unsteady legs as he moved. He was in a bad state, consumed by fever and losing blood from a large wound on his left thigh.
He took a belt from one of the Agrianians and tied it tightly around his leg just below the groin, then he ripped a piece of chiton to use as a bandage, stemming the bleeding. When he had completed this makeshift dressing, he dragged himself as best he could under a tree, where he waited for night to fall.
He could hear the cries of joy from the Macedonian camp, muffled in the distance, and off to his left, some two stadia away, he could see the glow of the flames in the Persian camp, now completely ransacked by the enemy.
He cut a branch with his sword and set off at a limp, while out of the darkness came packs of wild dogs to feed from the limbs of the Great King’s soldiers, their bodies already beginning to stiffen in death. He dragged himself on, gritting his teeth against the pain and against the tiredness that threatened to drag him down. As he moved forward he felt the wounded leg grow heavier and heavier, almost a dead weight.
Suddenly he saw a dark shadow there in front of him – a lost horse that was returning to the camp to look for its master and which in the darkness now did not know which way to turn. Memnon shuffled towards it slowly, calling gently and reassuringly, and carefully he stretched out his hand to take the bridle that hung from its neck.
He moved even closer, caressed it and then, with an almighty effort, dragged himself up on to its back and urged it on slowly with his heels. The steed set off at a walk and Memnon, holding on to its mane, guided it towards Zeleia, towards home. He almost fell off more than once during the night, exhausted as he was and having lost so much blood, but the thought of Barsine and his children kept him going, gave him the strength to continue right to the very last spark of energy.
In the first glow of dawn, as he was about to collapse altogether, he saw a group of men in the half-light, armed men cautiously skirting the edge of the wood. Then he heard a voice calling him: ‘Commander, it is us.’ They were four mercenaries from his personal guard, out searching for their leader. He barely recognized them as they moved closer, then he lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes again he found himself surrounded by a patrol of Persian horsemen on a reconnaissance mission to see how far the enemy had penetrated.
‘I am commander Memnon,’ he said in their tongue, ‘and I have survived the Battle of the Granicus together with these valiant friends. Take us home.’
The leader of the patrol jumped to the ground, moved nearer, and then signalled to his men to help him. They laid Memnon under the shade of a tree and gave him something to drink from a flask – his lips were cracked with fever, his body and his face dirty with dried blood, dust and sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead.
‘He has lost a lot of blood,’ said the eldest of his men.
‘Have a cart brought here as quickly as possible,’ the Persian officer ordered his soldiers, ‘together with the Egyptian doctor, if he is still a guest of the nobleman Arsites. And send word to Commander Memnon’s family that we have found him and he is alive.’
The man leaped on to his horse and was swiftly out of sight.
‘What happened?’ the officer asked the mercenaries. ‘We have received conflicting reports.’
The men asked for water, drank and began to tell their tale. ‘It was still dark when they crossed the river and they sent the cavalry against us. Spithridates was forced to counter-attack even though many of his men were simply not ready. We fought to the bitter end, but they overwhelmed us – at one stage we had the Macedonian phalanx in front of us and the cavalry behind us.’
‘I have lost many of my men,’ Memnon admitted, lowering his eyes. ‘Battle-hardened veterans, valiant soldiers I was most fond of. These here with me are among the few I have left
He took a belt from one of the Agrianians and tied it tightly around his leg just below the groin, then he ripped a piece of chiton to use as a bandage, stemming the bleeding. When he had completed this makeshift dressing, he dragged himself as best he could under a tree, where he waited for night to fall.
He could hear the cries of joy from the Macedonian camp, muffled in the distance, and off to his left, some two stadia away, he could see the glow of the flames in the Persian camp, now completely ransacked by the enemy.
He cut a branch with his sword and set off at a limp, while out of the darkness came packs of wild dogs to feed from the limbs of the Great King’s soldiers, their bodies already beginning to stiffen in death. He dragged himself on, gritting his teeth against the pain and against the tiredness that threatened to drag him down. As he moved forward he felt the wounded leg grow heavier and heavier, almost a dead weight.
Suddenly he saw a dark shadow there in front of him – a lost horse that was returning to the camp to look for its master and which in the darkness now did not know which way to turn. Memnon shuffled towards it slowly, calling gently and reassuringly, and carefully he stretched out his hand to take the bridle that hung from its neck.
He moved even closer, caressed it and then, with an almighty effort, dragged himself up on to its back and urged it on slowly with his heels. The steed set off at a walk and Memnon, holding on to its mane, guided it towards Zeleia, towards home. He almost fell off more than once during the night, exhausted as he was and having lost so much blood, but the thought of Barsine and his children kept him going, gave him the strength to continue right to the very last spark of energy.
In the first glow of dawn, as he was about to collapse altogether, he saw a group of men in the half-light, armed men cautiously skirting the edge of the wood. Then he heard a voice calling him: ‘Commander, it is us.’ They were four mercenaries from his personal guard, out searching for their leader. He barely recognized them as they moved closer, then he lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes again he found himself surrounded by a patrol of Persian horsemen on a reconnaissance mission to see how far the enemy had penetrated.
‘I am commander Memnon,’ he said in their tongue, ‘and I have survived the Battle of the Granicus together with these valiant friends. Take us home.’
The leader of the patrol jumped to the ground, moved nearer, and then signalled to his men to help him. They laid Memnon under the shade of a tree and gave him something to drink from a flask – his lips were cracked with fever, his body and his face dirty with dried blood, dust and sweat, his hair stuck to his forehead.
‘He has lost a lot of blood,’ said the eldest of his men.
‘Have a cart brought here as quickly as possible,’ the Persian officer ordered his soldiers, ‘together with the Egyptian doctor, if he is still a guest of the nobleman Arsites. And send word to Commander Memnon’s family that we have found him and he is alive.’
The man leaped on to his horse and was swiftly out of sight.
‘What happened?’ the officer asked the mercenaries. ‘We have received conflicting reports.’
The men asked for water, drank and began to tell their tale. ‘It was still dark when they crossed the river and they sent the cavalry against us. Spithridates was forced to counter-attack even though many of his men were simply not ready. We fought to the bitter end, but they overwhelmed us – at one stage we had the Macedonian phalanx in front of us and the cavalry behind us.’
‘I have lost many of my men,’ Memnon admitted, lowering his eyes. ‘Battle-hardened veterans, valiant soldiers I was most fond of. These here with me are among the few I have left
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