Virtues of War

by Steven Pressfield

  We come over the rise and there is the foe.

  “By Heracles’ alabaster balls!” cries Cleitus.

  The Persian front stretches three and a half miles. His depth doubles that. The supply train extends as far as sight can carry. It looks like a city. No, ten cities. Detachments of enemy scouts gallop back to his center, doubtless where Darius has taken station, to report our approach. Various troops of the foe maneuver out front of his central mass, rehearsing. The plain has been smoothed like a running track, marked in various geometric azimuths.

  Hephaestion points. “There are the fairways Darius’s engineers have cleared for his scythed chariots. See them? Three. One fifty cars wide, by the look of it; one a hundred; another fifty on the left.”

  The foe has even erected mobile towers, from which, no doubt, archers and bolt-firing catapults will loose their broadsides on us when we advance.

  Black Cleitus whistles. “These bastards have brought the whole pantry.”

  I bring the army up into the range of hills that the locals call Arouck, the Crescent. We bivouac in battle order.

  For the first time, our men see the enemy. The scale of the Asiatic host is staggering. Too vast to evoke fear. One’s response can be only awe. We gape at the Persian myriads, even I, incapable of crediting the evidence of our senses.

  Twenty- Three

  THE MATERIAL OF THE HEART

  YOU ASK, How long did it take to fashion the battle plan for Gaugamela?

  I have known it since I was seven. It has played before my eyes a thousand times. I have seen this plain in my dreams; I have imagined Darius’s order. This battle, I have fought in imagination all my life. Nothing remains but to live it out in flesh.

  We take a day to fortify a camp and to bring up the heavy baggage. Darius holds in place. When I ride down with three squadrons to reconnoiter the field, he does not contest me.

  Night descends. I call a council of war. This time I preside myself.

  “Gentlemen, we have seen the enemy’s dispositions now. This is good. We are certain today of three things we weren’t yesterday. Let us review them.”

  Nothing so steadies a company confronting great odds as a sober recitation of the facts. The more dread-inducing the reality, the more directly it must be faced.

  “First, the Persian front is almost entirely cavalry. We see the killing zones the enemy has prepared for his scythed chariots. Clearly, Darius plans to launch them upon our advance. This is different from Issus and the Granicus, where the enemy sought only to defend. So, first: The foe will not sit still, awaiting our attack. He will attack us.”

  The council is one hundred seventeen. Present is every commander of every company. It gets cold at night, even in summer, in the desert. Still I insist on rigging the tent flaps all the way up. I want the troops to see their commanders at work. In minutes, thousands ring the pavilion, sitting and standing, in a press so dense one can smell the stink of their sweat and feel the steam off their breath.

  “Two, the width of the enemy front. His line will overlap ours by wide margins at both wings. This tells us how Darius will attack. He will attempt a double envelopment. He will seek to encircle us on both flanks with his cavalry wings, attacking—perhaps in succession, perhaps simultaneously—from the front, first with his scythed chariots, then with his conventional cavalry. This is the second factor we must have an answer for.

  “Third, and most important, the state of mind of our own men. Enemy cavalry, by all estimates, is thirty-five thousand. Ours is seven. We can’t even guess at the numbers of Persian and allied infantry. Our reinforcements have not caught up. The men are fearful. Even the Companions do not demonstrate their customary zeal.”

  Perdiccas: “Is that all, Alexander?”

  Laughter erupts. Anxious laughter.

  “I forgot,” I say, “Darius’s war elephants.”

  All levity ceases.

  “These, my friends, are the issues this council must address. Have I left anything out? Has anyone anything to add?”

  We begin.

  The material a commander manipulates is the human heart. His art lies in producing courage in his own men and terror in the foe.

  The general produces courage by discipline, training, and fitness; by fairness and order; superior pay, armament, tactics, and supply; by his dispositions in the field; and by the genius of his own presence and actions.

  Sound dispositions produce valor, just as faulty formations make cowards of even the bravest. Here is the fundamental lineup for the assault:

  In other words, a wedge. Or, if you prefer, a diamond:

  Wedges and diamonds promote engagement. Angles produce lines of support; wings back up points, and rears sustain wings. Soldiers in wedges and diamonds can’t hide. Their fellows see them. Shame propels them forward and courage drives them on.

