Alexander (Vol. 2) (24 page)

Another orderly arrived: ‘Sire! They have come down over the top of the walls – thousands of them. They used ropes and fishing nets! They’re on us, Sire!’

‘Don’t spare the horses!’ ordered Alexander. ‘Quickly . . . quickly!’ and he spurred Bucephalas on towards the rearguard of his men and saw there thousands of Persian soldiers attacking from the right, letting loose great showers of arrows and javelins. The trumpets rang out again, from the left this time.

‘The Mylasa Gate!’ shouted Seleucus. ‘Alexander, look! It’s another sortie!’

‘Keep the side gate covered!’ shouted the Black. ‘Careful, damn you! Leonnatus! Leonnatus! Over on that side! Watch out for your flank!’

Leonnatus turned with his
pezhetairoi
and found himself facing the mercenary infantry, led by the giant Ephialtes, wielding a bronze shield with a fiery-eyed gorgon which had serpents for hair, shouting, ‘Forward! Forward! Now is the time! Let’s finish them all off!’

The King rode right up to the front line, where the Persian assault troops had joined forces with Ephialtes’s Greek mercenaries and were attacking furiously, while the catapults on the bastion were now in action with long, arching shots.

Under a fearful rain of missiles, the Macedonians began to break up and the Greek mercenaries started moving forward, pushing them back with their shields. Alexander, who at that moment was off on the left flank, drove Bucephalas into the midst of the fighting; he brandished his double-bladed axe and shouted wildly to encourage his men. An enormous stone fell not far from him, crushing one of his men like an insect. Blood spurted all over Bucephalas’s flanks and the horse reared up, neighing loudly.

The King tried in vain to push towards the centre, where his soldiers were taking the brunt of the enemy initiative, but the fighting there before him and the rain of stones from the catapults blocked his way and all his energies simply went into stemming the tide of enemy soldiers which flowed from the Mylasa Gate.

The Black saw Ephialtes come forward like a wild fury and wedge himself and his men into the Macedonian centre, which continued to lose ground. The young
pezhetairoi
gave way in front of the frighteningly compact drive of the mercenaries. Only Perdiccas, out on the extreme left of the line-up, held his ground. But the situation was deteriorating. From the top of the bastion tower the catapults began to fire unusual projectiles – amphorae full of pitch and bitumen which landed at the base of the Macedonian assault towers, spreading their contents over the ground. Immediately afterwards, up on the walls, the Persian archers appeared, letting loose a cluster of fire arrows. The fire roared as it spread and enveloped the engines, transforming them into colossal torches.

Perdiccas then turned command over to his lieutenant and climbed up through the flames to the first platform, where sheer terror had driven his men to abandon their battering-ram which swung freely in its supports.

‘Back to your positions!’ he shouted. ‘Resume your positions! The walls are about to collapse. Come on, one last blow!’ He threw his shield to the ground and grabbed a handle of the battering-ram himself, while tongues of flame licked threateningly through the cracks in the flooring.

Initially the men simply watched on in amazement, astonished by his superhuman courage and then, one by one, they returned to their positions and resumed their task of driving the battering-ram into the walls, shouting to overcome the terror and the unbearable heat of the flames. The great iron head, driven on by the desperation of hundreds of arms, regained impetus and crashed noisily against the walls. The enormous blocks, already loosened, started to move, then one or two actually fell down in a cloud of smoke and dust. Further blows opened up a wide breach and the enormous collapse that resulted helped to suffocate the fire.

At the centre of the Macedonian line, however, the retreat of the
pezhetairoi
was about to become a rout under the unstoppable drive of Ephialtes. Then the Black shouted out: ‘Leonnatus, stop him!’ Hearing his words, Leonnatus cleared his way through the enemy ranks with a series of wild axe blows and found himself facing Ephialtes.

The two colossi stood there breathless, both of them unrecognizable in their ordeal. They were both bleeding from many wounds and their bodies glistened with sweat like statues in the rain.

