All pretense of formation soon fell apart, as the nobles vied with each other to kill the king. Mithdridates got there first, having bulled his way to the front. Alexander got the better of him, and thrusting his lance into the noble's face unhorsed Mithridates, breaking his own lance in the process. At that moment Rhoesaces, brother to Mithridates and an honored knight of the regally-named “One Thousand Kinsmen of the King,” took a mighty swing at Alexander. His heavy, Damascene steel saber came down hard, denting Alexander's helmet and slicing off one of its white plumes. Partially stunned, and with blood streaming down from where the helmet had been struck into his forehead, Alexander wavered – but only for a moment. Taking in hand a spear tossed to him by a bodyguard, the Macedonian king thrust it mightily into Rhoesaces' chest. Alexander put such force behind it that it penetrated his target's breast armor and down Rhoesaces went, clutching the king's spear as he died.
The king's ordeal was not over, far from it. Like a magnet attracting splinters of metal, Alexander drew the Persians toward him. In the heat of the melee, Spithridates burst forward, his long, bright, curved scimitar glistening. A mere sword stroke away was Alexander, now disarmed and unaware of the threat. As the Persian satrap raised himself from his saddle and lifted his arm for the killing blow, a big, burly Macedonian named Cleitos the Black charged up and with a single stroke severed Spithridates' arm at the shoulder. Behind Cleitos came the Royal Guard, adding fresh impetus to the charge of the Companions.
Now effectively leaderless and in increasing disarray, the Persian horse facing Alexander and the Companions broke. As they fled, they exposed the flank of the center line of cavalry. The Macedonians plowed into them, causing the entire Persian center to shudder. Parmenion took note of this, and he knew, instinctively, that this was his moment. Without waiting for an order from the king, Parmenion gave the signal, and with a shout the entire Macedonian line charged into the river. The Persians opposite them, unnerved at having their line broken and with Macedonians now to the front as well as on their flank, fell to pieces. Rather than fall back and retire in good order as Memnon and Ephialtes had hoped against hope that they would, the cavalrymen broke ranks and raced each other to the rear.
“Damn, them, damn them to Hades,” growled Clearchos, as he watched the Persian front line unravel. Only on the extreme left, where Memnon and the Ionian Greek horse were locked in combat, did any part of the front line continue to hold its ground. Thousands of panicked horses and their even more panicked riders scattered seeking safety. Many tried to break through the hoplites line in an effort to take the most direct route away from the Macedonians, but Clearchos would not let them through.
“Hold the line! Hold the line!” he shouted, his commands echoed by Dimitrios and other captains up and down the wall of shields and spears. And hold the line did, as frightened Persian horsemen and herds of now riderless horses flowed down the front of the hoplites line and off to the sides. The horses and riders raced each other to put ground between themselves and the enemy they had recently boasted they would destroy.
As the horsemen fled, so did panic set in among the levy infantry. Held there only by fear of what their landlords and masters would do if they ran, once they saw those same lords and masters in flight what little discipline they had evaporated. Twenty thousand levy infantry threw down their arms and took to their heels, running as fast as they could to follow the example of their fleeing nobles.
There was not only no hope of rallying them or the cavalry – there was noone to rally them. Most of the key Persian commanders were already dead, as they had sought combat one-on-one with the Macedonians, and had not survived. As for the high command, Spithridates was down, Memnon was pinned fighting for his very survival and Arsites was carried away in the tide of fleeing horsemen – or at least so he would claim later when stories of this epic defeat were told. Within the space of half an hour or so, not a single Persian horseman remained to stop the Macedonian advance.
As the dust of the fleeing horses settled, the Macedonians emerged victorious from the river, shouting cries of triumph and jeers at the Persians who had fled before them. Over 30,000 Macedonian pikemen, sword and shield bearers and battle-tested cavalry reformed the line, without a word being given, as if they had practiced this move on the parade ground.
And there, before them, at the top of a gentle slope of rising ground, stood 7,000 Greeks. Dimitrios and his company stood front and center. Riding up and down before them was a rider wildly racing about on a big black horse, the remaining white plumes on his dented helmet wet, dirty and drooping...and the sword in his visibly shaking hand dripping blood.
24
The Long Hill
Clearchos
From his position at the center of the long hill, Dimitrios had an unobstructed, panoramic view of the disintegration and flight of the Persian cavalry. Horsemen from a dozen nations scattered in panic, taking the host of levy infantry with them. What had once been an army of over 50,000 was now reduced to barely 7,000 – all of them Greeks of one sort or another. As the dust and noise of their flight settled, a lone rider approached the hill from the south and east.
Although obviously a Greek from his dress and armor, he carried a Persian banner, its long serpentine tail fluttering behind. The horseman rode at full gallop up to the center of the hill, rearing up and came to a bone-jarring halt only steps away from Clearchos. He dropped the battered banner down into the dust before the general's feet. Without a word and without dismounting he stretched out his hand and shoved the scroll he had been carrying in his pouch in the direction of the mercenary general. Clearchos did not move forward or speak, but merely motioned to Dimitrios, the officer nearest to the rider other than himself. The Theban captain stepped forward and the instant his fingers touched the scroll, the rider, who seemed as frightened as he was relieved to have delivered the message, kicked his heels into the horse's flanks and galloped off as if his life depended on it – which, of course, it did.
