNEASILY BEHIND WALLS OF STONE
and fear, its aristocracy haunted by the fate of their children, its commoners by the fate of the six men hanged in the agora. Their corpses yet dangled from gibbets as reminders of Lord Memnon’s resolve to defend the empire at all costs. The moneylender in his mansion, the blacksmith in his foundry, the cripple in his hovel, all looked out their doors this sleepless night, beheld the shining pyramid atop the Mausoleum, and wished for a return to the halcyon days of King Mausolus and his Queen. They were trapped, the citizens of Halicarnassus, between the hammer of Macedonia and the anvil of Persia. Trapped, and unable to fight back …

 

U
NEASY DESCRIBED
M
EMNON’S SLEEP, AS WELL, HIS DREAMS HAUNTED BY
the young-old man with hair of silver and gold. The memory of his voice sent tendrils of pain lancing through the Rhodian’s scarred shoulder.
The
Moirai,
the Fates, ration human existence.
Memnon thrashed, sweat beading his forehead.
They have rationed your existence, son of Rhodes. I have seen the weave of your life, its warp and weft; I have seen its colors and its textures.
The Rhodian’s hands clawed at the material of his cloak, which he used as a blanket.
And I have seen its end. The blade of Atropos, Memnon … the blade drifts closer with the passage of mortal years. Would you like to know the hour of your death? Come … let me show you.”
A phantom touch on Memnon’s shoulder wrenched a gasp from him. “No!”

The Rhodian bolted upright. Pharnabazus stumbled back from the edge of his cot, alarmed by the rage in his uncle’s voice. A clay lamp burned on Memnon’s desk; in its dim light, Pharnabazus marked well the trembling of Memnon’s limbs, his rapid breathing, and the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.

“What … what is it, Pharnabazus?”

“There’s something afoot, Uncle. I believe Alexander’s preparing his men to attack this morning.”

Memnon nodded, ran his hand through his hair. “Fine. I’ll meet you on the battlements.”

“Are you all right, Uncle?”

“I’m tired, Pharnabazus. Nothing more.” Rising, Memnon clapped the Persian on the shoulder. “Go ahead. I’ll be along in a moment.”

Concern etched Pharnabazus’s brow, but he did as Memnon asked; after a moment, the Rhodian stood alone in his small room. His armor hung from a wooden rack in the corner. In the sheen of bronze, Memnon imagined he saw the distorted reflection of a young-old face.
Would you like to know the hour of your death?

“No,” he whispered. “No.”

 

M
EMNON, BUCKLING THE LAST STRAP OF HIS BREASTPLATE, ASCENDED THE
acropolis wall as the rising sun set fire to the eastern horizon. Sparrows whirled in the sky above, their voices competing with the plaintive cries of gulls hovering over the forest of masts in the harbor. Though cloaked still in gray shadow, he could tell the valleys surrounding Halicarnassus seethed with men—half-glimpsed figures of bronze and iron like the shades of dead warriors before the cold throne of Hades. The Rhodian could hear their voices, the clatter of their harness. He could hear the windlasses creaking on Alexander’s siege machines, the rattle of iron bolts and stone missiles.

“They are coming,” Pharnabazus said.

Memnon nodded, glanced up and down the battlements. “Rouse the tower garrisons, but quietly. Let Alexander make the first move, not react to our alarms. Send word to Thymondas and Amyntas to bring their archers to the parapet. Have runners dispatched to Salmacis and Arconessus. We have little time, Pharnabazus. Go!”

Memnon would send no heralds across the no-man’s land between Halicarnassus’s walls and Alexander’s battle lines to seek indulgences, to buy time, or to offer diplomatic solutions; no embassies from the city would be allowed past the gates. He knew Alexander’s intentions as clearly as the young king knew his. Neither would insult the other with wasted parleys and empty rhetoric.

Which part of the wall will he attack first?
Memnon scanned his own defenses, wondering what weaknesses Alexander had detected. Would he assault the gates? Would he use logs to form makeshift bridges in order to bring ram crews to bear on the stout timbers of the Mylasa Gate? Or would he fill in sections of the dry moat, paving the way for the rolling towers he used at Miletus? In truth, he reckoned it made no difference to the men freshly roused from sleep and filing into position atop the parapet. The archers and slingers, spearmen and javelineers would engage the Macedonian regardless of where he chose to launch his attack.

“Don’t wait for my order,” Memnon said as he walked among his men. “Loose as soon as you have a clear target. Keep pressure on them, but don’t get reckless. Remember—they have archers, as well.”

“What say the gods, my lord?” one of his
kardakes
asked, a pale young man who gripped his bow white-knuckle tight.

“What say the gods?” Memnon replied, grasping the young man’s upper arm. “They say we are thrice-blessed and today will be a day of slaughter and red ruin for the Macedonians! Make ready!” His words cheered those men in earshot; confidence spread from man to man, from tower to tower. Soldiers shrugged off their fear and trepidation. They waited with arrows nocked, sling bullets pouched, javelins selected. Memnon drew his sword.

The sun crested the hills, flooding the vale of Halicarnassus with light.

Alexander’s point of assault became evident by the thousands of Macedonians massing just out of bowshot northeast of the acropolis, at a spot between the city’s main gate, the monumental Tripylon (so called for its three protective towers), and the Horn, the northernmost extremity of Halicarnassus. At the Horn, the wall turned sharply south and began its descent down the hillside to the Mylasa Gate and the harbor fortress of Arconessus. The Macedonians carried baskets of fill dirt—meaning Alexander intended to bring his towers to bear—and shield-bearers moved among them to provide cover as best they could.

