“All the more reason why we should be out there in front...”
“Yes, but at least with your men standing on this hill, maybe they can give the Persians who survive the first part of the battle something to fall back to. A place to get away to, to rally behind, and to fight another day. It is for that other day that I need your help. Go back to the coastal cities. Raise and train new troops. Put their defenses in order. If we lose here at the Granicos tomorrow, as I fear we will, we will at least have Sardis, Miletos and even Halicarnassos to fall back to. Those long pikes of the Macedonians may be hell on a battlefield, but they will be of no use against the stone walls of those cities. Cities you must turn into fortresses, impregnable fortresses. We will wear him out before their walls, and force him to expend time and men laying siege to each one. If those cities are properly fortified, we can slow him down, keep him busy for years – and maybe even stop him cold, or at least exhaust him enough to negotiate a peace. And if that does not do it, those cities may keep him so busy that I can slip into Greece or even Macedonia with the fleet and an army.”
“You always did see the big picture, Memnon,” acknowledged Ephialtes. “I am a simple soldier. I see an enemy across the field, but you look beyond. I fight battles, but you, you fight wars.”
Memnon took the compliment with a gracious nod. “So, rather than die gloriously on the field of a battle that is lost before it begins, will you live and help me win a war? Will you do that? If not for Persia, where we have made a home, or for your beloved Athens, which has had to bow its noble head to the Macedonians, will you swallow your pride and do what I ask, what I need, for our families...and for an old friend?”
Memnon could not tell if the tears he saw welling up in Ephialtes' eyes were tears of disappointment or shame from not being allowed to stand and fight, or of some deeper emotional response. Either way, the old general nodded in acceptance of his orders. Words, however, failed him. So choked with emotion was Ephialtes, that all he could do was come forward and briefly embrace his old friend, and commander. Pulling back almost immediately, Ephialtes brought himself to parade-ground attention, struck his chest with his fist in a salute so powerful that the bronze of his breastplate sang as if it had been struck by an armorer's hammer.
“As you command, General Memnon, so it shall be. I ask but one boon of you.”
“If it is in my power to grant, considered it already given. Of what do you ask of me?”
Ephialtes looked his friend directly in the eyes, and with a slight but knowing smile, replied simply: “Don't die tomorrow. Just don't fucking die.”
23
The River Granicos
The Mercenary Line
From his position in the center of the Greek mercenary line atop the long hill to the east of the Granicos, Dimitrios had an unimpeded view of the arena in which the battle he longed for would be fought.
To his left and right were the serried ranks of hoplites in the Great King's service. Here were thousands of soldiers-of-fortune, freebooters, adventurers, hired thugs, exiles, refugees with nowhere else to go and men with no other prospects but to fight for pay. These men from mainland Greece and her colonies among the islands of the Aegean and the shores of Asia Minor had little in common with each other, save that they had chosen to be here this day. Their loyalty bought with Persian gold, they bound their lives and honor not to a crown or to a cause, but only to each other. True, there were a few who, like Dimitrios, had a score to settle, a thirst for revenge that could only be quenched in Macedonian blood. But for most in that armored line nearly 7,000 strong, they were there because this was the only place they believed they could be, doing the only job they felt they were suited for, or able to get.
Behind them were the gaudy, gilded and carpeted tents of the Persian aristocracy, most of whom had actually never been to the Aryan homelands of the king of kings they served. They, and even their fathers and grandfathers, had been born in Asia Minor. Descendants of conquerors rather than conquerors themselves, few had ever borne bow or lance except in the hunt, or swung a sword or mace, except in practice. Proud, arrogant and boastful of the deeds they believed they would do, these noble warriors and their household retainers had ridden out from their lavish tents that morning to line the east bank of the meandering, curving Granicos.
