The Gates of Hell

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

A campaign of murder, as Alexander nears his greatest challenge... Paul Doherty writes the third instalment featuring Alexander the Great and Telamon in The Gates of Hell, a gripping mystery of murder and adventure. Perfect for fans of Gary Corby and Margaret Doody. 'The combination of legendary historical figures and an old-fashioned murder mystery proves irresistible in Paul Doherty's vivid new interpretation of the exploits of Alexander the Great' - Yorkshire Evening Post It is 334 BC, and Alexander and his troops have crossed into Asia. Marching south he has conquered all in his path, but he and his enemies all know that the great prize is the city of Halicarnassus, strategically important and with fortifications to make any attacker despair. Alexander's court is set up close to the city, and his physician and old friend Telamon is there. Even as Alexander prepares for one of the most dramatic confrontations in the ancient world, a series of brutal killings begins, proving that the Persians have infiltrated the court. With his lord facing the fight of his life, Telamon must go through 'the Gates of Hell' to find the traitors. What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: 'With vivid sense imagery and a keen eye for detail, Doherty brings colour and drama ' 'Paul Doherty grasps the atmosphere, the spirit of the times, and the aura of royal intrigue of 334 BC' ' Five stars '

Release date: June 6, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 291

Sample

The House of Macedon

PHILIP King of Macedon until his assassination in 336 BC. Father of Alexander.

OLYMPIAS OF MOLOSSUS (Born Myrtale): Philip’s queen, Alexander’s mother.

Co-Regent of Macedon during Alexander’s conquest of Persia.

ALEXANDER Son of Philip and Olympias.

EURYDICE Philip’s wife after he divorced Olympias: she was niece of Philip’s favourite general, Attalus. Eurydice, her baby son and Attalus were all executed after Philip’s death.

ARRIDHAEUS Philip’s son by one of his concubines, poisoned by Olympias. He survived but remained brain-damaged for the rest of his life.

The Court of Macedon

BLACK CLEITUS Brother to Alexander’s nurse: Alexander’s personal bodyguard.

HEPHAESTION Alexander’s boon companion.

ARISTANDER Court necromancer, adviser to Alexander.

ARISTOTLE Alexander’s tutor in the Groves of Mieza: Greek Philosopher.

PAUSANIAS Philip of Macedon’s assassin.

DEMADES Engineer and creator of Macedon’s siege equipment.

Alexander’s Generals and Admirals

PARMENIO, PTOLEMY, SELEUCUS, AMYNTAS, ANTIPATER (left as Co-Regent in Macedon), NEARCHUS, NICANOR.

The Court of Persia

DARIUS III King of Kings.

MEMNON OF RHODES A Greek mercenary in the pay of Persia, one of the few generals to defeat Macedonian troops.

ORONTOBATES Governor of Halicarnassus.

EPHIALTES Greek renegade: a general of mercenaries in the pay of Persia.

CYRUS AND XERXES Former great emperors of Persia.

The Writers

AESCHYLUS, ARISTOPHANES, EURIPIDES, SOPHOCLES: Greek playwrights.

HOMER Reputed author of the two great poems the Iliad and the Odyssey.

DEMOSTHENES Athenian demagogue, ardent opponent of Alexander.

HIPPOCRATES OF COS Greek physician and writer, regarded as the father of medicine.

The Mythology of Greece

ZEUS Father god.

HERA His wife.

APOLLO God of light.

ARTEMIS Goddess of the hunt.

ATHENA Goddess of war.

HERCULES Greek man-god. One of Alexander’s reputed ancestors.

AESCULAPIUS Man-god, a great healer.

OEDIPUS Tragic hero, King of Thebes.

DIONYSIUS God of wine.

EYNALIUS Ancient Macedonian god of war.

The Trojan War

PRIAM King of Troy.

HECTOR Priam’s son and Troy’s great general.

PARIS Hector’s brother, whose abduction of the fair-faced Helen led to the Trojan War.

