Philocles nods. “We have hundreds of them.”
“Have them at the camp gates tomorrow morning,” Philip says, his voice rising with excitement. “And get me our head engineer. He has some engineering to do!”
In the weeks that follow, the mystified Abydans watch from their sturdy walls as the Macedonians scavenge their fields. They see no signs that the Macedonians are gathering into attack phalanxes but they can see there is a great furor in the enemy camp, with wagons coming and going out the rear gates.
Captain Vangelis is especially intrigued with the Macedonians’ activity. The dark young militia commander watches from the top of the five-foot thick front wall, noting the flow of empty wagons that enter the rear gates in the morning. Where did they come from? Were they out in the night? Why don’t they have any food in the back? They’ve been foraging all day.
“Get Spyro up here,” Vangelis tells his watch commander. Minutes later, a wizened little man appears next to Vangelis, a dark green cloak pulled over his greasy stringlets of black hair.
“I need you inside their camp, Spyro. I hear strange noises, and I see fires burning all night by the front gates. They have stuck poles into the ground between our town and their camp. What do you think they’re doing?”
Spyro shrugs. “I don’t know. But I know how to find out.”
Vangelis nods. “Then take some men and find out. Don’t come back until you have something of worth.”
Spyro bares his snaggled yellow teeth. “I will be back on the morrow’s eve. By then I will know what hand Philip uses to wipe his ass!”
Two days pass, then three. Then four. Vangelis is on the walls at dawn, watching the palisaded camp as if it held his family.
Spyro appears at his side, his face covered with bruises.
“Where have you been? I was ready to send out another man.”
“I just escaped last night,” Spyro replies, grimacing as he rubs the back of his neck. “I got into the slave camp but I couldn’t get out!”
“You should have tried,” Vangelis says tonelessly.
Spyro touches the purpled bruises on his cheeks. “This is what I got when they found me wandering off one night. After that they put me to work at night.”
“What work? You couldn’t escape from their fields, or some dreary little kitchen?”
“They put me to work digging. Digging in their mine! We dug all night and hauled dirt out the rear gates.” He stares at Vangelis. “They are digging straight toward us. Here, take a look.”
Spyro pulls Vangelis to the edge of the parapet. He points to the line of short poles sticking out of the ground. “Those poles were not stuck in from the top of the ground, they were pushed up from below! They’re marking their path toward Abydus, to make sure they’re headed for the right spot.”
Vangelis grimaces. “Curse their children, they’re going to come up inside our walls!” He slaps Spyro on the back. “You did well, citizen. I imagine they’ll try to come up at night and open the gates, like the Greeks did in the Trojan Horse story.” He grins wolfishly. “We will be ready for them when they emerge.”
Within the hour, Vangelis has assigned forty soldiers to stand guard inside the town square. Another forty patrols the space between the outer walls and the walls of the inner garrison. The guards pay particular attention to the areas aligned with the poles outside of Abydus.
Two days later, a guard shakes Vangelis from his bed. “The Macedonians are mustering!”
Vangelis is almost relieved at the words. At last we will resolve this. He rolls out from his bed mat. His sleepy wife watches him tug on his breastplate, helmet, and sword. “What is it?” she murmurs, rubbing her eyes.
“Our fate,” he replies.
Vangelis dashes from his log house and rushes across the town square, scrambling up the stone block staircase to the wall. Peering over the rampart, he sees Philip riding a black charger in front of a phalanx of heavy infantry, his silver armor mirroring the rising sun rising in front of him.
The Abydan commander scratches his head. He’s coming at our walls with heavily armored soldiers? That’s bizarre, they can’t climb like that.
A horn sounds from the Macedonian ranks. Three thousand light infantry trot out in front of Philip and his phalanx, young men in black wool tunics and peaked bronze helmets. The unarmored youths form into squares of a hundred men. They slap their short curved swords against their wicker shields, summoning themselves for a charge at the forbidding Abydan walls. A score of laddermen trot out in front of the peltasts, each duo clutching a sturdy wooden ladder.