  But the soundest use of the wedge is to integrate it across an entire line of assault, as I instruct my officers in council, now, on the eve of Gaugamela.

  Why does such a lineup produce valor? I remind my commanders, though they have seen its worth already on two continents and a hundred fields of strife.

  “The men in the point battalions feel courage because they know they are backed up on both wings. They know they cannot be flanked and cannot be enveloped. They know further that although it is they who must strike the foe first and alone, still their comrades will be right behind them into the fray. And they know that, should they be repulsed, they have a powerful front to withdraw into. As for the battalions of the second rank, their fear as they approach the enemy is moderated because they see their forward mates bearing the brunt of the punishment, while they themselves, for the moment, remain safe. But here is the crucial particular, my friends: The valor of their comrades out front fires their hearts. For a man is not a man but he resolve, seeing his mates hurling themselves valiantly upon the foe, ‘By hell’s flame, I shall prove no less worthy!’ A man feels shame even to hesitate and have his company’s colors show poorly alongside others’; rather, he is driven on by spirit of emulation, by pride, and by honor.

  “This is an article of faith with me, brothers. I believe that a man, witnessing the selflessness of another, is compelled by his own nobler nature to emulate that virtue. No harangue can make him do this; no prize or bounty. But the sight of his fellow’s gallantry cannot be resisted. This is why you officers must always be first to strike the foe. By your example, you compel the hearts of your men to follow. And their courage ignites valor in the ranks of our countrymen succeeding.

  “And I believe more, my friends. I believe that heaven itself is compelled by witness of intrepidity. The gods themselves cannot stand aloof from an act of true courage, but are impelled by their own higher nature to intercede in its behalf.

  “Tomorrow on this plain,” I instruct my officers of the flank battalions, “the enemy front will overlap ours by half a mile on each wing. It is certain that as we advance, Darius will hurl division after division of cavalry onto us from the flanks. How can we dispose our companies to maximize our countrymen’s courage?

  “First, we will defend by attacking. Wing officers, as soon as you come under assault, you are to attack. Do not receive the blow, but deliver it. This is not mindless audacity, only sound fundamentals. When men know they will be attacked, they feel fear; when they know they will attack, they feel strength.

  “Second, dispositions.” I align the six units of both flank guards into modified diamonds. My post on the right will be immediately inboard of the Royal Lancers, with the squadrons of Companion Cavalry (with the sarissa phalanx and the main body of the corps extending for a mile and a half left of that), while Parmenio, commanding the left wing, will take station inboard of a matching diamond on that wing. Here, the flank guard on my right:

  A diamond is nothing but four wedges—north, south, east, west. And what is a wedge? It is one unit out front and two on the wings. Do you see how the diamond can respond to an assault from any quarter
simply by facing in place?

  This disposition works because of the irrational element of the heart. The unit out front will charge the foe with courage because it knows it is supported on both wings and that its comrades will be into the scrape right behind it. The supporting wings have the example before them of their fore unit’s valor and will strive not to fall short of it.

  “Finally, brother officers, my presence and yours. When your eye seeks my colors tomorrow, you need look only to the fore. That is where I will be. And where you will be, before your companies.”

  I draw up, for passion has so fired my purpose that I fear my heart will run away with itself. I glance to Parmenio at my shoulder; to Hephaestion and Craterus; Perdiccas, Coenus, Ptolemy, Seleucus, Polyperchon, Meleager; Black Cleitus, Nicanor, and Philotas; Telamon and Erigyius and Lysimachus. And to the men outside, ringing the pavilion in their thousands.

  Where is my daimon in this hour? He is I, and I am he.