AGAMEMNON Leader of the Greeks in the Trojan War.

ACHILLES Greek hero and warrior in the Trojan War, the slayer of Hector. He was eventually killed by an arrow fired by Paris. Alexander regarded him as a direct ancestor.

PATROCLUS Achilles’ lover: his death in the Trojan War led to Achilles’ homicidal rage.

The Court of Halicarnassus

MAUSOLUS Former ruler of Halicarnassus.

PIXADORUS Former Prince of Halicarnassus.

ADA Rightful Queen of Halicarnassus, driven into exile by Pixadorus.



In 336 BC, Philip of Macedon died swiftly at his moment of supreme glory, assassinated by a former lover Pausanias as he was about to receive the plaudits of his client states. All of Greece and Persia quietly rejoiced – the growing supremacy of Macedon was to be curbed. The finger of suspicion for Philip’s murder was pointed directly at his scheming wife, the witch-queen Olympias, and their only son, the young Alexander. Macedon’s enemies quietly relished the prospect of a civil war which would destroy Alexander and his mother and end any threat to the Greek states as well as the sprawling Persian empire of Darius III. Alexander soon proved them wrong. A consummate actor, a sly politician, a ruthless fighter and a brilliant general, in two years Alexander crushed all opposition at home, won over the wild tribes to the north and had himself proclaimed Captain-General of Greece. He was to be the leader of a fresh crusade against Persia, fitting punishment for the attacks on Greece by Cyrus the Great and his successors a century earlier.

Alexander proved, by the total destruction of the great city of Thebes, the home of Oedipus, that he would brook no opposition. He then turned east. He proclaimed himself a Greek ready to avenge Greek wrongs. Secretly, Alexander wished to satisfy his lust for conquest, to march to the edge of the world, to prove he was a better man than Philip, to win the vindication of the gods as well as to confirm the whisperings of his mother – that his conception was due to divine intervention.

In the spring of 334 BC, Alexander gathered his army at Sestos while, across the straits, Darius III, his sinister spymaster the Lord Mithra and his generals plotted the utter destruction of this Macedonian upstart. Alexander, however, was committed to total war. He crossed to Asia and shattered the Persian army at the battle of the Granicus. He then marched south, capturing vital cities such as Ephesus, but the great prize was Halicarnassus (modern Bodrum), the sprawling city with its deep harbour on the Aegean.

Alexander wanted to take Halicarnassus, not only because of its strategic importance or to demonstrate his skill as the “Great Besieger of Cities”: Halicarnassus also had a link with his own dark past, in particular his entangled relationship with his dead father Philip. Alexander’s enemies knew Halicarassus would attract the Macedonian, and hoped that he would shatter his armies against its formidable fortifications. The three commanders there, Alexander’s old enemy Memnon of Rhodes together with the Persian Orontobates and the Greek renegade Ephialtes, believed that this time they would be able to trap the “Macedonian Wolf” and bring his dreams of conquest to nothing. Halicarnassus was fortified, the trap prepared, and Alexander brought his troops up for one of the most dramatic confrontations in ancient history . . .

Please note The secret code used here is that of Polybius as described in Chapter X of his Histories (see the author’s note at the end).



“Memnon had already been appointed by Darius, Controller of Lower Asia and Commander of the whole fleet.”

