To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  Gods, why won’t they desist? They’re only a diversion after all; do they really want to get themselves killed as a mere diversion? He risked a glance to the west to see that the ram in its leather-roofed housing had now disappeared around the corner on its slow trundle to the main gates. ‘Take command here,’ Antipatros shouted to the chiliarch; he winced as a slingshot glanced off his helmet with a deafening clang and, crouching low, made his way to the steps leading down from the wall.

  ‘Relieve them as soon as there’s a lull in the fighting,’ Antipatros ordered the full-bearded officer commanding the reserve waiting at the foot of the steps. ‘I imagine they’ll withdraw soon as they’re just about to achieve their objective of getting a ram to the gates.’

  With a curt nod acknowledging the officer’s salute and, detailing two men to escort him, Antipatros stalked off through the narrow streets of Lamia towards the main gates.

  Despite the fact that the city was under siege and, indeed, was even now being assaulted, life proceeded, as far as possible, as normal. Craftsmen carried on their trade in open-fronted workshops, using stockpiled materials kept aside for exactly times such as this. Cobblers stitched sandals, blacksmiths beat on their anvils, washerwomen scrubbed on ridged boards bringing a sense of unreality to Antipatros as he walked past them, having just been killing men not more than a couple of hundred heartbeats previously. But then he reflected that the people of Lamia must be well used to war due to their geographical position astride the only feasible route for an army travelling between the north and the south. How many of them still have hidden supplies of food, I wonder. It’s getting very close to the point where I shall have no choice but to start raiding people’s homes so that I can feed my men. With this gloomy thought, and ignoring the anti-Macedonian taunts aimed at him by faceless men in the crowds, Antipatros walked into the agora alive with market stalls selling most things that would be expected other than food – at least openly for, despite his edict that all foodstuffs were to be distributed through his quartermasters, Antipatros knew that meat and grain could be obtained under the counter in the agora. ‘No, I don’t want to buy one of your hats,’ Antipatros snarled at an importunate trader’s son, shrugging off the lad’s hand as he tried to grab his shoulder and following it up with a clip around the ear.

  ‘Macedonian savage!’ the boy shouted, ducking away into the safety of the crowd.

  ‘Uncouth barbarian,’ another disembodied voice called out; it was followed by a volley of similar cries reflecting the Greek disdain for their northern overlords.

  Brooding on the fact that the people of Lamia would soon have every Macedonian in the city murdered in their beds if it were not for the business that a besieged army brought, Antipatros fended off another couple of market-stall holders and pushed his way through the jeering crowds into the wide thoroughfare that led from the agora to the main gates.

  ‘How are they holding?’ Antipatros asked Magas as he arrived at the gate-tower to the resounding report of the iron-headed ram pounding on wood.

  ‘They’ll hold for a while,’ Magas replied, pointing at the reinforcing metal bars wedged into place all the way down the gates, ‘long enough for us to get above the gate and fry a few of the bastards operating the ram. Get your arses up there!’ he bellowed at a body of men wearing thick gloves and carrying eight steaming cauldrons of heated oil between them. ‘Run, don’t walk!’ He turned back to Antipatros. ‘The archers can’t penetrate the leather roof of the housing so I’m going to try and set fire to it and roast the buggers out.’

  ‘That’ll do it. It beats me why Leosthenes ordered such a large-scale attack having just sat on his arse for the last few months trying to starve us out with no more than an occasional assault more for appearance’s sake and to keep his men sharp.’

  ‘Perhaps he was bored and thought that a large-scale attack might pass the time.’

  Antipatros winced as another blow thundered onto the gates and was relieved so see them standing firm. ‘It’s an expensive way to do that. His losses are already in the hundreds.’

  ‘Less men to pay; they’re mostly mercenaries after all, aren’t they?’

  ‘Most of them, yes; but he’s using the Athenian citizens as the diversion and they’re taking the brunt of the casualties.’

