“Alexander, my King, my friend, my brother,” began Hephaestion as he turned slowly from Parmenion toward the king. “The enemy is defeated. Those that remain wish to supplicate themselves before you, and seek your pardon and your forgiveness. Your victory is complete. The day is yours, the glory is yours, oh great lord.”
“Aye, lad,” interjected Parmenion. “Your father would be proud. King Philip could not have done better himself!”
Hephaestion glared over his shoulder at Parmenion, indicating by the look in his eyes and his raised eyebrows that the general had said exactly the wrong thing.
“My father is Zeus! I am the son of a god! Time and time again I have told you this, yet again you chide me and taunt me with the name of that drunken, one-eyed gimp who sat on the throne! He was nothing, nothing, you hear me! He was not my father! Zeus is my father, and like my heavenly father I can hurl thunderbolts, earthly thunderbolts at my enemies, do you hear me? Do you!”
Parmenion was about to speak but Hephaestion quickly moved to silence him.
“What Parmenion surely meant, my lord, is that the late king could not have won a more complete victory, and that you have this day indeed surpassed him – again. As for casting thunderbolts, there is no need, for what few of our enemies remain on the field have placed themselves at your mercy.”
“Mercy? Mercy?” Alexander screamed, more agitated, more emotional and angrier than before. “They shall have no mercy, Hephaestion! My father will not allow it! Any Greek who takes up arms against me, takes up arms against all Greece, against the entire Hellenic world, and against my father and the other gods! They had their chance, Hephaestion, they had their chance! I sent messages to all of the Greek cities of Asia Minor, telling them of their coming liberation! And how, and how...” sputtered Alexander, his face purpling with fury, “how did they answer me! They took up arms against me! Against me! No, Hephaestion, they are traitors. They had their chance! They shall have no mercy!”
“But they are soldiers, like us,” said Parmenion, again hoping to calm the young king. “They were merely doing their duty, and now, now they have seen they were on the wrong side. Now they want to surrender – why, their general has even offered his men to us, to fight alongside us for hire...”
“What! He wants us to pay them to serve me!” shouted Alexander, his rage unbounded. “No! I want no hirelings, no paid...”
“But we already have mercenaries from Thrace and...”
“No! Parmenion! No! Kill them, kill them all, and kill them now!”
Alexander continued to spit and sputter and gesticulate wildly, not at Parmenion or Hephaestion, or at anyone in particular, but at someone or something that he, and only he, could see.
“But, my King...” Parmenion started, only to once again be cautioned into silence by Hephaestion. His look of resignation told Parmenion that there would be nothing to gained – and much to be lost – if he spoke further to the king.
“This is not the first time he has been like this,” Hephaestion said quietly beneath his breath, so that only Parmenion could hear. “Ever since that night at Pelium...”
“You mean when that witch, his mother...with the snakes...”
“Exactly. Something...strange...happened in that tent, the night we thought Alexander was going to die...”
“What! What is that you are saying?” screamed Alexander, striding forward, his eyes ablaze. “Why are you all just standing around! I gave an order! Attack, attack! Kill them, kill them all!”
“You heard his majesty,” said Hephaestion sadly and with deep regret in his voice. “Ready the infantry, Parmenion. I need some time to send our cavalry around the flanks and rear of the hill. That way when you begin the assault, Clearchos and his men will have nowhere to run and,” he then added with a whisper, “maybe by then, Alexander will have become himself again.”
Parmenion was stunned, but while he officially outranked Hephaestion, a youth who was no older than his own son, Parmenion saw that the king's best friend was right. This was not the time to challenge Alexander.
“All right. But give it half an hour. I want that officer from Clearchos to have time to get back to his general. I will not have it said that Parmenion does not respect the rules of war, or the sacred inviolable role of a herald, let alone one who came bearing an offer of surrender. Perhaps once we start up that hill they will throw down their spears and shields, and maybe by then the king's blood will have cooled.”
“I hope so, Parmenion, I truly hope so,” sighed Hephaestion.
Dimitrios was both surprised and honored by the professional respect Parmenion showed him, but also stunned by his words. Part of him indeed longed for a chance to fight the hated Macedonians, to sate his vengeance for his lost city, but he understood the decision of Clearchos to surrender, or to even allow any of his men who wished to seek service with the king to do so. To stand and die on this day would change nothing. There would be another day, there had to be another day – or so he had rationalized things while walking towards the Macedonian lines with Clearchos' offer. Now, however, it seemed that today would be the day to fight, for the Macedonian king would see the Greeks on the hill lying dead rather than kneeling before him. Well, said Dimitrios to himself as he marched steadily across the plain and back up the hill to where his own general stood waiting, if I am to die today, at least it will be while fighting Alexander, and fighting in good company.
If Clearchos was surprised by the refusal to discuss terms of surrender, he did not show it. Not even when Omares, whose Persian infantry had run off, rode up to ask if he had been given terms by Alexander.
“It is against all of the rules and conventions of war to refuse quarter to an enemy,” said Omares angrily. “Is there any way you can retreat?”