Alexander turned around and saw his father’s veterans motionless in the shadow of the olive trees, unfazed and rested under the impassive gaze of Parmenion. He shouted: ‘Trumpet, call up the reserves!’ It really was their last chance; the rough, rocky ground was littered with stones and made it impossible for the cavalry to charge.

Parmenion heard the trumpet blast, insistent and full of anguish, calling him to lead his men into battle: ‘Veterans, for King Philip and for King Alexander, forward!’ And suddenly the sound of thunder tore through the leaden air – the thunder of Chaeronaea!

The enormous drum, hidden among the olive trees, made itself heard and the powerful phalanx started moving forward, spears erect, like some frightful porcupine, in a rhythmic march, shouting at each step: ‘
Alalalài! Alalalài!
’

Alexander, who had struggled almost as far as the centre, ordered Leonnatus’s
pezhetairoi
to open up on the flanks to let the veterans through, and indeed they rushed in like an avalanche against Memnon’s mercenaries, who were exhausted by now. Leonnatus in the meantime was fighting like a lion against his gigantic adversary and the deafening clangs of their blows travelled out over the plain, echoes of a titanic clash.

Leonnatus had plenty of experience as a wrestler and he pulled a feint on Ephialtes, immediately forcing him down on to one knee. In an instant the Macedonian drew himself up with both feet planted firmly and let fly with a tremendous backhand blow from his axe into the giant’s back, bringing him firmly to the ground.

As the sun set the soldiers continued fighting, crazed with fatigue and fury in the reel of battle. The Greek mercenaries, already exhausted, had lost their commander now and the unstoppable force of Parmenion’s veterans began to have its effect – they retreated with dignity at first and then started fleeing with no sense of order, simply trying to reach the Mylasa Gate or the side gate on the northern sector, near the sea. But the defenders of the city were frightened by what they had seen and they closed all the gates so that many of their soldiers were left to perish beneath the walls, run through by the
sarissae
of Parmenion’s men.

When Alexander had the order to cease combat sounded, Perdiccas was firmly installed on the breach in the eastern sector, a division of Agrianians had scaled the round bastion and had cleared it of defenders, yet others had scaled the wooden tower and aimed the ballistae and the catapults towards the centre of the city.

Many torches and fires were lit, to protect them against counterattacks by the enemy during the night.

Halicarnassus was now at the mercy of its conqueror.

A
LEXANDER DID NOT SLEEP
that night. The outcome of his battle with Memnon had been so uncertain right up to the last moment. More than once he had felt himself to be on the verge of defeat and humiliation; it was impossible to sleep with all that on his mind.

His men had lit a bonfire on the battlement and he waited for the light of day completely unable to relax, almost as though all his senses were clenched tight in spasm. It was a moonless night, and the whole city was immersed in darkness and silence – the only fires burning were those on the huge breach guarded by his soldiers, on the brick bastion occupied by the Agrianians and at the base of the great wooden tower. The Macedonians were clearly visible, while their enemy remained hidden away.

How many of them were left? How many armed men were concealed out there in the shadows? Perhaps they were preparing an ambush, or perhaps Memnon was waiting for sea-borne reinforcements.

When his triumph was at hand, the King felt that fate might be about to trick him once again; right up to the very last moment the enemy commander might invent some new tactic. Memnon was older and more experienced, he had managed so far to contain Alexander, to respond to each blow in kind, or even to pre-empt his moves.

That evening Alexander gave orders that anyone found drinking even a drop of wine was to be executed, whether the offender was a humble soldier or the most famous general. He also ordered that everyone should remain in full battledress.