“Get the forks ready,” Vangelis shouts. His soldiers grab the forked poles they will use to repel the ladders. “I want a pole and a spear on every ladder that hits the wall.” The duos scramble to their stations.
Vangelis hears the Macedonian horns blare two long, mournful, blasts. He watches Philip wave his gold-hilted sword over his head, ordering his peltasts forward. The light infantry tramps toward the walls of Abydus, crouched beneath their shields. The phalanx lumbers in behind them, a forest of spears jutting over their heads.
Philip reins in his horse outside of spear range. His army halts. Long minutes pass; the Macedonians remain immobile.
What is he waiting for? Vangelis wonders. Is he waiting for his men to pop out from that tunnel and surprise us? Are his ships’ catapults going to fling stones?
Vangelis calls over his watch commander. “Put sixty more men in the courtyard, in case they come up in there. I want every spear and stone we have up here on the ramparts. Bring statues and furniture. We’re going to give them everything we’ve got.”
He glares down at the Macedonian king. “Come on, Philip. Just try it.”
Philip looks back toward his camp. He sees that Philocles is standing in the midst of its open gates, watching him. Philip nods. The king turns back and faces the towering walls of Abydus. He raises his sword and chops it down.
“Pull!” Philocles yells to the officers behind him. The cry is relayed to the teams of oxen waiting inside the camp gates.
The stout beasts start forward. They pull ropes as thick as a boy’s forearm; ropes that disappear into the gaping tunnel inside the camp. The ropes tighten, thrumming with tension.
“Get on!” The drivers yell, lashing the beasts with thorny tree limbs. The oxen pull harder. A creaking sound echoes from the tunnel, then a splintering crash.
Vangelis feels the wall tremble beneath his feet. Blocks tumble from the rampart. The wall leans forward. His stomach churns with dread. They’re not coming up! We’re going down!
With a thundering rumble, the wall section to the left of him caves into the enormous hole underneath it. The wall’s massive blocks topple down with its defenders, precipitating a torrent of anguished screams. Dozens of warriors speckle the landscape, their broken bodies writhing in agony.
King Philip claps his hands and chuckles merrily. Hades take me, it worked! Listen to those poor bastards!
“Into the breach!” the king yells. He trots forward, his two hundred cavalry at his back. The peltasts dash ahead of them, racing for the wall opening. They scramble over the rubble-filled hole and pour into Abydus’ courtyard. The town’s defenders rush straight at them.
The Macedonians fling their javelins into the charging Abydans. Scores of town militia fall, pierced by the enemy’s rain of spears. “No surrender, no survivors!” the Macedonian captain shouts. His men take up the call.
The peltasts swarm over the defenders lying wounded among the avalanche. They stab their double-edged swords into every body they find, whether it moves or not, then turn their murderous attentions to the surviving militia. Soon there are none but corpses to oppose them.
Vangelis watches the slaughter from the top of the wall. “Spears and stones,” he shouts, “give them all our spears and stones! Don’t worry about hitting our men down there, they are dead.”
The Abydan soldiers begin their own rain of death, hurling javelins and roc
ks. The stones clang into the Macedonian’s helmets, staggering them. When the stunned peltasts drop their wicker shields, Abydan spears fly into their throats and torsos.
A huge Abydan stands at the top edge of the ruined wall, his black-bearded face contorted with rage. “I crush you all!” he bellows, laying down his war axe.
Groaning with effort, the giant levers a wall block up to his broad chest, his thick arms stitched with veins. With a mighty grunt, he straightens his bended knees and drops the stone upon the peltasts entering the breach. The boulder thuds into the back of three onrushing soldiers, crushing them into the jagged stones beneath him. Another block crashes down, and another. The invading peltasts pause outside the wall, staring anxiously at the Abydan above them.
“Zeus curse you, get him off of there!” shouts the infantry captain. A dozen Macedonians turn as one and hurl their javelins at the giant. Three spears strike home, piercing his chest.
The Abydan roars with pain. Bristling with spear shafts, he levers up another block and hurtles it onto the helmet of a Macedonian, caving in his head.
“Bring him down!” the peltast captain screams. He flings his spear at the Abydan. Dozens more follow.