Dimitrios already knew most of their leaders and provinces of origin from studying their banners and the manner of their equipment. Immediately to his front, in the center of that two-mile-long line of 20,000 horsemen, were those local nobles, clad in layers of linen and silk, and armed with an assortment of swords, scimitars, maces, battle axes, hammers, javelins, darts and, as with all of the Persian cavalry, bows. To their right were horse archers from Bactria, and wild horsemen from the distant steppes, the later led by one Rheomithres. To the left of the nobles were the Hyrcanians, mounted mercenaries from the shores of the sea of the same name, under the prideful Spithridates, satrap of Ionia. Rumor had it in the camp that Spithridates had boasted that he would seek out Alexander for single combat, and that he could take off his head with a single stroke of his blade.
To the left of Spithridates stood the Paphlagonian heavy cavalry of Arsites – the Phrygian satrap who had stolen command of the army from Memnon. Even though it had been by the order of Darius himself, king of kings, that the Greek general be given responsibility for the defense of the empire against the Macedonians, Arsites and his fellow satraps had bristled at this insult, as they saw it. No one of the true blood should ever have to take orders from some Greek, and a mercenary Greek at that.
Although still in titular overall command, Memnon could issue no order that Spithridates, Arsites or Arsames would follow unless they perceived it as being their idea. Arsames, with his Cilicians, claimed that part of the line to the left of Arsites. They relegated Memnon and the 500 mounted Greek colonists from the cities of Asia Minor to the far left of the line – a vantage point from which he could neither view nor direct the course of any unit but his own.
Back on the hill where Dimitrios and his company were placed, Dimitrios could see the last, more numerous and least-valued troops in the army. Nearly 20,000 levy infantry lolled about just behind the Greeks. Untrained, armed with an assortment of weapons and farm implements, these men accounted for more than half of the numbers in the army. Disdained even by the nobles who called them to arms, they were the least willing combatants on either side. Called up by satraps, nobles and landowners who purely for pride's sake competed to show who could bring the greater numbers to the field, no one, least of all those nobles, expected them to actually fight. In that at least, thought Dimitrios, Arsites and Memnon were of one mind.
As Ephialtes and Memnon had already determined, the deployment of the army did not make best use of either the heavy mercenary infantry or the fast, mobile, missile-armed cavalry. Still, if handled properly, with the cavalry eventually drawing back to the flanks of the Greek infantry, all could be saved. Steadfast on the hill, their flanks secured by the Persian horse, the Greeks would be an immovable object, a wall of iron and bronze against which the Macedonians would not only butt their heads, but have to struggle out of a river and uphill to do so. Then, at the right moment, the Greeks could charge downhill while the cavalry swept in from the sides, a combination that would rudely shove the Macedonians back over the steep banks and into the slippery waters of the Granicos. That was where the real slaughtering would be done.
Unfortunately, however, as Memnon and Ephialtes knew, no such order would or could be given, or would be obeyed even if it were. The Persian nobles in their unwavering pride were determined to fight and win on their own, with the infantry serving merely as an audience to cheer them on and applaud their inevitable victory.
The Persian commanders had needed all day to move their men into position. The army thus had risen just before dawn, with most units given little or no time to cook breakfast. For hours upon hours the host of men and horses had stood in the full heat of the day, wa
iting for the Macedonians. Finally, as the day turned to evening, their opponents arrived upon the field.
As a citizen-soldier who had spent many a day on the drill field at Thebes, Dimitrios could appreciate the way Alexander moved and deployed his army. Most armies would set up camp, but Alexander instead directed his formations to move from a single column of march into a battle line. The head of the column divided in two; with the Greek allied, Thracian and Thessalian horse marching out in a column to their left and the Companion and Paeonian cavalry, light infantry and archers splitting off to their right. Once the head of each of these had reached the spot opposite the ends of the Persian line, they simply halted and turned to face their foes. While these fast-moving troops spread out, up into the center came the solid mass of heavy infantry – the Macedonian phalanxes – six massive blocks of pikemen. These also peeled off to either side, with the regiment of Shield-bearers, the Hypaspistes, at the far right of the infantry line. They would be the unbreakable link between the heavy infantry center and the cavalry of the Macedonian right. They would form the base for the maneuvers of the Royal Squadron and the Companion cavalry, whom everyone knew Alexander himself would lead into battle.
