Flood Tide

by Alexander Geiger

  He was interrupted by a voice from above. “What about me? Get me down from here!”

  We had forgotten about Kleitos. He was standing on the flat roof of the gatehouse, waving down to us. He looked rather forlorn. The men started to laugh and heckle. “Jump, Kleitos, jump!”

  “C’mon guys, get me a ladder.”

  “You’d better grow a pair of wings, Kleitos,” someone yelled. “Jump on those old guys. They’ll cushion your fall,” somebody else suggested. “No, wait a minute,” another voice called out, “those guys are too bony. I’ll go get one of those nice plump girls for you to land on. You won’t feel a thing.”

  Just then one of those plump young girls came out of the cookhouse, carrying two flagons of wine. The men instantly forgot about Kleitos and surrounded the girl, holding their helmets out to her, which she proceeded to fill with wine.

  Some of the men decided to help her, by supporting her arms, circling her waist, patting her rear.

  “Get your hands off of her,” I yelled. “If anybody touches one of these women tonight, I will chop his hand off. And if you try to screw one of them, whether she agrees or not, I’ll cut your dick off too. Is that understood?” The men let go of the girl with the flagons.

  “My name is Harmodios,” the old man resumed, “and we really don’t have much food. The Persians cleaned us out marching to battle and then they cleaned us out again last night and this morning, running away. They also took our men away.”

  His last comment caused me to whip my head around. “Are there any left hiding in here?”

  “Nah, they saw you coming and ran away.”

  I turned to Seleukos. “Search every room in this compound!”

  A plaintive voice rang out from above. “What about me, fellas?”

  “Here, have some bread.” One of the men tossed him a hunk.

  “C’mon guys, it’s not funny.”

  That was the cue for everyone to start laughing again. I nodded to a couple of men and they fetched a ladder. Kleitos descended briskly but, once safely down on the ground, he joined in the general merriment. The men handed him some wine, slapped him on the back, and were soon playfully wrestling in the dirt.

  After the meal, I set the watches and made sure we had vigilant sentries on the roofs throughout the night. The rest of us bedded down for a comfortable night’s sleep, right there amidst the chickenshit. Nothing bad happened today, was my last thought. So much for the predictive power of dreams.

  Little did I know.

  Chapter 3 – Delusions of Salvation

  After what seemed like five minutes of sleep, I was awakened by a general commotion. “Incoming!” somebody yelled, followed shortly by the distinctive ping of arrows striking mudbrick walls.

  I must have slept more than five minutes, though, because dawn was breaking. Silhouetted against a pinkish lavender sky, sporadic arrows came arching in over the eastern wall, the one with the gate in it.

  “Attack coming,” a sentry yelled, somewhat superfluously.

  I scrambled up to the flat roof of the gatehouse to assess the situation. “Take cover in the lee of the gate-side wall,” I ordered.

  There were a dozen men milling about in the clearing in front of the gate but only two of them had bows and none wore armor. The two men with bows were attempting to hit the sentries standing atop the roofs. The archers were barely within the effective range of their bows and didn’t strike me as accomplished bowmen. Their missiles continued to fall harmlessly into the courtyard.

  More worrisome were the small bands of men descending from the hillsides and starting to converge on the clearing. It was difficult to estimate numbers, because new groups kept emerging from among the trees, but it seemed likely that soon our only escape route would be blocked by several hundred men. Some, but not many, of the newly-arriving men wore armor; a few were equipped with Persian-style curved swords; most were carrying short pikes; the rest were armed with farm implements. About half of the men still had their large, wicker shields.

  I was confident we could break through a cordon of these amateurs but we’d likely incur some casualties in the process. The prospect of casualties struck me as rather irksome. I wish I’d brought some bowmen with me, I thought, but of course elite cavalry soldiers didn’t mix with lowly Kretan archers. We did have half a dozen bows with us and I ordered the men carrying them up to the roof. I pointed to the two bowmen below. “Kill those two bastards!”