A javelin crunches through the Abydan’s eye socket, the spearhead bursting from the back of his head. Stone and man plummet down upon the enemy in a final act of defiance.
The peltast commander scrambles onto the top of the rubble. “That big bastard’s dead! Now get up those steps!” He trots up the stone stairs to the right of the breach, with scores of his men following.
The Abydan militia rush to the head of the narrow passage. Standing shoulder to shoulder, the two militia in the front clash swords with the ascending Macedonians. The Abydans jab spears and swords over their compatriots’ shoulders, eager to strike down their enemies. The peltasts fling spears into the men behind those dueling in the front, tumbling dozens from the walls.
The first Abydan militiaman falls from the front, pierced by a half-dozen spear thrusts. The other soon follows. The peltasts break onto the wall walkway and push the Abydans backwards. The Macedonians hurl the last of their spears into the walkway defenders, men packed so close together they cannot raise their shields. Dozens of Abydans hurtle down into the courtyard, thudding into the rubbled ground below them.
Vangelis stands behind his two front-line defenders, jabbing his javelin at the Macedonians. He studies the long line of enemy infantry waiting to ascend the walkway. We’re not going to fight our way through them. We’ve got to retreat to the inner wall.
He leans into the man’s ear in front of him, and squeezes his shoulder. “You men in the front have to hold them, Aco. Hold them for just a few minutes more.”
The lean young officer looks over his shoulder. His teeth gleam in his blood-grimed face, belying the fear in his eyes. “We’ll keep ‘em here ‘til they die from old age, Captain.”
Aco’s broad grin vanishes, replaced with a tight-lipped grin. “It was a good life while it lasted.”
Tears well in Vangelis’ eyes. “Go with the gods, warriors.” He turns to the rest of his men. “Get to the inner wall!”
Vangelis barges through his men, shouting his command to retreat. He races toward the wall section that borders the Aegean Sea. Gods help us, I hope Philip’s men haven’t found the walkway over here.
He hears a scream behind him. Vangelis turns and sees Aco plummeting off the wall, a sword hilt protruding from his chest. His breath chokes in his throat. He pushes himself onward.
The Abydan captain rounds a curve in the wall. The sapphire sea looms below him, lapping at its jagged shore. Vangelis notices that Abydans are the only ones here, grouped about the rear steps to the inner wall.
“Down, down!” he shouts, gesturing with his spear. “Get inside the inner wall!” The men hustle down the steps and race to the right, seeking the side gates of the inside wall. The townspeople inside see them coming and fling open the foot-thick gates. Scores of soldiers rush inside, embracing their neighbors.
Vangelis stands atop the walkway, urging down the last of his militia. “This way!” Vangelis shouts. The last two men jostle past him and rush down the stone steps. Vangelis follows, hurling the last of his javelins into the shoulder of an oncoming peltast. The three Abydans dash frantically for the gates, the townspeople cheering them on from the top of the inner wall.
The Abydan commander hears the thunder of hooves behind him. Three spears whistle over his shoulder.
A spear lands between the lead man’s shoulder blades. The soldier stumbles forward, dropping his shield and sword. Vangelis throws his shield over his back and shoves his arm around the warrior’s shoulders, dragging him toward the gates.
Six older men hobble out from the inner city. Each lugs a dagger and a plate-sized shield, their bronze helmets enveloping their white-haired skulls. They march past Vangelis, their eyes fixed on the charging Macedonians.
“Get him inside, we’ll take care of them,” one elder says, his voice quavering with terror.
“No! You don’t need to—“ Vangelis says, but the old men are already past him.
The elders hurl egg-sized rocks into the oncoming Macedonians, their reedy voices shouting their defiance. The heavy infantry thunder towards them. With trembling hands, the elders raise their swords and shields.
The Macedonians trample into the old men. The six disappear under the stallions, their death cries quelled by the thundering hooves above them. Two lead horses stumble as they cave in the seniors’ fragile frames, lurching sideways onto the ground. The other horses veer sideways to avoid the stallions, slowing the cavalry’s assault.
