Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great (18 page)

There was a commotion behind me, and the sound of booted feet on marble. Not wishing to be arrested with my head inside the forbidden chamber, I withdrew.

Craterus met me at the foot of Heracles’s statue. He had a bemused look on his face, as if he had bested me in some game. He had two guards with him, but instead of arresting me they straightened, saluted, and let me pass. As I walked away Craterus must have observed my attitude, obliging him to make a single justification to my back:

“Arridaeus is not unhappy, Machon. He thinks he is a god!”

There were no serious consequences to what I had done. Arridaeus was not moved for the rest of the time of the siege, and aside from a single long look at me from his couch that evening, Alexander never showed any awareness of the incident. Of this I can only speculate that the King, for reasons known only to him, decided to hold me immune from any penalties for this adventure.

There was a single consequence only: for the rest of my time on the campaign, almost eleven years, either Craterus or one of his junior officers kept a constant watch on me. I never learned whether Alexander had assigned him as my ‘minder,’ or whether he had taken that responsibility upon himself. Considering that I could have been killed, imprisoned, or sent home for what I’d done, I thought it best not to ask.

On the coast, Alexander took a ship to the south end of the island to survey the weak point the “monster” had indicated.
 
He noted that the topography of the shore made that portion of the Tyrian walls the lowest of all. When he returned, he put his carpenters to work constructing retractable gangways for his ships.

The next day dawned fair and calm. The catapults on the mole were reloaded. On the water, Alexander pressed every available man into service on every vessel in his fleet; his ships came out and anchored just out of range from the Tyrian rock-throwers. Fireships were loaded with fuel and positioned off the mouths of both harbors. In response, the enemy warmed up their sand weapon. There was a sense on both sides that the issue would be fully and finally decided that day.

Alexander appeared on his flagship in Achilles’ battle armor. Moving so that all could see, he took his position at the head of the gangway and took his lance. The cheers of his men drowned out the sound of the sea. Just as the uproar was at its loudest, he gave a nod, and the signal went up to attack.

The Macedonians made a furious assault on the city from every direction. Ships stood off the weaker, seaward side, using artillery to crack open the masonry there, forcing the Tyrians to expend manpower on repairs. Where there was room between the waterline and the wall, his men landed and began sapping operations against the foundations. The defenders dumped everything they could—rocks, sand, boiling water, anvils—down on the engineers. The Phoenician allies launched their fire ships, setting the obstructions in the harbors ablaze, putting the Tyrians in a panic as they tried to save their fleet.

Just as the enemy was most overextended, the rock throwers assailed the spot in the wall where the sea-monster had pointed. It collapsed in short order. The first Macedonian vessel to drop its gangway was commanded by a man named Admetus, who led a column of Shield Bearers through the breach. They didn’t get far as the Tyrians massed their defense there, cutting all the invaders down. But Alexander was not far behind, and when the enemy saw him coming, singing the paean as he leapt over the rubble, their nerve broke.

Soon the Macedonians broke through at several points. I went in from the city’s north end, and saw more than I care to relate. The city was overwhelmed so rapidly that the Tyrians did not have time to organize a final defense; after its highly coordinated beginning, the day gave way to an afternoon of chaos as the Macedonians, stymied for months, having lost more men at Tyre than at the Granicus and Issus combined, worked their frustration against the people. The bodies piled up as the Tyrians continued their resistance from their doorways and rooftops and the Macedonians, equally determined, hacked their way into homes, shops, and temples. By sundown, I saw that the pipes bearing sewage from the streets to the sea were gushing red. The waters ran so thick that the seabirds, smeared with human blood, could not fly.

Having given his men their moment of revenge, Alexander commanded that all survivors be spared. The entire royal family was captured alive in the Temple of Heracles, along with a party of Carthaginian emissaries. The Tyrian king, Azemilcus, was released with his retinue, while the Carthaginians were packed off for home, with a message from Alexander that he now considered that city his enemy.

The entire remaining population of Tyre, rich and poor, some thirty thousand souls, were given in chains to their rivals. It was said that the markets of Sidon were so glutted with product that a slave could be purchased for the equivalent of a few dozen drachmas. Even minor farmers could afford to buy themselves a former aristocrat or fashionable lady for whatever purpose they desired. Thus are the wages of resistance to the “Captain of the Greeks.”

Machon allowed this grim imagery to sink into the minds of the jurors. Swallow glanced at the Macedonians in the spectator’s box: there was such a transparency of pride on their hairless faces that he wanted to spit on them.

Before he left the empty streets, Alexander made a victory trophy of a Tyrian ship, mounting it in the sanctuary with the inscription he had written himself. It read
 
“
Dedicated to the god by Alexander, son of Philip, from inside the city
.
” He then did as he first requested seven long months before—he made sacrifice to Heracles at his temple within the walls.

If nothing else, Alexander hoped the siege and its aftermath would lessen future loss of life, as fewer cities would refuse to open their gates to him. Unaccountably, it seemed to have the opposite effect in the next big town he encountered on the way to Egypt. The satrap of the city of Gaza, an Arab named Batis, had watched the reduction of Tyre and took the opposite lesson: that Alexander could be defeated if he was denied the use of his artillery.

Gaza stood on a great hill, ringed by well-built walls, that was surrounded by loose sand too unstable to erect towers or heavy equipment upon. Siege trains bogged down to their axles. The city was situated in such a lofty spot that catapults could not hit the walls at an effective angle from anywhere around it. The defenders were well-supplied, and a besieging force would need to subsist in dry, difficult country. Batis made it more difficult still by burning all the fields in the surrounding area before Alexander arrived. As Gaza was not a port town, and therefore could not supply the Persian fleet, Batis may also have believed his enemy would content himself with a mere show of force.