This time, however, rather than have the Companions to their right, Alexander had inserted the elite of his light cavalry between the Shield-bearers and the Companions. The Thracians, at whose hands Dimitrios and his company had suffered during Alexander's approach to Thebes, and the Prodromoi, another crack band of light horsemen, took position in this part of the line. Dimitrios thought this highly unusual, for such light horse never stood in the main line of battle, but operated on the wings, where their speed could allow them to capitalize on an enemy mistake – or get out of trouble if things went wrong.
At first Dimitrios thought that this was just for show. A martial display meant to match and overawe the Persians. He, Ari and Klemes had covered the ten miles from the Macedonian camp back to the Granicos last night, but without any armor or weapons to weigh them down. Alexander's men had to make that trip in the heat of the afternoon, and burdened with full kit. This late in the day any other army surely would normally stop, set up camp, and then retire to it, to cook an evening meal and rest up for battle in the morning. That is the way it had always been done, by the book and by common practice. What general would be so foolish as to tire out an army by marching all day and then send them directly into battle? It simply was not done. It simply was not possible.
Yet that is exactly what happened.
Standing on a low hill to the west and south, Alexander watched as his army moved with precision from line of march to line of battle. His most senior general, Parmenion, beamed with pride, for it was he and his friend, the late King Philip, who had trained these men. Their movements going into and out of formations had been choreographed and practiced over and over and over again for years.
“Splendid, are they not my king?” His statement more exclamatory than interrogatory, Parmenion nevertheless longed to hear some words of praise from Alexander.
“Yes, splendid indeed,” murmured Alexander in reply. “But we don't have many hours of light left, so we had each better get to our posts for the attack.”
“Pardon me, my king,” asked Parmenion, “but what do you mean 'attack.' They have been marching all day. They are hungry, thirsty and tired, and will not be at their best. Now that we have shown the Persians what a real army is like, let the fear of it creep into their minds and souls – such souls as they have. I would let our soldiers make camp and attack in the morning, when they are fresh, fed and well-rested. Besides, why fight our way across a river when we can go around it. I would go downstream in the morning, and maneuver them out of their position – and get them while they are on the hop.”
“Yes, that is what you would do – and what I would do, if I were Parmenion,” said the young king with a smile as he reached for his helmet. “But I am not Parmenion. I am Alexander,” he added with a little laugh. “After all, if I did not hesitate to cross the stormy waters of the Hellespont, why should I let that little trickling stream slow me down? To allow the Granicos to do so would but cast dishonor on the Hellespont, would it not?” the young king added with an impish grin. “Besides, the enemy are here, now. Today they offer us battle, whereas tomorrow they might move off – then we'd have to chase them down. So come now, Parmenion, to your station on the left, as always, while I go to the right.”
“Lord,” Parmenion said as he moved to block Alexander from the king's beloved steed, Bucephalos, “should we not make a plan, first. Do I just attack straight across the river?”
“No, at least not until I give the signal. As for a plan, leave that to me. I have it clear in my mind what to do, and will not waste any more of the light in explaining it. Just wait for my order.”
“And if this plan you are keeping to yourself doesn't play out?” asked the old general.
“Then I will come up with a new one that will.”
The king gave Parmenion no time to respond. He laughed and gleefully leaped up onto the back of his massive stallion. After whispering something into Bucephalus's ear off they rode, leaving Parmenion and the other generals to watch his dust. “Well then,” sighed Parmenion, “you heard him; off to your posts.”
“Who is that fool with all of the white plumes on his helmet?” Clearchos asked as he saw a lone rider on a big black horse leave the hill on the far side of the river.
“That, my general, would be Alexander,” said Dimitrios, whose company stood at the general's back in the center of the line.
“Are your eyes that sharp, captain?” said the general in chiding disbelief.
“No, but I recognize that horse, and that armor. I've seen it before,” replied the captain.
“Oh, yes, Ephialtes mentioned something about you being at Thebes or whatnot,” said Clearchos as he peered harder to make out the man on horseback.