Arrian, The Campaigns of Alexander,

Book I, Chapter 20

The road from Mylasa to Halicarnassus had been cleared for the passage of the Great One, the personal emissary of Darius, King of Kings. The Lord Mithra, the Keeper of the King’s Secrets, a man who worked in the shadows, had been despatched by Darius from Persepolis on a matter of great importance. Lord Mithra, hooded and cloaked in black, his face covered by a red-gold mask, hastened to do his master’s business. Surrounded by the Cowled Ones, his personal guard, he thundered along the road towards the Triple Gate, the yawning, cavernous entrance to the sprawling sea port of Halicarnassus. Outriders had gone before him: these were dressed in black robes, purple sashes round their waists, their faces half hidden by silver-white masks pulled up as much to protect their mouths from the dust as to conceal their identities. Each carried Darius’s cartouche, his personal seal, on a leather strap round his wrist. They swept along the highway like the Angels of Death. They did not have to shout or argue: their very presence cleared the road. Travellers, fearful of these grim fighters on their dark horses with black and silver saddlecloths and harness of the same colour, leapt quickly aside. Some even prostrated themselves, pressing their foreheads against the ground and keeping their thoughts to themselves. No one dared raise a protest, not in these dangerous times. The Macedonian Wolf, Alexander, had shattered the Great King’s army at the Granicus in a welter of blood, and marched south-west, capturing the great cities of Ephesus and Miletus.

The travellers, naturally, talked among themselves in the post houses, taverns and resting-places set up at the many oases along the King’s highway. They talked of the Persian Lion having to challenge the Macedonian Wolf, but such speech was more the result of heavy wine than military strategy. Alexander’s armies were on the march, sweeping along the coastline of the Aegean Sea, capturing one port after another with the ease of a young maid plucking ripe apples in a richly packed orchard. Everyone suspected what Alexander would do next: the merchants were men of peace and money, but they kept a sharp eye on the men of war.

Alexander, so gossip had it, was in the mountains to the northwest: he was being entertained by the plump, white-skinned Ada, she with henna-dyed hair, who had been Queen of Caria and ruler of its greatest city Halicarnassus. She had, however, been driven out by her own kinsmen, Pixadorus and the Persian satrap Orontobates, and forced to skulk in a mountainous, owl-haunted place, in a mere shadow of her former glory. Alexander, that cunning wolf, had gone a-courting, or so the merchants said. He’d presented himself at Queen Ada’s petty court, kissed her bejewelled fingers and promised to restore her to her rightful throne. Ada had blinked black-kohled eyes, fingers fluttering, glancing coyly at this golden-haired conqueror, not yet in his twenty-fifth year, who was striking like a fiery arrow at the heart of Darius’s empire.

Oh yes, the merchants knew the story well. Ada had cooed and simpered before making the most surprising announcement: Alexander was her adopted son. He would seek vengeance for her and the removal of her enemies from the ancient kingdom of Caria. Alexander, of course, had accepted this. The news had spread. Ada might look plump and vapid but her fat, heavily painted face was only a mask for a brain as sharp and agile as a flesher’s knife. She and Alexander exchanged loving messages in their new-found relationship. Queen Ada sent the Macedonian meats and delicacies every day, even offering him cooks and bakers, masters of their craft. Alexander may have been laughing at her, but he kept this well hidden. He refused the delicacies and sent the cooks home, adding politely: “He needed none of them, for the best preparation for breakfast was a night march and for his lunch a sparing breakfast.” The reply had delighted Ada, and Alexander was true to his word. He struck immediately south, aiming like Zeus’s thunderbolt for the great fortress of Halicarnassus. No wonder Darius was disturbed and the Lord Mithra and his cortege thundered under sun-filled blue skies towards the soaring walls and fortified battlements of Halicarnassus. The merchants made their own decisions. They would sell their produce and leave as quickly as they could, before the Macedonian arrived and ringed Halicarnassus in a band of steel.

Lord Mithra, as he passed these merchants, stared malevolently through the slits of his mask. His bald head and cheeks were drenched in sweat: his thighs and legs ached from the impetuous ride but, even on his headlong journey, he had recognized the signs. People were fleeing, leaving their farms and villages, going up into the mountains to wait until the men of war had had their day. Merchants were loading their carts, muttering excuses and going further inland. To a certain extent Lord Mithra was pleased by this: some apparently mistrusted the Macedonian and were waiting to see the outcome of this bloody business before they decided which side to support. Lord Mithra raised his fly whisk, flailing it gently around, driving away the myriad flies which had bedevilled his journey. The captain of his escort slowed down. Outriders came galloping back: all was safe while the road ahead was clear. They had watered their horses scarcely an hour ago, and Lord Mithra hoped to be in the shade of Halicarnassus before the full brunt of the midday heat made itself felt. He would have loved to push back his hood, pull down the mask and wet his face, yet his sombre disguise was worth more than a hundred Scythian mercenaries.