“No, sir,” Clearchos sighed in response to the Persian commander. “If we try to march away they will ride us down. Better that we stand here, on this good ground, and give as good an account of ourselves as we can. If we blood them enough, Alexander might call them off and reconsider. If not, well, we will at least make him pay a stiff price for his pride.”
Omares was visibly moved by the old general's grit. “Well, then,” he said as he dismounted his richly caparisoned stallion, “if you are going to stand and fight, then allow at least one Persian to stand with you this day.”
“There is no need, Omares,” Clearchos replied. “Go while you can. Ride away. One more corpse will not change things.”
“No,” laughed Omares as he shrugged off his cape and drew his sword from its sheath, “but one more sword might. And if not, well, at least you and your men will know that there is at least one Persian who did not abandon you this day.”
Clearchos, visibly moved, clasped Omares by the shoulder, and nodded in wordless recognition of the Persian commander's courage and nobility. As the Macedonians beat their drums and blew their horns in preparation for their advance, Clearchos called his commanders to his side. To Memnon's sons, Agathon, Thymondas and Xenocrates, he gave orders to ride to freedom, and to their father, while there was still time. Omares seconded that command. The Macedonian light cavalry had already begun to stir, and it would be a quarter of an hour at most before they completed their maneuver to get behind the Greek line. That gave the trio at least a head start on their flight. He even gave Agathon his own horse, for the young man's steed had gone lame. Agathon had bravely offered to stay and fight, as had his brothers, but Clearchos would not be moved. Agathon tried to refuse the general's offer to take his mount, but again, Clearchos would not take 'no' for an answer.
“Please. Take her,” the general said, a tear in his eye as he stroked his mare's face and tugged at her mane. “She has served me well, and has earned her rest, and her freedom. I would take it as a great, personal favor if you see her safely away from here, and give her a green pasture in which to live out her days. Remember me to your father, lads. Tell him I tried to do as he asked, but that the Macedonian king would not even discuss ter
ms. At least we will blood them a little when they come. That much, at least, I can do.”
Thymondas and Xenocrates protested again, but Clearchos warned that he would tie them to their horses and see them led away if they continued to refuse his order. Sullen, they rode off – but at least, as the general said to himself, they did ride off, and that meant they might just get out of this alive. That, he sighed, was more than anyone else on this hill could hope for.
26
The Hill
The Hoplites Line
“Give him his due, Captain, Parmenion knows his craft,” remarked Clearchos as he watched the six Macedonian pike blocks march in lockstep toward the hill. At sixteen-men deep, that central portion of the Macedonian line was twice the depth of the usual hoplites line, and twice again that of Clearchos' formations. The Spartan general had to thin the lines and spread out in order to cover the flanks and rear of the hill as the Macedonians spread around to encircle him. Not only were his lines stretched taught in the face of the massive formations, but the pikes the Macedonians carried were twice as long as the spears held by his own men.
“At least they only have those little shields, no bigger than cooking pans, and only among the front ranks,” mumbled Clearchos, “while our men have real shields – shields that cover them from neck to knee, along with the shoulder of the man next to them. But you have met these lads before, or so I'm told, Captain. So, any suggestions?”
Generals do not ask lesser officers for tactical advice, but Clearchos, who had only been given the command when Ephialtes left at Memnon's request, had never faced a Macedonian pike phalanx before. A veteran soldier of the Spartan warrior class, Clearchos was well-versed in traditional hoplites warfare, and could count the number of times he had stood in a shield wall by the number of scars he bore. He had fought wild barbarian horsemen, pirate raiders from the sea, ax-wielding hill tribes and numerous Greek enemies, sometimes in the name of Sparta, but more often merely for pay. These formations he saw coming toward the hill were not something new – but they were something new to him.
“Parmenion knows I cannot hold the entire crest of the hill without spreading out. It is just too much ground to cover. But the high ground is our only advantage, small enough as it is. Now, if some of the Persian cavalry had stayed around to protect my flanks, perhaps I could have strengthened the line...but not now. See, Captain, they are keeping us focused on the pikes while their shock cavalry moves to our flanks, and their light horse and light infantry filter about our rear. I had hoped they might be distracted by the army's camps, but it seems Parmenion has trained them well – or he has put the fear of the gods in them to keep them from breaking off to loot the tents.”
Dimitrios did not know why the general was saying such things, for in his experience generals usually pranced about behind the lines, giving orders and looking confident. This man, this Spartan, had not only given away his horse, but had planted himself here, spear in hand, front and center – right where the fighting would be heaviest.
“Pardon me, General, but since you asked, those pikes are not invulnerable.”
“Go on, Captain...”
“Those men are very well-trained,” Dimitrios admitted out of respect for his enemy, “but even they must be tired. I was in their camp last night, and even then some were complaining of how long Alexander had kept them on their feet, and at a crippling pace. They marched all day today, fought their way across a slippery river and up a steep bank, and, well, those pikes are heavy and unwieldy as it is. Now they have to hold them at an angle as they come uphill towards us, which will test even their training and endurance. And the slope is uneven – which means that forest of pikes will have gaps in it. We can make those gaps wider if we send a few men into them, and have others use their shields to push the pikes aside from within the gaps. Then, when they are disorganized, we come rushing downhill. We will have the advantage of ground...”