  Magas shrugged as they mounted the steps in front of the men struggling with the hot oil. ‘Then perhaps he’s been told to get a move on by his political masters.’

  ‘That’s what I was wondering; and the only thing that I can think of that would cause them to do that is if they know that either Leonnatus or Krateros are on their way to break the siege.’

  ‘Or both.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  The tower above the gates was crowded with archers, mainly Cretan mercenaries who had been long in Antipatros’ pay; a couple of light bolt-shooters stood at either corner.

  ‘Move! Move!’ Magas shouted, kicking men out of the way. ‘Hot oil coming through. Hot oil! Hot oil, you slugs.’ He barged his way to the parapet. ‘Get your men back,’ he ordered the Cretan officer, ‘and then stand by to pick them off as they run. That goes for you artillery lads as well.’

  Antipatros grabbed a discarded shield and holding it in front of his head leant over and looked through a crenellation down onto the ram. Huge it was, the trunk of an aged tree grown tall and thick; its iron-bound head visible as it crunched forward from under its leather housing to pound once more on the gates.

  Slingshot cracked onto Antipatros’ shield and he stepped away from the edge as the cauldrons were brought up to the parapet. ‘That’ll do no good, Magas. The crew is completely protected by the roof. The oil will just slop down to either side.’

  ‘Which will be fine. Now, pour them!’

  The first four cauldrons were tipped forward, disgorging steaming oil that would take the flesh off all whom it touched, except, as Antipatros had predicted, it touched no one, such was the durability of the leather roof.

  ‘Now, you four!’ Magas shouted.

  With a growing sense of urgency as the rhythm of the ram increased, the last cauldrons of oil were tipped onto the ram below; Antipatros risked another look down as the Cretan officer brought his men back now that the parapet was again clear. The leather roof was slimed with the oil but all beneath it were untouched; however, the incline leading up to the gates was forcing the oil to flow down the length of the housing.

  Grim beneath their broad-brimmed leather hats, the Cretans nocked arrows and awaited further commands as fire-raisers ran forward.

  ‘Now!’ Magas shouted.

  Half a dozen burning torches were lobbed down and, within a few moments, Antipatros was rewarded with a waft of searing flame as the oil exploded into an instant inferno covering the roof and dripping down the side like a flaming curtain. Shrieks erupted from within the housing and, an instant later, the first of the crew pelted out from its rear. Bowstrings thrummed as the Cretans, masters of their weapon, picked off man after man fleeing the flames. Screams rose through the air as the crew toward the front of the ram were forced to try their luck diving out through the curtain of dripping flame; oil caught their tunics and hair and clung to naked skin, blistering and peeling as all the while, from above, the arrows thumped in with unerring accuracy. For more than a few, writhing on the ground, consumed by fire, the thump of a shaft in their chests was a mercy; Antipatros noted with approval that the archers never let a burning man suffer for long as all who had ever partaken in a siege knew the fear of fire from above and had witnessed the agonies of a burning death: a death deserved by no man in war, not even one’s enemy and especially not a fellow mercenary.

  ‘That’s cleared the bastards out,’ Magas shouted, his eyes wild with the thrill of victory as the Cretans continued taking down anyone within range.

  Antipatros surveyed the field through the smoke of the burning ram: between the gates and the siege-lines the Greek units waiting to storm through the broken gates were now pulling back
; the din of the attempted escalade of the south walls had lessened. It was as he was about to turn and walk away, with a view to seeking the comfort of some sour wine and a meagre portion of twice-baked bread, that a cavalry horn screeched through the air. Straight in front of the gates, two hundred paces away on the siege lines, a horseman appeared, crouching low on his mount. To Antipatros’ left was the source of the call: with cloaks billowing out behind them a unit of two dozen cavalry swept across the siege lines, aiming to cut off the lone rider.

  ‘Give him cover,’ Antipatros ordered the Cretans and artillerymen.