“Lead men by love,” he had whispered to his master Darius, “if you can, and if not, by terror. It is unfortunate, my lord, that most of them must be ruled by terror.”

Mithra smiled wryly at his own motto. Terror would not defeat Alexander of Macedon, nor his phalanx men with their long sarissas, iron discipline and brilliant war stratagems. For that Darius and Lord Mithra needed someone else.

“My lord.” The captain of his guard edged his horse forward, pulling down his mask. “The horses are strong enough. Halicarnassus is only two miles more.”

Lord Mithra raised his fly whisk. The captain shouted an order: the escort broke into a canter and then into a furious gallop. The black-garbed riders pounded along the great white dusty road. On either side, the lush countryside with its well-watered copses, fields, meadows and carpet of multicoloured wild flowers gave way to harsher, drier terrain. Lord Mithra noticed this, and smiled his thanks. This was where Alexander would have to set his camp, bring up his siege weapons. And what shade was here? What trees, springs and wells? Let him camp here, Mithra thought, burn under the strengthening sun. He heard further shouts and glanced up. The walls of Halicarnassus came into sight: its soaring citadels, narrow windows, crenellated battlements and, dominating them all, the huge fortified tower which commanded the approach to the Triple Gate. This was now thrown open, its Greek mercenary guards flat against the wall, spears brought up in salute. Lord Mithra and his escort thundered into the great fortified enclosure beyond the walls, where the garrison had its barracks and supply houses. Here the outriders paused. Lord Mithra made his way to the front: a further iron-studded gate was opened and they entered the city proper.

Officers went ahead to escort them to the Governor’s palace. Mithra gazed around. Memnon, Darius’s Commander-in-Chief, had been busy. Already certain houses were razed, cleared away, while the thoroughfares were packed with carts bringing up munitions, catapults, mangonels and siege towers: these would be taken onto the fighting ground and quickly assembled. Soldiers were being drilled, fresh latrines dug, old springs opened. Lord Mithra nodded appreciatively. Memnon knew his trade, fighting and killing. If Alexander came here he might well be lured into the trap. Mithra’s black-garbed escort attracted many glances, but everyone had been warned beforehand and no one stopped to stare. They lowered their heads or turned their backs. The King of Kings’ emissary, his Master of Secrets, was not to be gazed at like some travelling fair or troupe of actors.

They crossed the suburbs of the city, into its heart, with broad avenues lined by cypress and plane trees, narrow lanes running between white-painted houses. They passed small temples with their porticoed and pillared entrances, across busy, noisy marketplaces. The air was bitter-sweet with the smell of fruit and meat, perfume and the pervasive odour of olive oil. Mithra studied all this most carefully. Marketplaces were the lifeblood of any city, and it seemed to be business as usual in Halicarnassus. He sensed no panic or hysteria; was this good or bad? Were the citizens of Halicarnassus confident that, whatever happened, they would survive? Since he had landed at Abydos some five months earlier, Alexander had not sacked one city. Instead he had restored Greek rule, allowing the Democrats to take power. Mithra ground his teeth. Did the wine-sellers and tent-makers, the leather merchants and perfume-sellers of Halicarnassus, realize this? That whatever happened, if Alexander were defeated, then it was life as normal, and if he won, life might get even better? Mithra tugged savagely at his reins, and his horse whinnied, throwing its head back.

“The city is prosperous,” his captain whispered. “No shortage of food or water.”