Suffice it to say he was mistaken. As his campaign advanced, Alexander was even less willing to brook resistance. Nor was he inclined, he informed us, to expend another half a year reducing another recalcitrant city. His staff must find a way into the place in a matter of weeks, not months.

After much discussion, it was agreed that tunneling was the one tactic the soft soil around the city did afford. Accordingly, excavation began from a place out of sight of the Gazans, so Batis would not know what was coming. To further distract the enemy from making an effective defense, Alexander had a ring of siege towers built from large trees dragged all the way from Lebanon. The trunks of these had to be sunk many yards into the ground to give support to his engines. The Gazans took the bait: they commenced raising the tops of their walls to match the works of the enemy. Alexander ordered his men to build higher—Batis also built higher, racing the Macedonians skyward until the extremities of both structures were so tall they could be seen from miles out at sea. It was all a splendid ruse, however, as the real attack was completely out of sight, under everyone’s feet.

So it happened that one day Alexander was out among his engineers, helmetless in the great heat, when fate intervened again. A crow, flying out of the west, passed over him and dropped a heavy object on his head. The King was briefly stunned, and the bird, strangely, did not escape but landed on a siege tower. The object that hit Alexander was an abalone, which was closed when it fell from the bird’s grasp but opened up after it hit the ground. Aristander the soothsayer was summoned to explain this event; making a quick examination of the evidence, he was concerned, saying that the fact that the abalone had opened meant the town would fall, but that Alexander could be killed in the assault if he was careless.

This omen caused some consternation in the Macedonian camp, as the life of Alexander was far more valuable than the submission of Gaza. Alexander would not be deterred, of course, promising only that he would stay away from the front lines.

Fate is not so easily changed. As Alexander was sitting far to the rear, watching unhappily from a distance, a Gazan soldier was presented to him as a deserter. This man was allowed to keep his shield for his interview with the King. Casting himself at Alexander’s feet, he begged permission to join the Macedonian army; the King bid him to stand and be accepted into his service. At that instant the deserter, who was really an agent of Darius, pulled a dagger hidden in his shield and fell on Alexander. The attacker was cut down before he could harm the King, wounding him only lightly in the neck. Without a thought for the danger he had just barely escaped,
A
lexander directly called for Aristander: as the assassin’s cut must qualify as the wound he had prophesied, could he now return to the front ranks? But Aristander shook his head, for the injury was too minor. Disappointed that the cut was not serious enough, Alexander sank, dejected, back on his throne.

Having seen their tormenter go down earlier that day, the Gazans saw an opportunity. Sallying forth that night, they took the Macedonian sentries by surprise and nearly reached the siege works with their torches. None were surprised when the King forgot his pledge and threw himself into the fight. Suffering great losses, the Gazans retreated, but not before Alexander was wounded in the shoulder by an arrow. Instead of worrying him, this injury filled him with delight: Aristander’s prediction had at last come true, so the town must fall.

With redoubled energy, pushing his men to their limits, Alexander caused the siege works to rise and the mines sink deep into the earth. At last, near the end of the month of Maimakterion, all was ready: at their leader’s signal, the miners removed the supports they had installed in the tunnels, and a wide section of the wall collapsed in a heap. The Macedonians stormed into the breach just as the last stone came down. The rest of the day saw bitter fighting, as the Gazans knew the fate of Tyre, and expected no better. Every one of the ten thousand men in the town was killed in the fight; the women and children went to the Sidon markets, where they sold even more cheaply than the Tyrians.

A single exception was made for Batis himself. Orders went around that the satrap was to be taken alive, and this was accomplished, though he did his best to achieve a soldier’s death. When he was led before Alexander, he looked his conqueror straight in the eye, refusing to bend knee before him. Alexander threw up his hands, saying “What shall I do with this man? With just a word he could save himself, but he stands there mocking me on the field I have duly taken from him.”

Instead of begging for his life, the Arab merely smiled and made a cutting gesture across his own throat. Impatient, exhausted in body and spirit, Alexander exploded at this insolence. “You count on death, but by the gods your pride has earned you worse!”

With that, he summoned a chariot. Batis’s ankles were pierced between the bone and the tendon (which broke his silence), and looped through with a rawhide strap. The ends of the strap were then attached to the back of the car. Alexander stood over Batis as the man writhed on the ground, quoting Homer to him:

Hector’s body lashed to the car, dragging the head

Mounted Achilles lofted his shining arms

Lashed the strong horses to flight, so they sped

Through the dust of Illium he raised

By Hector’s black hair spread upon the ground—

Unlike Achilles, Alexander did not mount the car, but just slapped the lead horse to start him on his way. All watched, curious, as the chariot raced off toward the sea, Batis’s head carving a bloody furrow in the shell-strewn dust. Some time later riders went out to retrieve the chariot. The man’s remains were not buried, but left for the crabs to devour.

The end of Batis may seem cruel to us. Alexander, too, was often given to merciful treatment of worthy enemies, as I will later relate. The one thing he could not abide, however, was the presumption of arrogance by beaten men. If nothing else, he would teach humility to all the Persians. Some critics, Demosthenes among them, have made much of Alexander’s supposed descent into oriental despotism, pointing to Batis’s death as a notable example. But there is nothing about this execution that smacks of the barbarians. Indeed, I say the opposite: it was Homeric, which we may agree is as Greek as it gets!