A stout young woman rushes from the gates and grabs Vangelis’ wounded soldier. “I have him, get inside!” She picks the wounded man up as if he were a child stumbling inside with him. Vangelis rushes in behind her, and the gates slam shut.
The Macedonians close in upon the gates. The townspeople fling tools, urns and rocks over the wall. Their children rush up the steps with tools and toys, grabbing anything they can carry. Beset with a storm of missiles, the riders veer about and gallop back toward the breached wall, seeking easier prey.
Vangelis smiles with pride, though his heart hammers with fear. Look at them. They will die before they surrender.
As dusk approaches, the Macedonians resume their assault upon Abydus’ inner wall. Dozens of peltasts throw up ladders and scramble toward the top, only to be repulsed by the fanatic Abydans.
Philip and Philocles observe the attack from outside the breached wall. The king watches old men flinging themselves from the top of the wall onto the ladder men, crashing them all into the earth. His eyes widen as he watches women and boys hack at the Macedonians with hoes and rakes, heedless of the sword blades that cut them down.
The king purses his full lips as if he has tasted something sour. Well kiss my ass! They’re going to all kill themselves. Then there won’t be anyone left to run the town. And they’ll probably throw all their treasures into the sea!
“Sound the recall,” Philip tells Philocles.
The old warrior stares at him. “What? Why? We can have them all dead before nightfall.”
“We have them cornered, and almost all of their soldiers are gone. We’ll give them three days to decide their fate. Perhaps they’ll surrender when they have a chance to think about it.”[xv] He grins at Philocles. “But just in case they don’t, get the slaves ready to dig another tunnel!”
At sunset, a lone Macedonian rider pauses before the inner gates of Abydus. Vangelis peers over the top of the wall.
“What do you want?” the Abydan demands.
“King Philip seeks to make terms with you. If you surrender he will spare all of you.”
Gods be blessed, there is a chance for honorable surrender. “We are willing.” He brandishes a small scroll. “We have prepared some modest terms,” replies Vangelis. “We desire that the Rhodian ship in the harbor be given safe passage from here, and that our women an
d children—”
The messenger jerks up his hand. “Nonsense! You do not dictate terms to the future king of the world. King Philip demands your unconditional surrender.”[xvi]
The young officer turns his horse about. “Three days to surrender. If not, we destroy you.”
Vangelis watches him go, his shoulders slumped. No terms. No honor. No other way.
Philip has returned to his tent to find a red-haired young man standing inside, watched carefully by his captain of the guard. The young man is arrayed in full battle armor. His right arm cradles the red-plumed helmet of a Roman tribune. Philip’s guard cradles the man’s sheathed sword and dagger in his left arm. His right hand rests upon his sword hilt.
A Roman in my tent! Philip mutters to himself. What a miserable day this has turned out to be!
The Roman inclines his head. “Salve, King Philip. I am Marcus Aemilius, envoy from Rome.[xvii] I have come to notify you that Rome protests your advances into Greece. You should know that Athens, Delphi, and the rest of the Aetolian League have petitioned Rome to intervene on their behalf. They notified us of your attack on Attalus and the Rhodians, and your conquests of Maronea, Aemnum, and Serrheum, among other Greek possessions. We beg you to desist.”
Philip slumps into his throne. He motions the young envoy to a stool.
“Bring wine,” Philip says to his attendant. The slave fetches a tray from the map table. He hands Philip a golden goblet brimming with deep red Xinomavro wine. Philip glowers at the slave. He rushes back and fetches a bronze cup for the Roman.
The king takes a deep draft of the wine and smacks his lips. Nothing like a good Macedonian red. “Always nice to have a visit from the esteemed Romans, now that we have made peace with each other.[xviii] I do miss seeing my old friend Hannibal, though.”
He smirks at the young man. “I thought the two of us would conquer the world.”
“But you didn’t,” the tribune replies evenly. “Hannibal—and the men you lent him—they all fell at Zama.”
The king shakes his head and takes another drink. “That was quite a feat, Scipio defeating him. Very ingenious how he did it.”
Scipio Rules Page 4