“I fear I know what it says, Captain Dimitrios,” said Clearchos calmly, with a sense of resignation in his voice, “but if you would please read it out loud.”
“General Clearchos, as you are no doubt aware...”
“Louder, Captain,” barked the Greek mercenary commander. “I want all of my officers assembled here to hear every word of this message.”
Dimitrios swallowed hard, cleared his throat and read out the message in a booming voice: “General Clearchos, as you are no doubt aware, the Persian cavalry have been defeated and have been scattered. Much of my own cavalry force was borne away in their flight. What numbers I have left are such that I cannot offer you any support, or hope. The day is lost. If you can retreat, do so. If not, then in the name of the great king I release you and your men from royal service. Do not throw away your lives uselessly. You have my permission – even my encouragement – to accept whatever terms of surrender King Alexander sees fit to offer. Memnon.”
“Here, let me have that, Captain,” said the general, offering his hand, palm up to take the scroll. The general perused it briefly, and carefully rolled it up. Clearchos took a deep breath, muttered a vile, angry curse and then suddenly hurled the scroll to the ground. With obvious effort he drew himself up and motioned for Dimitrios to come closer.
“Well, Captain, you heard the orders. Go see if you can find a large olive branch or something else to identify you as a herald. When you do, take a couple of men and march that way,” he added, pointing to the west, where the Macedonian army was reforming. “You've been able to pick out their king earlier this day. So go and find him again. Tell him I wish to parlay. If he presses you as to why, tell him that there is no need for more blood, especially Greek blood, to be shed on this field. Tell him I am willing...willing,” he said, pausing as he forced himself to say those words no general, no Greek and certainly no Spartan like himself ever thought he would have to utter, “willing to discuss terms of our surrender.”
Even though Dimit
rios understood what Clearchos was ordering him to do, the thought of crossing the plain and begging Alexander for mercy made him shudder to his core. “Begging your pardon, General,” replied Dimitrios, “but I did not surrender when that tyrant burned my city and razed it to the ground, and I will not surrender to him now. My spear has not tasted blood this day, and she is very thirsty.”
Clearchos glowered at the young Theban captain. Marshalling his very considerable authority, the mercenary general stared at him, his eyes ablaze with a cold fire beyond anger.
“Captain Dimitrios. Are you a soldier, or are you not?”
“Yes...yes General, of course, General,” said Dimitrios, taken aback by the question.
“Then do as your general commands,” he roared. And then, in a quieter voice, almost to himself but just loud enough for Dimitrios to hear, “as I, too, have been ordered.”
“But General, sir, we have 7,000 good men here...”
“No, Captain. It is not 'we' who have 7,000 good men here. It is I, and I alone, who have men here. I am responsible for them, and Memnon has made it known that I am now solely responsible for them. My first duty is no longer to Memnon or to the Persian king, but to these men – my men. As Memnon has rightly written, and by the rules of war, the time for battle is over. Much as I would like to go home dead in glory on my shield rather than carrying it back in disgrace, this is not Thermopylae, I am not Leonidas, and these are not my personal bodyguard. I will not order, or even ask, these men to die for nothing.
“Look out there, at the Macedonians and their long pikes, their mass of heavy cavalry, and their Greek and Thracian hirelings. They outnumber us five to one, and I will not sentence these men to certain death. So, Captain, will you be a soldier for at least another hour or so, and obey my command? Or do I need to find someone else to do so?”
Conflicting emotions warred within the mind and heart of Dimitrios. The citizen-soldier in him was conditioned to obey orders. The Theban exile, however, wanted revenge – and to both, the warrior and the expatriate, the thought of surrender was anathema.
“Well, Captain?” asked the general one more time, his patience obviously wearing thin.
“As you command, my General, so shall I obey,” Dimitrios found himself responding. He was not aware of the words coming out of his mouth until he heard them with his own ears, but of course once he had said them, there was no taking them back. He offered the general his salute and then marched back over the hill to the camp. There he would surely find an olive branch or something suitable, as the general had directed. By the time he had returned, a scribe had written down the general's reply and sealed it. Clearchos had told Dimitrios to take a pair of men with him, making him the leader of a delegation rather than a mere messenger. Dimitrios could think of no better men to have at his side to bolster his courage for this mission than his brother and his best friend.
The Macedonian officer who rode out to meet Dimitrios, Klemes and Aristophanes as they crossed the plain was obviously an aristocrat, and not just because of the ornate and obviously expensive trappings of his horse or the gleaming bronze of his well-oiled armor. He rode high, his back stiff as a spear and his knees tightly gripping the body of his horse, a horse that pranced as if on a parade ground rather than one directed to walk across a battlefield. After listening to Dimitrios' request to be taken to the king, he refused to do so until the captain first spoke that message to him. Satisfied, the officer and horse each gave a dismissive snort and turned about. Without looking back over his shoulder, the officer lazily waved his hand in a signal that obviously meant “follow me.”