Behind the mass of troops the Rhodian spotted Alexander’s siege train—another legacy of Philip’s. Dozens of
katapeltoi
were trained on the wall near the Horn, each machine capable of discharging a six-foot dart of wood and iron or a stone the size of a large stew pot. Beyond them, four siege towers waited. These were fifty-foot-high frames of timber covered with planking and hide and mounted on reinforced wagon wheels. Memnon had seen such monstrosities before. Each had three levels—the lowest sported a suspended battering ram; the second and third levels were slitted for archers. With the amount of manpower he could draw upon, Memnon reckoned it would take Alexander no more than two days to fill in enough of the moat; then, the towers could be rolled into position. The Rhodian resolved to make it a costly two days.

From the Macedonian lines a
salpinx
wailed. In response, the
katapeltoi
bucked as engineers discharged them. Seconds later Memnon heard the
choonk
of horizontal torsion bars, like giant bow-staves, striking the wooden frames. Soldiers ducked down behind the battlements as several darts hissed overhead; others struck below the parapet, splintering against the dressed stone of the wall. A cheer erupted as the archers stood and loosed a volley at the Macedonians advancing on the dry moat. A hail of iron-heads scythed through the front ranks, cracking on shields and piercing flesh.

And so the battle began.

It quickly became a duel between archers, with clouds of arrows darkening the sky from both directions. The Macedonians fought to clear the battlements and give their comrades time to work on the ditch. Arrows and darts raked the walls. Rocks flung by the siege engines were too soft to damage the granite of Halicarnassus’s defenses, but on impact the stones shattered into razored shards capable of punching through a shield’s bronze facing and tough oak chassis. A sharp crack, an explosion of dust, bodies falling, and runnels of blood marked each strike. Horrific screams rippled from the wounded.

Memnon directed his men’s rage. From the Tripylon’s three sturdy towers and from the Horn, he ordered his archers to rain shafts down on the center of the Macedonian line; to his slingers he gave the more nerve-wracking task of targeting the enemy archers. They worked in pairs, ranging up and down the battlements in search of their prey. Taking turns, one acted as lookout while the other, exposing his body to Macedonian missiles, stood and loosed. More times than not their lead bullets found their mark. On occasion, though, the Rhodian saw his soldiers’ daring repaid in blood. One pair, seconds after killing a man, were literally ripped apart when a
katapeltes
stone struck the embrasure next to them. Debris from the same stone tore a jagged gash across a nearby archer’s eyes. He rose, clutching his mangled face, and stumbled into the path of a whistling dart. The oversized arrow transfixed his body, knocking him from the parapet and into the growing ruin of stone, wood, and flesh inside the wall.

Each death caused redoubled effort among the living. Memnon and a squad of hoplites, better protected by their heavier armor, braved the hail of stone and iron to drag the wounded to safety and replenish empty quivers.

“Keep up the pressure!” Memnon roared. “Don’t let the bastards draw breath!”

By midday, Pharnabazus brought news of similar attacks against the Mylasa Gate and its twin in the western wall of the city, called the Myndus Gate, though neither as ferocious as the one at the Horn.

“The others are feints,” Memnon said. “Meant to draw men from the center to reinforce our flanks. It’s a tactic Alexander has some fondness for.”

“He used it at the Granicus.”

“To good effect,” Memnon said. Rock dust plastered his face, his hair, mixing with sweat and blood from the injured to create a ghastly mask. The Persian handed him a skin of water. He sucked the warm liquid down, and then held the stream over his head, sluicing away the accumulated grime. “We need to double the casualties we’re inflicting on him.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Send word to Autophradates. Have him ransack the fleet, the harbor, the warehouses, any place he can think to look, and bring me every drop of bitumen he can find in Halicarnassus. While he’s doing that, you loot the potters’ workshops for clay jugs.”

Pharnabazus grinned. “Incendiaries?”

“Crude, but effective,” Memnon said. Pharnabazus nodded and rushed off. The Rhodian returned to the thick of the assault, calling for the archers to keep low while water-bearers passed out their skins.

The day wore on. Bowstrings and staves snapped from relentless use. Arrows ran low; while runners fetched more from the fleet, archers had only to stoop and seize spent shafts off the bloody parapet—yours or theirs, it did not matter. Iron warheads knew nothing of loyalty.

At the base of the wall, Macedonian bodies tumbled into the moat … that portion no longer dry thanks to the fluids pouring from their pierced and riven corpses. Twice, Memnon spotted Alexander himself in the wrack, surrounded by a guard of shield-bearers, exhorting his men to greater effort. The Rhodian felt a grudging sense of admiration for the young king, as one man who leads by example to another.

By the time Pharnabazus returned the sun was beginning its descent into the West. “The incendiaries are ready, Uncle,” the Persian said. “Over two hundred jars, each filled with a mix of bitumen and lamp oil. And so you know, when we did not take the bait Alexander ordered his men back from the Mylasa and Myndus Gates. Feints, as you said.”

“Our casualties?”

“Minimal,” Pharnabazus replied. “As were his.”

Memnon scowled. “Let’s see if we cannot compel him to pull back from the Horn, as well. Bring up the incendiaries.” The Rhodian started to turn away.

“There is more news, Uncle. Patron has returned from Crete, and he’s brought a guest.”

Memnon’s head snapped around. “Patron’s returned? Thank Poseidon! Where is he? Who is this guest he’s brought?”