Conquest of Persia Read online

  The wars that you Persians wage are impious and wicked wars. You have weapons and yet you hire assassins to kill enemy leaders, as you yourself recently tried to do, offering a thousand talents of gold to one of my own men if he would kill me. We are not the aggressors in this war. We are acting in self-defense and justifiable retribution for past offenses against us. The justness of our cause is borne out by the fact that our army has conquered most of Asia[8] and I have defeated you personally on the battlefield. As you yourself observed, the gods, who are always on the side of justice and merit, have chosen the Greek side in our struggle.

  You do not deserve any consideration in light of your breach of the rules of war but if you come to me as a supplicant, I will return your mother, your wives, and your children to you without the payment of any ransom. Do not be concerned for your safety, if you decide to come to me. I give you my oath and guaranty that you will not be harmed. And the next time you write, remember to address me as your king.

  Alexandros chose Thersippos as his envoy to deliver the reply. He gave Thersippos strict instructions that, under no circumstances, was he to engage in any discussions, explanations, or negotiations at the Persian court. His assignment was to deliver Alexandros’s letter and leave, without saying a word.

  Thersippos departed with the Persian ambassadors. The next morning the pan-Hellenic army set off for Lowland Assyria and the Phoenician coast beyond.

  *******

  In the wake of Issos, the army marched at a more measured pace, weighted down by tons of booty and dragging a mini-army of camp followers behind. This time around, it took us three days to reach the Phoenician seaport of Myriandros.[9] En route, we picked up Parmenion and his squadrons of Thessalian cavalry, as well as the treasure and the additional hostages they had captured at Damaskos. (Parmenion’s battalion of allied infantry stayed behind on garrison duty, along with their own commander, whom Alexandros now named the new satrap of Lowland Assyria.)

  After Myriandros, we continued down the Phoenician coast to Gabala, Paltos, and on to Marathos. The inhabitants of each of these ports greeted us as liberators, throwing their city gates open to us, partly because they hated their Persian overlords and partly because news of Issos had preceded us.

  Marathos was an important and powerful Phoenician seaport. Its merchants had grown enormously wealthy because their city served as the terminus of the main caravan route from Palmyra and Babylon. It controlled a significant land area, including forested mountainsides and fertile valleys. Its harbor was protected by a fortified island that was impossible to reach by land and virtually unassailable by sea, while the city itself sheltered behind tall, well-constructed walls. It possessed a strong navy and employed a decently-sized garrison of mercenaries. Marathos presented a hardened target to any would-be besieger. It reminded me of the difficulties we had encountered during our siege of Halikarnassos. However, it turned out that we would not need to invest and storm Marathos.

  Unfortunately for the Marathians, their navy had been conscripted by Dareios, before the Battle of Issos, to assist the Persian naval commander Pharnabazos in his efforts to occupy the islands of the Aegean and make preparations for the Persian invasion of the Greek mainland. The ruler of Marathos, a man named Gerostratos, along with most of the mercenary garrison, had sailed off with the Marathian navy. After Issos, Gerostratos had decided to sail back home but was still at sea when the pan-Hellenic army arrived at the city gates. Gerostratos’s young son Straton, who had been left in charge of the city but without the benefit of either a garrison or a navy, looked down from the city walls at the victor of Issos and decided to welcome Alexandros with open arms. He personally led a delegation of city dignitaries through the nearest gate, presented Alexandros with a golden diadem, and surrendered the city to him, together with all its assets, inhabitants, and territories. Alexandros graciously accepted the proffered gifts, took possession of the city, and entertained the young man at a sumptuous banquet, paid for by the Marathians.

  After a few days of rest in Marathos, we resumed our march south. By now, our column stretched over many miles. The cavalry squadrons rode on their horses, of course, but almost everyone else had to make his or her way on foot. Our column included hundreds of wagons but they were intended to transport cargo, not people. The only exception were some of the hostages captured at Issos and in Damaskos. For example, Dareios’s mother, wives, and children rode in wagons. They were even provided with makeshift tents atop the wagons, which afforded a modicum of privacy. Barsine had her own tent-covered wagon, as did Antigone and a few of the other “special” captives. But all the other noble ladies marched along on foot, together with the less special ladies of the night who had attached themselves to our army, the few eunuchs who had survived the slaughter at Issos and at Damaskos, and the many, many servants, children, and assorted hangers-on who made up our new mini-army of camp followers.