  “You have wondered, many of you, why I sleep with a copy of Homer’s Iliad beneath my pillow. It is because I emulate the heroes of those verses. They are not figures of lore to me, but living, breathing men. Achilles is no ancestor, nine hundred years gone. He strides here, this instant, in my heart. I hold the example of his virtue before me, not in waking hours only, but undergirding even my dreams. Do we make war for blood or treasure? Never! But to follow the path of honor, to school our hearts in the virtues of strife. To contend chivalrously against the chivalrous foe refines us, as gold in the crucible. All that is base in our natures—cupidity and greed, timorousness and irresolution, impatience, niggardliness, self-infatuation—is processed and purified. By our repeated undergoings of trial of death, we burn these impurities out, until our metal rings sound and true. Nor are we ourselves, as individuals only, purified by this ordeal, but its demands bind us to one another at such a depth of intimacy as not even husband and wife can know. When I call you brothers, it is no figure of speech. For we have become brothers in arms, you and I, and not hell itself holds the power to divide us.”

  I pause again, scanning the faces. Death is nothing to me compared to the love I feel for these gallant comrades.

  “Do I feel fear, my friends? How can I? For to stand in ranks with you, to contend for glory at your side, is all I have ever wanted. I shall sleep tonight with the bliss of an infant, for I possess in this hour all I have ever dreamed of: a worthy foe and worthy mates to face him with.”

  Cries of assent check my address. In the rear, men relay my words to their fellows farther back. I am standing now. I gesture down the slope from the Crescent, toward the plain of Gaugamela.

  “Brothers, the fame we wring tomorrow from that field, no man or army has ever won. Not Achilles, nor Heracles, nor any hero of our race or any other. A hundred centuries from now, men will still recite our names. Do you believe me? Will you advance with me? Will you ride at my shoulder after glory everlasting?”

  Citations overwhelm the pavilion. The men roar and thunder. Such acclamation resounds as to make the tent timbers quake and the earth shudder and tremble. I glance to Hephaestion. So furious is our fellows’ cry, his look says, that Darius in his camp, and all his multitude, cannot hear it but with dread.

  I am the living soul of the army. As blood flows from the lion’s heart to its limbs, so courage flows from me to my countrymen.

  A million men stand in arms against us. I will rout them by my will alone.

  Twenty- Four

  CAMEL’S HUMP

  I RIDE CORONA AS WE DESCEND from the range of hills called the Crescent. Bucephalus trails, led by my groom Evagoras. Bucephalus’s headstall and frontlet are in place, and the light combat saddle, but Evagoras packs his leg guards and breastplate on his own back. My horse is seventeen years old. I will mount him only for the final advance.

  The shoulder wings of my composite corselet remain unbattened, sticking up alongside my ears. I will not dog them down till we come onto final line. I want the army to see this. It tells them to breathe easy. Their king is so confident, he’s not even dressed yet.

  The slope down to the plain is a mile. We descend in order of battle. Our front is twenty-seven hundred yards. The foe’s, when we measure after the fight, is forty-seven fifty. He overlaps us more than a mile.

  The date is 26 Boedromion, late summer, in the archonship of Aristophanes at Athens. Here, from captured documents of that day, is the order of battle of the army of the empire of Persia:

  On the foe’s left wing, preceding his main line: two thousand cavalry of Scythia, savage tribesmen of the Sacae and Massagetae, armed with the lance, the Scythian bow, and the tumak—a type of spiked mace; one thousand special cavalry of Bactria, on mailed cataphracts, armed with the javelin and the two-handed lance; one hundred scythed chariots under Darius’s son Megadates. These are the companies before the front. Behind, in double line of squadrons: four thousand Royal Indian ksatriyas, foot bowmen from the country west of the Indus; four thousand mounted archers of Areia under their satrap Satibarzanes; one thousand Royal Arachosian cavalry under Darius’s kinsman Barsaentes. Left of these, sixteen thousand Bactrian and Daan cavalry under Darius’s cousin, Bessus, who stands in overall command of the left wing; two thousand mounted bowmen of India; Persian Royal Horse mixed with infantry, five thousand, commanded by Tigranes, who fought with such valor at Issus; then Susian cavalry, one thousand; Cadusian cavalry and infantry, two thousand. Next, comprising the wing of Darius’s Royal Guard, ten thousand Greek mercenary infantry under the Phocian captain Patron; one thousand Kinsman Cavalry under Darius’s brother Oxathres; five thousand “Apple Bearers,” the elite Persian foot guard, so named because they carry lances with a golden apple instead of a butt spike. Before these stand fifty scythed chariots and fifteen Indian war elephants with their mahouts and armored turrets and six hundred Royal Indian cavalry, their mounts trained to fight alongside elephants; these are supported by the so-called deported Carians, one thousand heavy infantry; and five hundred Mardian archers. Behind: Darius himself, shielded on the right by another thousand Persian Honor Regiment cavalry, another five thousand Apple Bearers, and five thousand more Greek mercenary infantry under Mentor’s son Thymondas. This is the center of the line. To its right, extending another mile and a half: Carian infantry and cavalry, more Royal Indian Horse, more Greek mercenaries; Albanians; Sittacenians, mixed cavalry and infantry; Tapurian and Hyrcanian cavalry from south of the Caspian; mounted archers of Scythia under Mauaces; Phrataphernes’ Parthian and Arachosian cavalry; Atropates’ Royal Median Horse; Mazaeus’s Syrian and Mesopotamian cavalry. Mazaeus commands the Persian right. Fronting this wing are fifty more scythed chariots; Ariaces’ crack Cappadocian cavalry; Orontes’ and Mithraustes’ Armenian cavalry. Then the rear multitude of provincial levy: Oxathres’ Uxians; Bupares’ Babylonians; Orontobates’ Red Sea conscripts; Orxines’ Sittacenians, and others in numbers uncountable.