  It was the bolt-shooters, with their superior range, that released first, sending missiles half the height of a man hissing towards the pursuing cavalry as the horseman urged his mount on to greater exertion between two units of withdrawing hoplites; such was his speed and surprise that none of the infantrymen challenged his progress.

  ‘Stand by to open the postern-gate,’ Antipatros ordered the captain of the guard below.

  With bulging arm muscles, the artillery crews wracked back the torsion-arms of their pieces and slotted bolts into the groove. The release catches were triggered and the arms slammed forward into the restraining uprights, hurling the missiles forward. Shading his eyes, Antipatros followed their trajectory, marvelling at the accuracy of the crews against a moving target; one bolt slammed into the ground in the midst of the cavalry tripping a beast, which in turn brought down another, whilst the second plunged into the rump of a galloping horse, causing it to rear, forelegs thrashing at the air in its agony, as the rider tried, but failed, to cling to its back. But still they came on in their bid to prevent the first man to break the siege since the circumvallation was complete. Again the crews strained to reload their weapons as the Cretans began to nock arrows, for the Greek cavalry was approaching their range. With another two dull thumps the bolts accelerated away, one to pass right over the nearing Greeks as the second took a rider completely from his mount; a white mount, Antipatros noted, recalling that of Leosthenes on the day they had parleyed. The Cretans began to send shaft after shaft at the approaching cavalry who soon reined in and kicked their horses away as another two artillery bolts hissed into the ground behind them, causing no damage. Antipatros strained his eyes as the retreating horsemen stopped at the body of their fallen comrade. Hardly daring to hope – if the downed man were Leonthenes – that his cause had had such a piece of luck, in his excitement he almost forgot the approaching horseman. ‘Open the gate,’ he called, tearing his eyes away from what he was now sure was the Greek mercenary general prostrate and motionless on the ground one hundred and twenty paces hence.

  Below, the postern-gate creaked open and the horseman rode through, his mount sucking in huge gulps of air after its intense gallop. The rider leapt from the saddle and, removing his helmet, looked up at Antipatros. ‘Hello, Father,’ Iollas said, ‘I’ve got good news and bad news.’

  ‘That is good news,’ Antipatros said, chewing thoughtfully on a wrinkled apple, one of the few treasures his son had been able to bring with him in his small travelling bag. He looked at the rudimentary map lying on his study desk. ‘So I could expect him in the next ten days, taking into account the nature of the road at this time of the year.’

  ‘I’m afraid there is also the bad news, Father.’

  Antipatros looked at his younger son, resignation in his eyes. ‘In my experience there always is. Go on.’

  ‘Leonnatus’ army is still in Hellespontine Phrygia and is not expected to cross into Europe until close to the spring equinox and that crossing will take longer than usual as there are very few ships to be had—’

  ‘Because Krateros has commandeered every vessel in the eastern Aegean for the navy that Alexander wanted; and now he hoards them for himself.’ In his younger days Antipatros would have exploded at this news but now he found he could accept the way of things far easier. Well, it is what it is, I suppose; at least Leonnatus is coming and I can boost the morale of my men with that news. He looked at Magas and Nicanor, both also enjoying a wrinkled apple. ‘So a couple more months to hold out, then? We can do it, eh?’

  Nicanor crunched on his apple core. ‘I would say so, Father; but knowing that relief is on its way will make it easier, even if we are down to boot-leather.’

  ‘Boot-leather and tree bark,’ Magas elaborated.

  Antipatros considered the situation as he finished his apple, core and all. ‘Give the order to search all houses for food, Magas, and bring it here under guard. I don’t want anyone hoarding in the next two months and I’ll need my men fit to break through the lines when Leonnatus’ army appears.’ He turned back to Iollas. ‘Is that the only bad news?’

  Iollas grimaced, shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Father. Leonnatus has refused your offer of a bride.’

  Antipatros did not understand. ‘Then why is he coming to my aid if he’s not wanting a formal alliance by marrying into my family?’

  ‘He’s not in a position to accept the proposal as he’s accepted an offer of marriage from Kleopatra.’