  Unfortunately, my horsemen were as accomplished with a bow and arrow as the two tyros outside. I’d never witnessed a more ineffectual display of archery.

  Seleukos joined me on the roof. “It’s like watching two virgins trying to have sex.”

  We laughed but the crowd gathering outside the wall continued to grow. “Who are these people?”

  Seleukos shrugged. “Looks like refugees from the battle, reinforced by locals.”

  “Let’s go down and talk to them.”

  We left Kleitos behind, with orders to get all the men and horses ready to go. “After Seleukos and I get out there, have the men amble through the gate, with their horses in tow, two or three at a time, in armor and ready to mount, but very casually. Don’t want to trigger a premature attack. Just keep pouring out until they suddenly realize there are too many of us to attack.”

  “Boil them like frogs,” Seleukos put it.

  Kleitos gave him an uncomprehending look.

  “Just keep pouring out until we scare the shit out of them,” I resumed. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll have to charge them. But don’t do that until Seleukos and I have come back to join you. And keep the noise down. Let’s save a surprise or two for these fellas. Got it?”

  Kleitos nodded and quietly went about organizing the troops.

  Seleukos and I walked out of the gate. We were wearing our armor but carrying our helmets under our arms. We were unarmed. The nearest enemy soldiers were only a couple of hundred feet away. We walked briskly toward them. I hope our bowmen have enough sense to stop shooting. The enemy fighters, once they saw us, stopped milling about. There must’ve been at least forty of them by now. A tall soldier, wearing good armor, shouted out some orders. His men began to fall in. Native infantry, I thought.

  “They look like conscripts,” I muttered to Seleukos under my breath.

  Seleukos laughed. “Yeah, conscripts who threw away most of their weapons as they ran from the field the other day.”

  We stopped ten steps from the tall soldier. “Ask him where they’re from.”

  There was a brief, hostile sounding exchange between Seleukos and the tall soldier. “He says they’re from Phrygia. They seem determined to take some measure of solace after their rout.”

  “Tell him we’re from Macedonia. If they put down their weapons and surrender by the time our men come out of the gate, we will spare their lives. And don’t bother waiting for his response. Just turn around and follow me.” And I started to walk, very slowly, back to the gate, relieved to see that most of our men were already outside.

  Seleukos caught up with me. “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “Let’s hope it slows them down at least.”

  I wonder whether they’ll charge after us, I worried. If they do, they’ll cut us to ribbons before we get a chance to fart. “Don’t turn around,” I told Seleukos. “Just keep walking.”

  We reached Kleitos, who was holding our horses and arms, as well as his own. The last of our troopers were casually filtering out, as instructed, leading their horses by their reins.

  “What are they doing?” I asked Kleitos.

  “They seem to be conferring. And waiting for more of their buddies to join them.”

  “How many are there now?”

  “Close to three hundred.”

  “All right, men.” I kept my voice low. “Let’s pick it up and get everybody out here!”

  Slowly, I turned around. The enemy line continued to grow but it had not advanced.

  I leaned in toward Se
leukos. “These guys are wusses.” Then, more loudly to my men: “On my signal, everybody mount up. I want everybody to mount simultaneously. Let’s pretend we’re on the parade grounds. Ready? Now!”

  The sound of two hundred men in armor mounting their horses simultaneously was music to my ears. One measure; three beats: The vault off the ground; the thud onto the animals’ backs; the clatter of swords against greaves. And then, an ominous silence.

  I looked at the enemy. Maybe it was my imagination but their line seemed to waver. They were chattering, which was encouraging, given the evident imminence of a clash. A line getting ready to fight should be screaming defiantly at the enemy or, better yet, should be singing or, hardest of all, should maintain an absolute, menacing silence. These men were chattering.

  “Form a wedge,” I yelled out, “on my point.” I let my mount, Pandaros, trot out a few steps, confident that my squadron would fall in behind me with military precision.