  Alexandros was particularly anxious to provide security for the women in the wagons, partly to protect them from harm and partly to prevent their mysterious disappearance en route. He assigned squadrons of Companion Cavalry to ride alongside the captives’ wagons, with strict instructions that there was to be no intercourse between the passengers and the outside world. Furthermore, to minimize the risk of fraternization, he rotated the squadrons assigned to this guard duty on a daily basis.

  One day, when it was my squadron’s turn to guard the hostages, I was riding along with my horsemen. While overtaking one of the tent-covered wagons, I noticed an open flap, through which a graceful hand emerged. The fingers of the hand seemed to be beckoning, whether to me or someone else was impossible to tell. Intrigued, I decided to take a closer look. The owner of the hand proved to be Barsine and she was in fact trying to catch my attention.

  Having identified my silent siren, I was inclined to ride on but something caused me to steer my steed over to her wagon. I knew I was in the process of making a mistake, which was unusual in itself because normally I only realize my errors long after it’s too late to fix them. And yet, I couldn’t resist. I knew I had already done more than I should have, in light of the Prime Directive, when I intervened during the sack of the enemy camp at Issos to protect Barsine and her children. I then compounded my transgression by delivering them to the soldiers guarding the imperial precinct with instructions that they were not to be harmed. I also knew that Alexandros had decided to appropriate Barsine for himself and was displaying overt signs of infatuation. To approach her now or, even worse, to engage in conversation with her, would’ve been the height of stupidity.

  “I trust your ride is comfortable, Barsine,” I said.

  A dazzling smile illuminated her face. “How did you know my name?”

  “Oh, I have my ways,” I assured her and dug my heels into Pandaros’s ribs, trying to spur him into taking me away from an imminent calamity. My trusty mount, however, chose that moment to disobey orders and continued to trot along tranquilly by the side of Barsine’s wagon.

  “Well, that doesn’t seem fair.” Her face blushed. “You never did tell me your name.”

  Why am I still talking to this woman? I knew I had behaved humanely, if unwisely, in protecting her from rape, slavery, and possibly death in the wake of the battle. Perhaps I had somehow acquired a proprietary interest in her future well-being. And, although I was loath to admit it, her breathtaking beauty was making it harder for me to ignore her. “Metoikos,”[10] I finally managed by mumble after a long pause.

  She laughed. “I could tell that much from your accent. What’s your real name?”

  “They call me Ptolemaios.”

  “But that’s not your real name either, is it?”

  “It’s as real as it gets.”

  She didn’t persist. “I never had a chance to thank you for your kindness the other day. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t appeared.”

  “It was the least I could do.” I looked away, trying to put on my most modest expression. �
��Besides, I’m sure my intervention made no difference in the greater scheme of things.” I was talking to myself, as much as to her, trying to assuage my concern that, in rescuing her, I had violated the Prime Directive. There was no way she would know that, of course.

  Her smile lit up her eyes. “Other than keeping me and my children alive, I’m sure you’re right. But in my selfish, smaller scheme of things, that was an important difference.”

  I looked around to see who might be listening. My own troopers, who mostly liked me and were mostly not morons, had the tact and good sense to ride beyond the immediate eavesdropping perimeter, leaving an island of privacy around Barsine and me. However, there was no way to tell who might be on the far side of the wagon and certainly anyone with eyes could have seen what was going on, even if they couldn’t hear the conversation. If anything, the auricular margin afforded to us by my troopers served to highlight the magnitude of my transgression.

  “Well, I’m glad I was there,” I finally said.

  “I hope one day I can repay your kindness.”

  I waved her thanks away. “Having a chance to speak with you and to look at you is payment enough.” My mind was in full rationalization mode. If you’re going to commit suicide, you might as well do it with flair.