Silently, the trio complied. Klemes lowered the branch – not that of an olive tree but at least something with green leaves. Dimitrios strode forward, forcing himself to remain calm and dignified, as if, like the officer's horse, he, too, was on parade. Aristophanes limped along behind, not really sure why he was there, other than that Dimitrios had said he needed two volunteers as the general had directed. Klemes and Aristophanes did not volunteer; they did not have too. As soon as Dimitrios told them his orders, they just automatically fell in behind him.
As the officer moved forward, the files of the phalanx before him parted, opening to the sides like drapes to reveal a narrow corridor, a corridor down which he rode haughtily, with the three Greeks falling in step behind. The Macedonians had reformed into their traditional 16-deep files, Dimitrios noted, as they no longer needed to worry about covering a wide front or wading through a river. Slaves moved about the lines, offering chunks of bread or some wine to the soldiers, which he noted they poured into the cupped hands of the men, who drank greedily. The men, he also noted, were still in a battle formation, not a marching one, as they had not set down their pikes, set aside their shields or removed their helmets or other gear. These men were getting ready for another battle, and they wanted the mercenaries on the hill to know it.
“Where are they taking us?” Aristophanes whispered to Dimitrios. “Aren't we going to see the king?”
“I doubt it,” Klemes answered for his brother. “We are merely message bearers. We'll probably talk to some minor official from the king's court, or maybe one of the lesser generals.”
Klemes, however, was wrong. As the last of the pikemen parted, the trio came face to face with a burly, bald, and obviously battle-hardened soldier. He was obviously a high-ranking officer at that, as his dented, dirty but still very high quality armor, flowing cape and plumed helmet in his hand gave evidence. Dimitrios halted a few steps from the officer, gave a formal and respectful salute, and handed him the scroll.
The officer directed a man on his right, who appeared to be of similar rank to Dimitrios, to take the scroll. The officer unrolled it and read it, first silently, and then aloud. The senior officer nodded, and with a very little yet very satisfied smile, looked Dimitrios in the eye.
“My officer, here, will see to you. I regret we cannot offer you any comforts, or even some shade in which to rest, but we will have some watered wine and bread brought to you while you rest. It should only be a short wait, as I will take your general's offer directly to the king. The decision is his, of course, but, personally, I commend your general on his good sense. When you return with the king's answer, you can tell him that I for one am glad that no more Greek or Macedonian blood need be spilled today.”
As the general departed and the junior officer escorted them behind the line, Aristophanes asked of him: “Sir, who was that officer? Is he anyone of note?”
“You could say that, soldier, you could say that,” the young officer laughed. “That was the grizzled old lion of Macedonia himself. That was Parmenion.”
25
Behind the Macedonian Line
The Lion Standard
Parmenion was beaming with a triumphant joyfulness as he strode to the makeshift headquarters that Hephaestion had set up for the king. While grooms attended to the king's charger, Bucephalus, Alexander, obviously agitated, nervously paced back and forth, mumbling something in some language none around him could quite make out. As Parmenion approached, however, the king took note and called out angrily:
“What is the delay, Parmenion! Why have we stopped moving forward! The day is not yet ours and the light is fading! We have to kill them, kill them now, before they get away!”
Parmenion recoiled briefly in shock and surprise, as the king's face was covered with blood, some still oozing from a clotting but obviously deep cut across his forehead. But it was not the blood as much as the eyes that struck Parmenion – they were wild. Still, he did not let the king's strange look, bloody face or furious words diminish his own joy. “We have stopped to dress ranks and reorder the troops, Lord. And the day is indeed ours. The Persian cavalry has fled, their levies have run off and those men on the hill...”
“Yes! Yes! Exactly!” Alexander screamed madly, his eyes wide and wild and furious and staring off into space. “Why are they still there? Kill them! Kill them all, Parmenion!”
&nbs
p; “We do not have to waste men to do that,” said Parmenion, forcing a smile in an effort to calm the king. “They want to surrender. They have asked for terms. Here, see for yourself...” he said with a smile as he reached out to give the king Clearchos' scroll.
“Terms! They want terms! They shall have no terms, Parmenion! I do not bargain with traitors! Kill them! Kill them now, Parmenion, now!!!”
Parmenion was once again taken aback by the intensity and fury of the king's words – not to mention his look, which was that of a crazed, irrational creature the likes of which he had never seen before. And the eyes – the eyes were not, well, not quite...human. They looked like those of a snake – and a snake about to devour its prey.
Hephaestion moved between the general and Alexander, who continued to rage about traitors and Zeus and blood and other things that were hard to follow. He put his palm on Parmenion's shoulder, and with the other hand raised a finger to the old general's lips, to indicate that he should hold his tongue.
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