Groups of his men patrolled door to door with lighted torches, right up to the side gate, maintaining contact with one another by means of shouted signals. Of all the commanders, Perdiccas was the most vigilant. After a long day of continuous and exhausting fighting, after having guided through the flames the battering-ram that had inflicted the decisive blow on the walls of Halicarnassus, he had not conceded himself even a moment’s respite. He went from one guard post to another, shaking his men as they succumbed to sleep. He goaded the younger men, exhorting them to make up for their poor performance in comparison with the veterans who, despite their age, had succeeded in grabbing victory from the jaws of defeat.

Alexander looked at him and then looked at Leonnatus, a giant in the darkness as he leaned on his spear, and Ptolemy, who just then was patrolling on horseback out on the plain with the other horsemen of the guard corps to avert a possible attack from outside. And Lysimachus, standing upright there near the catapults, and farther off the grey hair of Parmenion, who like an old lion had kept out of the way initially, preserving his own strength and that of his men, waiting for the moment when the fatal blow was required to annihilate the enemy. These men were the backbone of his army.

At other moments he searched for other thoughts to provide distraction, to lighten his heart, thoughts other than the war and the fatigue of battle – he thought of Mieza and the deer grazing along the flower-covered banks of the river, or of naked Diogenes, who was certainly happily asleep now in his churn by the seashore, together with the dog who shared his food and his bed. The dreams of Diogenes the philosopher were lulled by the sound of the waves breaking on the pebble-covered shore. What were the dreams of the old wise man? What were his mysterious visions?

And he thought, too, of his own mother, and when he imagined her sitting in her solitary room reading the poetry of Sappho, he felt that deep down in himself there was still a little boy, an insecure child who instinctively starts in the night, frightened by the cry of a nocturnal bird echoing in the empty sky.

The time passed in these reveries seemed endless. He jumped suddenly when someone put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Hephaestion, is that you?’

His friend handed him a bowl of warm soup. ‘Eat something. Leptine made it for you and had it sent down here with an orderly.’

‘What is it?’

‘Broad bean soup. It’s good – I’ve tasted a spoonful.’

Alexander started eating, ‘It’s not bad at all. Shall I leave you some?’

Hephaestion nodded, ‘Just like the old times, when we were up in the mountains, in exile.’

‘That’s true. But there was never any warm soup back then.’

‘You’re right.’

‘Do you miss those days?’

‘No . . . no, certainly not. But it’s nice to think back on them. Just you and me against the world.’ He put a hand on Alexander’s head and ruffled his hair. ‘Things are different now. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever happen again.’

‘What?’

‘Just you and me alone, together on a journey.’

‘Who knows, my friend?’

Hephaestion leaned forward to poke the fire with the point of his sword and Alexander noticed something hanging from his friend’s neck, something small that glinted in the light of the flames: it was a milk tooth, a tiny incisor mounted in gold, and he recalled the day when, as a child, he had given it to Hephaestion as a token of eternal friendship.

‘Until death?’ Hephaestion had asked him.

‘Until death,’ he had replied.

At that moment came the call of a sentry, signalling to his companions to the right and left of him. Hephaestion moved off to continue his rounds. Alexander saw him disappear into the darkness and had the feeling, very strong and clear, that if there was a journey being made ready for the pair of them in the future, it was in the direction of some mysterious region, wrapped in darkness for now.

More time passed and they heard the calls of the second watch. It must have been around midnight. Then Alexander heard footsteps approaching and rubbed his tired eyes. It was Eumenes.

The secretary general sat down nearby and seemed to stare into the fire.

‘What are you looking at?’ asked the King.

‘The fire,’ replied Eumenes. ‘I don’t like this fire.’

The King turned towards him with an expression of surprise on his face. ‘What’s wrong with the fire?’

‘The flames are turning in our direction, the wind has changed direction. It’s blowing from the sea now.’

‘Just as it does every night about this time.’

‘Exactly. But tonight it’s different.’

Alexander stared at him and suddenly a frightful thought leapt into his mind. Almost immediately a cry of alarm off to the right confirmed the vision that had come to him so suddenly – a fire was raging at the base of one of the great wooden towers.