  She surprised me by blushing. “In another time, another place, who knows ....” Her voice trailed off. Then she caught herself. “However, you’re taking a chance simply by speaking with me. And frankly, I’m taking a chance by speaking with you.”

  “Some chances are worth the risk.”

  “I agree but probably for a different reason than you think. I need to ask you for your help once again. Please don’t think me ungrateful. There is no one else I can ask. Do you remember my children?”

  “You mean your servants’ children?” I corrected her. “Yes, of course I remember them. How could I not remember them?”

  When I saved her, she had told me that the father of her children was Memnon of Rhodos, a Greek mercenary commander who had been in Dareios’s service and had proven to be a thorn in Alexandros’s side. Even though Memnon had died, I was sure Alexandros’s enmity against him lived on undiminished. For the sake of the children’s welfare, I had suggested to Barsine that she arrange with her serving girls to treat the children as theirs, rather than hers and Memnon’s. She had evidently taken my advice.

  “Yes, of course, that’s exactly what I mean.”

  Is there some way you could arrange for my children to ride with me?”

  “Why don’t you ask Alexandros to let the servants’ children ride with you?”

  “Because it would sound pretty strange, don’t you think?”

  “Not at all. It wouldn’t sound strange at all if you insisted you had to have the services of your servant girls at all times. And naturally they would have to bring their kids along because where else would they put them.”

  She smiled, causing my heart rate to soar. She had some kind of magical power over me. “I should’ve thought of that myself,” she said. “But I’ve had very little time with Alexandros and we’ve been otherwise occupied.”

  It was my turn to blush. “I’m fairly sure he’ll accede to any request you might care to make. And besides, I suspect you’ll be able to manage it so he’ll think it was his own idea.”

  She laughed. “Now, how could I ever manage such a thing? Listen, I know we have to stop this conversation but could I ask you one more thing?”

  The tinkling sound of her laughter was making it difficult for me to keep my mind on what she was saying. I finally refocused my attention. “Your last request certainly wasn’t too taxing,” I assured her.

  “Well, this one is tougher. Could you find my sister and do what you can to make sure she’s safe?”

  I was unable to conceal my delight. “You have a sister?”

  “I have many sisters but only one of them is part of this refugee train. She was captured in Damaskos, along with some of the other Persian women. I’m pretty sure she’s marching somewhere behind us but I’m worried about her.”

  “I’ll go find her right now. Does she look like you? I’m only asking so I can identify her.”

  Barsine laughed. “Oh no, she is much prettier than me.”

  “Well, in that case, it’s been nice chatting with you.” I pretended to ride away. “What’s her name, by the way?”

  “Artakama,” Barsine said when I pulled back up to the open flap. “But you should know she’s only fourteen. And her Greek is almost as bad as yours.” She winked and let the tent flap fall shut again.

  I floated toward the back of the column of marchers, vaguely looking for a girl named Artakama, unable to chase Barsine’s visage from my mind. And that preoccupation is perhaps as good an explanation as any for my failure even to consider the possible consequences of my reckless conduct.

  *******

  Dareios was stunned. He’d spent the last two weeks trying to figure out how to disclose his peace overture to his own barons, courtiers, and commanders without losing his head in the process. The idea that Alexandros could turn down his offer had never crossed his mind. Here he was, the absolute ruler of the most powerful empire the world had ever known, offering to turn over to this jejune interloper from a barbarian backwater a huge chunk of his own territory, an area no invader could’ve possibly conquered, much less held for long. Even Dareios himself couldn’t quite understand why he’d sent that letter.

  Furthermore, even if the impulsive youth, in his madness and war lust, was inclined impetuously to turn down an offer that no sane person could reject, surely there were cooler, more prudent, more pragmatic commanders among his advisors who would’ve never permitted Alexandros to rebuff Dareios’s peace overture, much less to compose the insolent reply that he was now holding in his hands. If Alexandros’s father had still been alive, he would’ve accepted the offer without hesitation. It fulfilled every territorial dream and ambition Philippos had ever entertained, not to mention the ten-thousand-talent bounty to boot.