  Descending to the plain, we see clearly the three fairways, groomed by Darius’s engineers for his scythed chariots. Stakes mark their margins, with pennants snapping in the blow at eye height for a man on horseback. So the charioteers can see them over the dust.

  To our right, as we enter the flat, a thousand yards have been strewn with iron crow’s feet. Darius wants to steer us into his cutters’ path. The Persian front is twenty-one hundred yards away. A mile and a third. His scouts transit our front, past bowshot, on racing stock worth a lifetime’s wages. Our fast lancers chase them. I call a halt.

  Squires scurry with wine sacks. We pause to rig what’s broken: soles unstrung; sarissa lanyards snapped; torn shield straps and loose keepers on grommets. “Dress the line!” “Piss where you stand!”

  Brigade commanders assemble on my colors: Parmenio, Hephaestion, Craterus, Nicanor, Perdiccas, Ptolemy, Seleucus, Philotas, Black Cleitus, two dozen others. Nothing to go over that we haven’t rehearsed a hundred times already.

  Advance on line. Come to the oblique at my command. All ranks maintain
silence until the moment of assault. Accept, obey, and pass on all orders swiftly and accurately.

  Commanders scatter to their units. I sign to Evagoras. He spurs onto the flat, trailing Bucephalus. My First Page takes the bridle.

  Cheers roar from the throats of fifty thousand.

  I scissor from Corona’s back to Bucephalus’s. My lance. Helmet. A second clamor, and a third. Spear shafts clash against shields. I canter to the fore, flanked by the Royal Guard, Hephaestion, Black Cleitus, Telamon.

  Dust scours the flat. Ensigns snap in a south-to-north shear. Squall lines rake the pan, kicking up dusters. The plumes on my helmet tug. I tear them off and loose them on the wind.

  “Zeus, our Guide and Savior!”

  Here we go.

  Twenty- Five

  DIAMONDS ON THE WING

  AT ELEVEN HUNDRED YARDS we see the stakes set by the Persians laying out the lanes for their scythed chariots. They are poles of cane, eight feet tall, with scarlet pennants snapping atop. Our fore riders trample them, to the cheers of the corps.

  We advance now onto ground prepared for our slaughter. The pan has been curried smooth; three fairways have been groomed for Darius’s cutters. Two are five hundred yards wide, the other a thousand. We are still too distant to make out the chariots themselves. We think we see sun-flash off their scythes, but it may be overimagination.

  Hephaestion rides at my left shoulder, commanding the agema of the Royal Guardsmen. If I fall, he will assume command of the right wing. Black Cleitus advances on my right; he commands the Royal Squadron of Companions. Telamon rides left of Hephaestion, with Ptolemy and Peucestas; Love Locks is at Cleitus’s shoulder. They are here for their fighting skills and because I can send any one of them anywhere on the field and he will die before failing me.