Mithra ignored him. They were now climbing a small hill towards the palace: Mithra’s attention was drawn by the great Mausoleum, the funeral monument of Mausolus, once ruler of this city, brother of the exiled Queen Ada. Mithra was fascinated by the awesome splendour of this gorgeous homage to the dead. It soared at least four hundred feet into the sky, a craftsman’s delight of marble, gold and silver. On the top of the pillar was a temple-like structure, nine pillars on each side, a perfect square and, rising from that, a twenty-four-step pyramid surmounted by a huge marble carving of a chariot and four horses.

“A great wonder,” the captain whispered.

This time Mithra nodded. Halicarnassus had once been the capital of the independent kingdom of Caria: Mausolus was its last great ruler. Darius would have loved to have torn such a monument down as an affront to his own majesty, but Mithra and the other magi had urged caution. The Master of the King’s Secrets narrowed his eyes. Perhaps, if a miracle occurred and Alexander did break into the city, secret orders should be left for the Mausoleum’s destruction. But there again, how could you burn marble and gold?

“My lord, we are nearly there.”

The broad avenue was now quieter. Before them gleamed the white walls of the Governor’s palace, its gates thrown open. A mixed guard of hoplites, in full dress armour, mingled with the gorgeous apparel of the Persian Immortals, the backbone of Darius’s army. These soldiers now formed a guard of honour. The Persians went down on one knee, the Greeks removed their plumed helmets and stood heads bowed. Mithra, staring ahead of him, entered the green, pleasant coolness of the palace gardens, up pebbled paths into a small courtyard. Grooms came running out. One fell to his hands and knees beside Mithra’s horse. The Master of the King’s Secrets used him to dismount. Other servants came up bearing goblets of wine chilled with sherbet, small clusters of flowers and bowls of fruits. Mithra ignored the flowers: he removed his mask, then grasped and pressed the chilled cup against his cheek. He poured a small libation into the dust and thrust it at his captain, who tasted it and handed it back. Only then did Mithra drink slowly, wetting his lips, cleansing his mouth and throat. He peered into the shadows thrown by the columns of the portico: a man, dressed in a white tunic, hands hanging at his sides, was standing in the doorway. Mithra pushed his way through, only now pulling back his cowl. His bald-headed, craggy-faced host came forward, one hand extended. Mithra grabbed this.

“Memnon of Rhodes,” Mithra whispered. “Our master, the King of Kings, sends his greetings and a mark of great honour.”

The dark, hard eyes of the Greek mercenary betrayed no emotion. “How is my wife Barsine and our children?”

“They are close to the great king’s heart. He treats them as he does his own family.”

Memnon allowed a slight smile. “My lord, the others are waiting.”

“The prisoner?” Mithra demanded. “The spy?”

“He is dying.”

“Then we must see him first.”

Memnon shrugged and walked along the portico. Mithra and two of his escort followed. They crossed a cobbled yard into an outhouse where wine and oil was stored. The air was sweet, though Mithra detected something else: fire, blood and burning flesh. Memnon went down steps at the far side of the room and hammered on the heavy oaken door, which swung open. Guards in leather armour stood along the weakly lit passageway which ran past storerooms. They went deeper into the darkness. The air grew cold and stale. They passed cells, dungeons: eyes peered out from small grilles high in the doors. They turned a corner, and Mithra covered his mouth and nose at the offensive stench. The passageway debouched into a small circular chamber with a vaulted stone roof. The walls were wet and mildewed; they gleamed in the light of oil lamps set in niches as well as the glow of the great brazier in the centre. Figures, dark as shadows, moved around, men dressed in leather caps and aprons. To one side was a table, on which lay the cruel instruments of torture: pincers and branding irons in pools of blood. A man, fastened with chains, hung in a small enclave, his naked body slack, head down: black hair, matted with sweat and blood, covered his face. Memnon, gently as a mother would with a child, went across and tipped the man’s head back. The prisoner’s face was stained with dried blood. One eye was missing, nothing left but a glaring socket; the other eye was half closed; his nose had been broken and pushed back, no more than a bloody pulp. Dry blood streaked his moustache and beard.