  After a long, catatonic afternoon, Dareios finally shuddered back to life, shook his head, hollered to his attendants to assemble the command staff, and started to issue orders. He dispatched Nabarzanes to Anatolia to organize the campaign to cut Alexandros’s lines of communication back to Macedonia and to take control of the Hellespont. Nabarzanes left immediately, taking with him the surviving elements of the elite Persian heavy cavalry. These formidable knights were to serve as the core of the Persian assault force, to be augmented by local troops that Nabarzanes would recruit among the bellicose tribes of the Anatolian highlands.

  Dareios also ordered Pharnabazos to resume the naval campaign in the Aegean, in preparation for the long-delayed invasion of the Greek mainland. As part of his remit, Pharnabazos was also given overall responsibility for bribing Greek leaders and doing everything possible to foment rebellion against Macedonia and the Hellenic League among the Greek city-states.

  In pursuit of this assignment, Pharnabazos arranged to meet with the Spartan King Agis[11] at Siphnos, a small island in the Aegean, located about half way between the Peloponnese and Anatolia. Agis arrived aboard a single trireme and sailed out with ten triremes, thirty talents of gold, and the promise of 8,000 Greek mercenaries, all designed to assist Agis in spearheading an uprising of as many Greek city-states as possible against Macedonia. Agis promised to do all he could and, in this respect at least, he proved to be a man of his word.

  Finally, Dareios ordered Mazaios to oversee the mobilization of the massive reserves of men and materiel contained in Persia’s endless eastern provinces for the coming showdown with Alexandros. All of Anatolia, after all, comprised less than ten percent of Persia’s landmass and there was an unlimited supply of fierce fighters inhabiting the hinterlands of Parthia, Baktria, Sogdiana, and the Hindu Kush, seething to be set loose against the effete European sophisticates.

  And then Dareios settled down, in the hanging gardens of Babylon, to sip wine, enjoy the atten
tions of what was left of his harem, and plot his revenge.

  Chapter 3 – Tyros

  Alexandros was enraged. In all the years I had known him, I’d never seen him lose his temper quite so precipitously. Of course, it might have been just an act.

  The day had begun normally enough. We broke camp on the road from Sidon to Tyros and resumed our southward march. We reached the outskirts of Old Tyros by midafternoon. We found the gates wide open and the city abandoned.

  “Where is our welcome committee?” Alexandros joked. “Let’s see if we can find somebody to tell us what’s going on.”

  While search parties fanned out looking for signs of sentient life, Alexandros set up his headquarters in the dusty, deserted agora and waited.

  “I liked our arrival at Byblos better,” he said after a while. “They didn’t run away. They welcomed us; they feasted us; they billeted us; they promised never to revert to Persian rule; and then they walked us out of town, just to make sure we were really gone.”

  “I thought Sidon was the best,” Hephaistion opined.

  “You would,” Perdikkas laughed. “After all, you got to pick a king.”

  Sidon was the next big city after Byblos on our route down the coast of Phoenicia. It was a large, prosperous port, ruled by a native king, Abdastart, whose Persian leanings were evidently unpopular with the inhabitants. As soon as the pan-Hellenic army arrived, the citizens expressed their disapproval of the king by executing him and presenting the royal scepter and diadem to Alexandros, inviting the celebrated conqueror to designate a successor to their former ruler.

  Alexandros was too busy enjoying the sights, the delicacies, and the local vintages to spend time searching for a successor. Instead, he delegated the task to Hephaistion. The elegant sycophant, given a measure of autonomy, chose to exercise his mordant sense of humor. He plucked out a ragged, sunburnt, wrinkled old caretaker named Abdalonymos, whom he found cultivating some flowerbeds in the late king’s garden, and installed him in the royal palace. Afterward, when some of the oligarchs questioned Hephaistion’s choice, he explained that Abdalonymos was a long-lost, impoverished scion of the Sidonian royal house. It pleased Hephaistion thus to illustrate the caprice of the Fates.