  Antipatros almost choked on his mouthful; a spray of semi-masticated apple splattered onto the map. ‘That’s that bitch’s doing!’ He slammed his palm onto the desktop. ‘I can smell her reek from here. I can see exactly what Olympias has done and I shan’t let her succeed. She’s trying to make Kleopatra queen and have Leonnatus usurp my place. I imagine his price for breaking the siege will be my backing for him to become king. I expect the demand will come any day.’

  Iollas pulled out a letter from his bag. ‘I suppose this must be it, Father. Leonnatus gave it to me as I left Pella.’

  Antipatros scanned the writing before screwing the letter up and hurling it into a corner. ‘It’s bribery!’

  Iollas retrieved the letter and read the contents. ‘I’d say that was pragmatic politics, Father.’

  ‘And what do you know about pragmatic politics at your age?’

  Iollas handed the letter to Nicanor. ‘Just that if I have something that you need, like an army for example, then I would be foolish to give it to you without getting something in return, especially if my army was the only one around.’

  ‘Ah! But it’s not,’ Nicanor said, putting the letter down on the desk. ‘There’s Krateros; and he’s got an army and a fleet. Did you see him?’

  Iollas nodded. ‘I did. I stayed with him for a while as he contemplated your request, Father.’

  Antipatros was interested. ‘And?’

  ‘And he didn’t come to any decision.’

  This time Antipatros could not contain himself. ‘What! He’s sitting over in Cilicia with more than ten thousand veterans and with one of my daughters catering for his every need and he can’t come to a decision about helping his future father-in-law?’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s about it.’

  ‘Then what is he doing?’

  ‘That’s something that is only known to Krateros.’

  KRATEROS,

  THE GENERAL

  ‘FORTY-TWO TRIREMES OR larger, general,’ Kleitos the White informed Krateros as they looked down from the satrap’s palace onto the full to bursting river harbour at Tarsus. ‘Seventy-three biremes, thirty-five lembi for scouting and running swift messages and one hundred and twenty-three transport ships, forty of which have been converted into horse transports able to take sixty-four horses each; enough to get your cavalry across the Hellespont in one go.’

  Krateros looked with admiration at the host of ships moored, three sometimes four abreast, on the many jetties constructed along the Cydnus River as it passed the great city of Tarsus on its way to the sea, just four leagues distant. ‘Very good, Kleitos; but who said that I would be wanting to transport my army across the Hellespont?’

  ‘No one did, general; but if you do then you have the ships for it.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘And if you don’t you would still have the ships for it.’

  Krateros suppressed a smile. That’s exact
ly the sort of soldier I need serving me; I’m lucky to have him, even if he does feel the need to dress up as Poseidon and wave a trident about. ‘What say you, Polyperchon? Should I claim Phila as my prize as Antipatros offers and go north and, with the use of Kleitos’ horse transports, take Europe, or shall I keep my Amastris and, with a Persian wife, take Asia?’

  The wizened soldier looked at his commander with a shrewd eye. ‘I should have thought that was a question best directed to the ladies concerned, general, as only they would be qualified to press the finer points of their case.’

  Krateros laughed, it was genuine and hearty, and slapped his second-in-command on the back. ‘It’s not the finer points of the good ladies’ cases that concern me, my friend, I am well aware that both of them are not afraid to attend to detail in the finest degree. It is which of their homelands is most ripe for plucking, Europe or Asia? It being given that we don’t want to languish here in Cilicia for ever; now we’ve rid the coast of the pirate menace there would be very little to keep us occupied, and we all know what happens to a bored army, don’t we, gentlemen?’ He looked up to the sky, the heavy clouds of the last few days’ overcast weather were beginning to brighten and break up and there was a definite lessening of the chill that had afflicted the coast over the winter months. ‘Spring is coming and, along with it, the campaigning season; there are thrones to be won, my friends. I have earnt the right to one; but the question is: which?’