“Bring a torch, Cerberus!”

The leather-garbed master gaoler plucked a cresset torch from the wall and came over.

“Cerberus?” Mithra queried.

“Master gaoler of Halicarnassus,” Memnon explained. “Skilled in torture.”

“How skilled?” Mithra demanded. “Has the prisoner talked?” He stared at the gaoler, a small, squat man with the face of an ugly mastiff, his head bald, apart from tufts of hair just above each ear.

“He can talk no longer,” the gaoler replied, staring insolently back.

Mithra would have liked to strike him across his fat, sweaty cheeks with his fly whisk, but bit back his anger. “He is dying?”

Cerberus refused to be overawed. “I had my orders, sir: to make the man talk, and talk he did, for a while.”

“And what did he say?” Mithra demanded. “What’s his name? What did he say?”

“He gave no name, but described himself as the songster from Ephesus.”

“And what songs did he sing?”

“That he’s not a songster from Ephesus,” the gaoler replied cheekily.

Mithra raised his fly whisk and tapped the man gently on the side of his neck. Cerberus’s eyes, almost hidden in rolls of fat, shifted towards Memnon. “I have done good service, my lord.”

“He has. He has,” Memnon agreed. “The man’s no songster from Ephesus,” Memnon continued, “but one of Alexander’s companions: a courier, a spy.”

“And what did he tell us?”

“That Alexander is marching.”

“I know that.”

“That he’s bringing his siege machinery in by sea.”

“I know that.”

“That he needs to find a port close to Halicarnassus.” Memnon’s voice grated.

“I know that too.” Mithra held the gaoler’s gaze and pressed the fly whisk a little harder.

“Tell him!” Memnon ordered. “Tell him what you learnt!”

Cerberus took a step back. “The Macedonian has the Pythian Manuscript.”

Mithra lowered the fly whisk. “And what else?” He glared at Memnon.

“The Macedonian has a legion of spies in the city!” Memnon paused as the prisoner groaned.

“Did he give names?” Mithra demanded.

“A few,” Cerberus replied. “Democrats, artisans, merchants. They have all been rounded up, or most of them.”

“They’ll be killed?” Mithra demanded.

“They have been,” Memnon assured him.

Mithra felt the rage boil inside him. “He has no eye and he’s lost his tongue.” He stepped closer. Throwing the fly whisk at the gaoler, Mithra withdrew the dagger from beneath his cloak, lifted the head of the songster of Ephesus, and neatly slit his throat from ear to ear. The prisoner gasped and gurgled, body shuddering in a clank of chains. Mithra stepped back and, wiping the blood on Cerberus’s apron, re-sheathed his knife and snatched back the fly whisk: spinning on his heel, he left the chamber.

Outside in the courtyard Mithra paced up and down, beating the whisk against his riding boot. Memnon stood, arms crossed.

“So, they have it!” Mithra cursed. He stared full at Memnon. The Greek mercenary studied the cadaverous, skeleton-like face of this most sinister of courtiers. Hooded eyes glittered in a narrow, furrowed face, thin-nosed with a mere slit for a mouth. Mithra’s head and face were closely shaved and oiled, his rage apparent by the red spots of anger high on his sunken cheeks.

“They may have it,” Memnon assured him, “but can they understand it?”

Mithra sighed. He stared up at one of the cornices of the building. The sculptor had carved the emblem of the Persian court, the insignia of their god Ahura-Mazda, the All-Seeing Eye borne aloft on the feathery wings of a golden eagle. Darius wondered if their god was with them, or had he withdrawn his protection from Persia? Had he retreated into the high courts of heaven and allowed the God of Darkness, the Accuser, the Assassin, Ahirman, to prowl his empire and do his worst? Mithra chewed on his lip. In truth, Mithra didn’t believe in any gods, be it the gaggle of Greek deities and their sexual exploits or the hidden splendour of the Divine Flame burning before Ahura-Mazda’s shrine in Persepolis. Alexander would be defeated, not by the intervention of the gods, but by ruthless cunning and blood-soaked ferocity.