“...and of surprise, as they seem to think we will just stand here and wait to be butchered,” Clearchos responded, as he nodded his head at the captain's suggestion, and looked about at his own line.
“A nice idea in theory, but these men do not know how to fight like that. That is not what they are trained for,” he said sourly.
“Begging your pardon, General,” Aristophanes, who was standing behind Dimitrios and holding the captain's shield and spear, interjected. “Haven't you seen soldiers brawl when they are off duty? When we argue over a woman, or dice, or because we drink too much wine, we don't don our kits and strap on our shields. No, we grab whatever is handy. We know knife and sword every bit as well as spear and shield. Not every battle has to be by the rules – we know how to fight dirty; we do it all the time.”
“Who is this fellow, Captain? Does he not know his place?” said Clearchos testily, obviously insulted by this affront offered by a common soldier.
“Excuse me, General, he is my friend. He, too, has fought the Macedonians before – and while he should know better than to blurt out like that,” Dimitrios added, with a stern look over his shoulder at Ari, “he is right. We don't always fight in a shield wall.”
“All right, Captain. I did ask, and we have nothing – quite literally – nothing else to lose, as I doubt any of us will get off this hill alive anyway. We still have a few minutes. Explain your tactics to my staff officers and they will pass the word as quickly as they can.”
As the staff officers moved down either side of the line, small bands of men moved out of the shield wall to crouch about a dozen yards down the hill, towards the Macedonians. Although they tried to march machine-like toward the Greeks, the pikemen in their tightly packed phalanxes began to stumble, slip and falter here and there as they struggled to keep ranks in the broken ground. What had been an ordered, unbroken, bristling hedgehog of sharp pikes became less and less organized as it advanced. While still a very formidable and menacing sight, it became a bit less so with every step. Seeing their chance, the small groups of Greeks made their move.
The Macedonians were taken by surprise, but although their forward motion was stopped, they did not take a single step backward. Many of the Greeks did get under and inside the reach of the front ranks of pikemen, a number of whom had no choice but to drop their long pikes and reach for the knives and short swords they wore about their waists. The Greeks did have an advantage at first – from the sheer audacity of their attack and from hitting the phalanxes while they were still stumbling about – but it did not last long. The Macedonians were just too well-disciplined to crack, let along break and run. Still, Clearchos saw there was an opportunity to rock them back, and he took it.
The Spartan general took three steps forward out of the shield wall, turned to face his men and raised his spear as high as he could. Looking first to the right, then to the left, he turned about, leveled his spear at the enemy, screamed the Spartan war cry “Au Au!” and took off at a run downhill. A moment later, the rest of the Greek infantry did the same, some shouting the piercing “Alala” or booming “Eleleu,” or some variation specific to their home city.
“Hear me, Alala,” prayed Klemes out loud, echoing the opening words of a verse from his ancestor, Pindar as he watched Dimitrios lead his company into the fray. “Hear me, Alala, daughter of Ares, prelude of the spears, you to whom men fall as offerings for their homeland in death's holy sacrifice.”
Perhaps the goddess heard the words Pindar had crafted so long ago, for, if not her spirit, then something else bolstered the courage of the men on that hill. From a grim band waiting for death to come to them, they had suddenly become the bringers of death themselves – and death they did bring at the point of their knives, swords and spears.
“What is happening? What is happening?” shouted Alexander, who had finally agreed to allow his physicians to cleanse the blood from his face and stitch up his head wound.
“It seems the mercenaries have counter-attacked, Majesty,” one of the king's young aides reported. “They have come
charging down the hill and into our pikes.”
Furious at the Greeks for having the effrontery to do something other than wait patiently to be massacred, Alexander shot up from his camp stool, knocked aside the physician and scattered his instruments about the ground. Woozy from the loss of blood and leaning on the pole that bore his lion standard for balance, Alexander swayed about – but waved off the aides who sought to steady him.
“Bring me Buchephalus and a lance!” the king shouted at no one in particular.
“But, Majesty,” begged the physician who had been treating him, “you are in no condition to...”
Alexander slapped the man with a blow that sent him reeling. “Do not tell me what I can or can't do! I am the King! I am the son of Zeus, and my father will give me strength! Now,” he added, still in an agitated state, “where is my horse!”
Dimitrios had not been among the first wave of skirmishers, though he had longed to be, but such was not the place for a captain of a hundred. That place, that proper place, was in the center of the phalanx, where as many men as possible could see him. Lead from the front, Epaminondas had famously said and done, and lead from the front he would, as had the legendary Theban general before him.
Down the hill he charged, his men screaming their war cries, and headlong they spilled into the disorganized mass of skirmishers and pikes. Pushing and shoving pikes aside, they struggled to close with the Macedonians. So close they could smell the wine on their enemy's breath, the mercenaries jabbed and struck with their spears, and when those spears broke, out came their swords. Then their knives, and finally their fists and even teeth. If the Macedonians were going to treat the Greeks as savages unworthy of mercy, then savages they would be...and savages they became.
A Captain of Thebes Page 17