  Much to my disappointment, the enemy line was still there and now it spanned the entire width of the clearing. Normally, it’s foolhardy for cavalry to charge an organized phalanx; that’s the job of the infantry, while the cavalry seeks to outflank the enemy line and hit it from the rear. Unfortunately, we had no infantry at our disposal that morning. Nor was a flanking maneuver a viable alternative, since it would have required our riding through the thicket surrounding the clearing, with each shrub, bush, and tree enlisted in the service of the enemy.

  On the positive side, this bunch of Phrygian soldiers was neither organized nor a phalanx. Their line was likely to cave at the first sign of pressure. Still, I hated to attack them head-on. If we charged them, we would lose some horses and perhaps even a couple of men.

  Perversely, I was not anxious to kill too many enemy soldiers either. I’d long since given up my initial resolution not to kill anyone, made in the naive hope that by avoiding bloodshed I’d also avoid any inadvertent violations of the Prime Directive. True, as far as I could tell, I’d yet to kill anyone with my own hands (not for lack of trying, mind you) but soldiers under my command had certainly killed people. The fact was that a soldier determined never to kill an enemy was likely to have a short life span; more to the point, a commander determined not to kill enemy troops was likely to kill his own men instead. This commander dodge isn’t easy, I thought, and flying blind only makes it harder. I missed the days when I thought I knew what the future held in store.

  We might have been able to ride away, behind the compound and through the thicket, and perhaps avoided any bloodshed. Of course, had I ordered a craven flight, the resultant loss of face would’ve inevitably proven to be fatal – probably sooner, rather than later – not only to me but most likely to many of my men as well.

  “Follow me!” I screamed and took off, hoping the rest of my squadron was galloping behind me.

  With a light touch on the reins, using mostly my knees, I guided Pandaros straight at the tall enemy commander. He stood in the center of the front rank of the opposing line, where the men stood shoulder to shoulder, their shields smartly overlapping, and their pikes pointing threateningly ahead. On the other hand, I’d noticed previously that there were not too many ranks behind the front one and the men filling them had no shields, no pikes, and very little discipline.

  As we approached the enemy, I did something truly foolish: I urged Pandaros into a jump, which of course exposed his belly to all those pikes pointed at us. I was afraid he would shy away at the last instant. My steed proved to be more of a trooper than the men opposing us. While they scattered out of the way, forgetting to use their pikes, we soared through the front line and landed amidst a bunch of scared, disorganized, and mostly unarmed youngsters. I kept riding, hoping to get out of the way of any of my men who might wish to emulate my maneuver. Only a few of them did but it didn’t matter. Once we had landed behind the front line, all semblance of organization among the enemy vanished. Some men were getting trampled by our horses; some were being struck by our swords; many were backing away, looking for safety; more of my men came flying over; soon, the enemy youngsters were throwing down their arms and running away. In a few minutes, all organized resistance vanished.

  The tall commander found himself standing alone, still facing forward, holding his pike, trying to poke at my men, who were careful to stay out of his range. Silently, I prodded Pandaros back and bopped the helmet of the tall man with the flat of my sword. He twirled around, flailing wildly with his pike. One of my men rode up behind him, ready to separate his head from his shoulders. I made a calming gesture with my left hand, indicating to the enemy commander to drop his weapon and to my trooper to stay his stroke. Miraculously, they both obeyed.

  As I looked up, I saw enemy soldiers running pell-mell for the woods, pursued by a few of my men. Most of my company had retained its shape and stayed massed in the middle of the clearing, awaiting further orders. “Stop,” I yelled at the pursuing men. “Back to me!”

  Reluctantly, they broke off pursuit, turned their horses around, and sheathed their swords. “Parade formation,” I called out. With a minimum of grumbling, the men urged their mounts into a well-ordered column and we set off at a stately trot. “We captured enough prisoners the other day,” I called over my shoulder. “We don’t need any more. We just need to get back to camp safely.” Nobody made any comment, at least not aloud. Seleukos and Kleitos joined me at the head of the column. As far as I could tell, not a single soldier, from either side, had been killed during the brief clash.