“Our master sends his greetings, Memnon of Rhodes!”

The mercenary bowed imperceptibly. Mithra fished into his wallet and took out a scroll. He tossed it to Memnon, who caught it deftly.

“You are now Governor of Lower Asia,” Mithra murmured. “Commander-in-Chief of all Persian forces on land and sea.”

Memnon unrolled the parchment and glanced up, eyes glowing with pride.

“The King of Kings has great confidence in you,” Mithra continued. “If your advice had been followed, the battle of Granicus would not have been fought. Alexander would not have achieved his victory. The King of Kings has confirmed your execution of the satrap who led his forces into such disgraceful defeat. There must be no repetition . . .”

“There will be no repetition, but Alexander has the Pythian Manuscript.” Memnon rolled up the parchment and tucked it into the cord round his waist. “The others are waiting,” he declared. “We have business to discuss.”

“And the other matter?”

“In the second hour after noon,” Memnon replied. “I will meet him by myself.”

They went into the palace, along silent corridors lined with guards, the polished cedarwood floor gleaming bright, the air fragrant with the heavy scent from the flower baskets. They reached the far end of the palace, facing east. Mithra’s escort, already guarding the cedarwood doors, swung them open, and Mithra swept into the andron, the men’s room, a long, low-ceilinged chamber with couches and tables, its walls bare of any ornaments except for a frieze depicting Apollo in his chariot.

The two men already there rose as they made their entrance. The first was Orontobates, Governor of Halicarnassus. He was dressed in a gorgeous cloak of glory over a white tunic pushed into purple, gold-edged pantaloons, soft buskins on his feet: his oily ringed hair hung down to his shoulders. He had taken off his round, cylindrical cap with its tassels of office, which lay on a small table before him. A small, thickset man with the olive skin and dark soulful eyes of a Mede, Orontobates had a passing resemblance to his distant kinsman Darius, King of Kings: a likeness he enhanced by constantly stroking his luxuriant moustache and beard drenched in a costly perfume. Mithra showed Darius’s cartouche; Orontobates knelt and kissed it, murmuring a quiet prayer that his master would always be protected by the Sacred Flame. He rose and gestured forward his companion, the blond-haired, ruddy-faced Ephialtes of Thebes. Again the introductions were made. Mithra was fascinated by Ephialtes, a tall, gangly man with piercing blue eyes, strange colouring and a warrior’s face. At first Mithra thought the red flush was due to wine, but Ephialtes was steady on his feet, clear-eyed, his voice clipped. Like all Greeks he gave the most perfunctory bow, but when Memnon coughed noisily, he knelt down and kissed the royal seal. Pleasantries were exchanged, then Memnon guided each to a couch. Servants brought in dark Carian wine, baskets of fruit, freshly baked bread and cheese. Scented water was poured for Mithra to wash his hands and face. He flung the napkin at a page, took off his black robe and threw it on the floor, then made himself comfortable on the couch. Memnon was whispering to Ephialtes. He broke off, lifted his goblet and toasted Mithra.

“So, the Macedonian comes on.” Mithra drank deeply. “When will he arrive here?”

“He’s been visiting that fat bitch Ada in her mountain fortress,” Memnon replied. “He’ll come through the passes and advance along the coastline to Halicarnassus.”

“What are your preparations?”

Mamnon gestured at the maps piled next to his table. “To take this city, Alexander will need siege equipment. He will have to bring this by sea.”

“But he has no ports,” Orontobates declared.

“Precisely.” Memnon grinned. “He has a choice of fighting for Myndus to the west or this harbour. Both are protected by the Persian fleet, so he’ll have to land his siege machines somewhere and bring them along by cart. That’s going to take time and be expensive.”

Memnon swung his legs off the couch. . .