now. Alexander did not even give us a chance to negotiate a surrender – it was clear his men had orders to show no quarter. Our massacre was an example for all those Greeks who dare to oppose him.’
‘And what do you think his plans are exactly?’ asked the Persian officer.
‘If we are to believe what he says, the liberation of the Greek cities of Asia, but I really don’t think that’s it at all. His army is a formidable machine, made ready for a much bigger undertaking.’
‘What would that be?’
Memnon shook his head. ‘I do not know.’
A deathly weariness filled his eyes, a grey pallor lay on his face, despite the fever. He trembled and his teeth chattered.
‘Rest now,’ said the officer, covering him with a cloak. ‘Soon the physician will arrive and we will take you home.’ Memnon, completely exhausted, closed his eyes and fell asleep – a tormented slumber, wracked by pain and nightmarish visions. When the Egyptian finally arrived, Memnon was delirious, shouting out nonsense, in the grip of frightful hallucinations.
The doctor had him laid out on the cart, washed his wound with vinegar and straight wine, sewed it up and bandaged the thigh with clean cloth. He also had him swallow a bitter drink that helped relieve the pain and induced a deeper, more restful sleep. It was then that the Persian officer gave the order for them to start off and the cart moved, creaking and swaying, drawn by a pair of mules.
They reached Zeleia in the dead of night. As soon as Barsine saw the convoy at the end of the roadway, she ran to meet them in tears; but the children, remembering all their father had taught them, stood in silence by the door while the soldiers carried Memnon bodily to his bed.
The whole house was illuminated and there were three Greek physicians in the antechamber waiting to examine the commander. The one who seemed to be the most expert of the three was also the oldest. He came from Adramyttion and his name was Ariston.
The Egyptian physician spoke only Persian and Barsine had to interpret during the consultation, which took place at Memnon’s bedside.
‘When I arrived he had already lost a lot of blood and had spent the whole night on horseback. There are no bones broken, he passes water normally and his pulse is weak, but it is regular and this at least gives us ground for hope. How will you proceed?’
‘Compresses of mallow on the wound and some drainage, if it becomes infected,’ replied Ariston.
His Egyptian colleague nodded. ‘I agree, but have him drink as much as possible. I’d give him some broth as well . . . it’s good for the blood.’
When Barsine had finished translating his words, she led him to the door and put a bag of money in his hand. ‘I am most grateful for all you have done for my husband – without you he might have died.’
The Egyptian accepted the payment with a bow, ‘I have done very little, my Lady. He is as strong as a bull, believe me. He lay there all day hidden among the bodies, losing blood from that wound, and then survived the night in terrible pain – men of such temper are few and far between.’
‘Will he live?’ Barsine asked anxiously, and even the soldiers who looked on in silence had the same question in their eyes.
‘I do not know. When a man’s body receives such a serious wound the vital humours flow and carry with them his soul – this is why his life is in danger. No one knows exactly how much blood Memnon has lost and how much is left in his heart, but make sure he drinks as much as possible because even watered-down blood is better than no blood at all.’
He left, and Barsine returned to the room where the Greek doctors were busying themselves with their patient, preparing herbs and infusions and arranging their surgical instruments in case it proved necessary to drain the wound. The handmaids had undressed him and they cleaned his body and his face with cloths soaked in warm water perfumed with a mint essence.
The
‘And what do you think his plans are exactly?’ asked the Persian officer.
‘If we are to believe what he says, the liberation of the Greek cities of Asia, but I really don’t think that’s it at all. His army is a formidable machine, made ready for a much bigger undertaking.’
‘What would that be?’
Memnon shook his head. ‘I do not know.’
A deathly weariness filled his eyes, a grey pallor lay on his face, despite the fever. He trembled and his teeth chattered.
‘Rest now,’ said the officer, covering him with a cloak. ‘Soon the physician will arrive and we will take you home.’ Memnon, completely exhausted, closed his eyes and fell asleep – a tormented slumber, wracked by pain and nightmarish visions. When the Egyptian finally arrived, Memnon was delirious, shouting out nonsense, in the grip of frightful hallucinations.
The doctor had him laid out on the cart, washed his wound with vinegar and straight wine, sewed it up and bandaged the thigh with clean cloth. He also had him swallow a bitter drink that helped relieve the pain and induced a deeper, more restful sleep. It was then that the Persian officer gave the order for them to start off and the cart moved, creaking and swaying, drawn by a pair of mules.
They reached Zeleia in the dead of night. As soon as Barsine saw the convoy at the end of the roadway, she ran to meet them in tears; but the children, remembering all their father had taught them, stood in silence by the door while the soldiers carried Memnon bodily to his bed.
The whole house was illuminated and there were three Greek physicians in the antechamber waiting to examine the commander. The one who seemed to be the most expert of the three was also the oldest. He came from Adramyttion and his name was Ariston.
The Egyptian physician spoke only Persian and Barsine had to interpret during the consultation, which took place at Memnon’s bedside.
‘When I arrived he had already lost a lot of blood and had spent the whole night on horseback. There are no bones broken, he passes water normally and his pulse is weak, but it is regular and this at least gives us ground for hope. How will you proceed?’
‘Compresses of mallow on the wound and some drainage, if it becomes infected,’ replied Ariston.
His Egyptian colleague nodded. ‘I agree, but have him drink as much as possible. I’d give him some broth as well . . . it’s good for the blood.’
When Barsine had finished translating his words, she led him to the door and put a bag of money in his hand. ‘I am most grateful for all you have done for my husband – without you he might have died.’
The Egyptian accepted the payment with a bow, ‘I have done very little, my Lady. He is as strong as a bull, believe me. He lay there all day hidden among the bodies, losing blood from that wound, and then survived the night in terrible pain – men of such temper are few and far between.’
‘Will he live?’ Barsine asked anxiously, and even the soldiers who looked on in silence had the same question in their eyes.
‘I do not know. When a man’s body receives such a serious wound the vital humours flow and carry with them his soul – this is why his life is in danger. No one knows exactly how much blood Memnon has lost and how much is left in his heart, but make sure he drinks as much as possible because even watered-down blood is better than no blood at all.’
He left, and Barsine returned to the room where the Greek doctors were busying themselves with their patient, preparing herbs and infusions and arranging their surgical instruments in case it proved necessary to drain the wound. The handmaids had undressed him and they cleaned his body and his face with cloths soaked in warm water perfumed with a mint essence.
The
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