“Yes, general,” replied Dimitrios. “I saw him up close.”
“Obviously not close enough,” harrumphed the general, “or at least not close enough to skewer the little bully with your spear. Would that you had been, then we would not be in this mess.”
Dimitrios knew that to respond to the general's comment would serve no purpose, only to further agitate him. That Clearchos saw the same flaws in the Persian plan as he himself had observed increased the esteem in which he held his general – but only made his own concerns worse.
“I have a very bad feeling about this,” mumbled Clearchos, kicking a clod of earth with his boot. “A very bad feeling. If they are coming across the river today, now, it is we who should be down there to meet them, not these perfumed Persian peacocks on their pretty prancing ponies.”
Dimitrios and many of the other officers and even some of the men in the ranks allowed themselves a grin or a little laugh at the general's remark, but immediately realized their mistake in doing so when Clearchos angrily spun about to face them.
“You think this is funny? Do let me in on the joke then, why don't you?”
None of the officers replied. Most, like Dimitrios, just looked down at their feet, or to the side, too embarrassed to look their general in the eyes, let alone further spark his ire.
“I thought not,” said the general sternly. “Let us do our duty and maintain ourselves in readiness, just in case someone in charge has the good sense to let us do what we were paid to do.”
The Macedonians did not charge headlong into the river, at least not everywhere, as the Persians had somehow and naively thought they would. Most of the Macedonian army just stood their ground, on their side of the river, just out of range of the short bows of the mounted Persians. Dimitrios noticed that Alexander continued to spread out to the flanks, even halving his usual 16-rank deep pike formations to files of only eight men. With a marsh to the north and another river feeding into the Granicos from the south, Alexander filled that space so that there was no opportunity for the Persians to try their usual trick of sendin
g out horse archers to harry the flanks.
The Macedonians cheered and jeered and made a lot of noise, but only in one spot did they attack – and not with pike-carrying infantry or heavy cavalry, but with the light horse and some peltastes – lightly armed, fast infantry trained to fight alongside the horsemen. Alexander sent his Thracian and Prodromoi light cavalry and the peltastes into the river at a spot just to the left of the Persian center. The Persians happily met this band of horsemen and the light infantry that had come along with them with a hail of arrows. Flight after flight of these deadly projectiles rained down on the Macedonians as they entered and began to cross the river. The closer they got to the Persian side, the heavier became the storm, as the Persian nobles lowered their bows to fire directly at the oncoming Macedonians. As Alexander's men kept coming forward, the Persians shifted to javelins, causing even more casualties among the advancing enemy.
Undeterred by this shower of missiles, Alexander's light horsemen came on – but found little footing for their horses where the water met the steep and muddy bank. After a few minutes of this punishment, the Thracians and Prodromi, who were not trained for such close action, began to fall back, although in moderately good order. Rather than hold their superior, commanding position at the top of the bank, however, the Persian nobles did just what Alexander – and Memnon, and Ephialtes and even a lowly captain like Dimitrios – knew they would do. They left the high ground and gave chase.
Down the bank and into the river the Cilician and Paphlagonian cavalry streamed. Their blood up, they were crying shouts of victory and calling out their own names, the better so that their opponents and the gods above would know to whom the glory should accrue.
That was when Alexander struck.
This was the opening Alexander had planned, waited and wished for. He led the Companion cavalry down into the river, turned them to face upstream, and charged, lances lowered, straight into the left flank of the Persian horse. Those Persians in the river did not have a chance. They were either bowled over or swept away. As they fled, Alexander and his Companions gained the spot at the top of the bank that the headstrong Persians had abandoned. Memnon tried to shift his men to reform the line, but by now Alexander's right wing of mixed horse and foot were crossing in support of the king, drawing Memnon's own squadrons into the fray. Then Mithridates, one of the many son-in-laws of King Darius and commander of several squadrons of Cilicians, hurled his men into a headlong and disorganized charge. So did Spithridates, both of them blindly drawn forward by the white plumes of Alexander's helmet.
A Captain of Thebes Page 15