  “Why didn’t we capture some of those guys?” Seleukos asked me after a while. “At least their commander?”

  “Did he look like Memnon to you?”

  Seleukos smiled. “There was a passing resemblance but no, that was no Memnon.”

  “Well then, our mission was to capture Memnon. Since we didn’t see him, we couldn’t capture him. And now, we’re going to ride back to camp. We don’t want to miss the festivities.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” he answered smartly.

  *******

  The trip back over the pass was just as hazardous as the trip in the opposite direction had been the day before but somehow it seemed much safer. Perhaps all the refugees of the battle had cleared out by then or perhaps we knew our way better or maybe we had just gotten cockier. Whatever the explanation, we made our way back to camp – cheerfully, swiftly, and uneventfully – by midafternoon.

  We surmounted the last ridge and started to descend into the Granikos Valley. The victory games were in full swing. The competition was taking place at the inflection point between the mountain and the plain. The contestants raced and battled on level ground at the bottom of the hillside, with spectators standing ten deep around the hastily created arena and with many others spread out way up the adjoining slope. Could’ve been twenty thousand people crowded in there and some of them could actually see something. Most enjoyed the atmosphere (a mixture of the clean mountain air, the sickening stench of putrefying flesh, and the smoky bouquet of funeral pyres), the camaraderie, and the imperfect narration of the competition provided by the crowd noise. They reminded me of the captives watching shadows cast on the wall of a cave, in Platon’s famous parable, and mistaking it for the real thing.

  On the far side of the improvised stadion, immediately behind the teeming crowd of spectators, Alexandros and his friends had commandeered a captured Persian baggage train and were now standing atop the overturned wagons, enjoying an up-close, unobstructed view of the competition.

  Farther out in the plain, beyond the upside-down wagons and beyond the heaped bales of metallic junk, cooks, orderlies, grooms, and assorted servants were busy with preparations for the evening feast. We could see the temporary altar, on which choice cuts of beef were still going up in smoke, but happily plenty of fine meat remained on the spitted bull carcasses roasting over sizzling flames.

  “Too bad we missed the sacrifices,” I said to Seleukos and Kleitos, hoping not to let too much sarcasm creep into my voice.<
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  “Hard to believe Alexandros managed to finish his thanksgiving before nightfall,” Kleitos observed, without missing a beat.

  Seleukos maintained a diplomatic silence.

  We descended into the valley, carefully skirting the crowd. We could see that all of the footraces and many of the other contests had already concluded but the best part of the games, as far as my men were concerned, still remained.

  After some quick instructions to Seleukos and Kleitos, I gave my men leave to disband and attempted to make my way, still aboard Pandaros, toward Alexandros. It quickly became apparent that, unless I was willing to trample scores of people, I’d never get there. I dismounted and waded into the throng, pulling my horse behind me. My progress was incredibly slow but it didn’t matter. I was basking in my anonymity amidst people who had no designs on my life. Laboring under the delusion that the danger had been on the far side of the mountain, I actually laughed with relief. So much for people trying to kill me.

  Chapter 4 – Death in the Shadows

  My anonymity didn’t last for long. Perdikkas, my fellow commander and rival, emerged from the crowd, trailing half a dozen lieutenants. “Alexandros wants to see you – now!” I couldn’t tell whether his peremptory tone was part of the original message or a helpful embellishment by Perdikkas himself. “Leave your horse and follow me!”

  Perdikkas son of Orontes was from Orestis but that alone didn’t explain his abrasive personality. Seleukos, after all, was from Orestis as well and he was a master at getting along with people. Perdikkas, on the other hand, never tired of telling us that he was descended from that canton’s royal house. Never mind that Orestis, situated mostly on desolate mountains halfway between the fertile plains of lower Macedonia and the rugged coastal kingdom of Epiros, had long since been conquered and absorbed by the kings of Macedonia. Somehow, that fact did nothing to reduce the size of the chip Perdikkas perennially carried on his shoulder.