He tightened his left fist, clenching the straps of his round shield. He turned it and examined the thick metal point on its face. It not only defended him, it was a weapon in its own right. Next he glanced at the edge of his sword, which he had unsheathed a while ago. Before combat, he always performed the ritual of checking his weapons. Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the infantry, first to the left, then to the right. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on him, awaiting his orders so they could convey them instantly to the entire army. He raised the arm holding the sword. Thousands of soldiers gripped the hilts of their weapons.
At that moment, with one hundred yards between them, the Sybarite cavalry charged.
It was like the rumble of an earthquake.
The ground shook forcefully under the Crotonians’ feet. The metal plates covering their linen or leather armor clattered against each other, as did their teeth. The ringing sound accelerated in time with the thundering hoof beats of the enemy’s charge. Fifteen thousand Crotonians entrusted their souls to Heracles, Zeus, Apollo, and Ares as they remained motionless, clenching their jaws under their bronze helmets.
Milo waited with his arm held high. His men watched him and the two thousand horses hurtling toward them. They were just seventy yards away…and Milo still hadn’t given the order to attack.
Sixty yards. Hundreds of trumpets pointed at the sky. The men carrying them could barely hold the breath filling their cheeks. Why didn’t Milo lower his sword? They hadn’t laid pikes or dug trenches that might mitigate the enemy’s charge.
Fifty yards. The terrifying Sybarite cavalry surged toward the Crotonian army like a hurricane. Behind the two thousand horses, thirty thousand frenzied men ran, ready to finish the massacre.
Milo pointed his sword at the enemy and let out a roar. With piercing urgency, the trumpets blared the order to attack. Galloping ahead of his men, the hero of Croton charged toward the Sybarite cavalry.
CHAPTER 108
July 23rd, 510 B.C.
The armies were about to clash right in front of the masked man.
Oh, gods, what a beautiful sight.
From his hill, the spectacle was impressive, a promise of magnificent annihilation illuminated by the crimson hues of the rising sun.
When the Sybarite cavalry charged, the masked man held his breath, overwhelmed by what was about to happen, what he had achieved with his intrigues.
Fifty thousand men slaughtering each other just because I willed it.
He opened his eyes greedily. In the first minute he would see thousands of men die. That knowledge produced an intense euphoria in him, and he knew it was just a taste of his future glory.
I’ll decide who lives and who dies.
With scarcely fifty yards remaining for the Sybarites to fall on the thin line of Crotonian cavalry, Milo still sat with his sword raised, holding back his men. They were motionless and silent as the enemy cavalry and infantry rushed toward them, shouting war cries. Why aren’t they attacking? the masked man wondered, surprised. They didn’t stand a chance anyway, but staying still, without having planned a defense strategy, was absurd and suicidal.
Just then, Milo lowered his sword and lunged at the enemy with a roar. He did it with such impetus he gained a few yards on his men. On the verge of being swallowed by the Sybarite avalanche, he looked like a solitary mouse running into a herd of charging bulls.
Milo is one of Pythagoras’ henchmen, and his son-in-law, besides.
His imminent death filled the masked man with particular delight.
Sybaris’ cavalry converged on Milo like a huge storm cloud.
Behind the general, the trumpets blared their hysterical message of war and death across the plain. As one, the Crotonians charged. They yelled as they ran, converting their fear into hatred and anger. Accompanying their cries of fury was the shrill sound of hundreds of double flutes and panpipes, cymbals and wooden whistles. Surrounded by the din, the hero of Croton galloped into the horses in front of him. He glimpsed a gap between two of them and corrected his course to go through it. Like a centaur, he was one with his horse, his legs wrapped tightly around the animal’s body. He raised his shield to protect himself from the predictable blow that would come from his adversary on the left, while simultaneously pulling back the arm that clasped the sword. His mind was blank, his actions guided by his natural intuition for combat.
He threw a last glance at the rider to his left and repositioned his shield to deflect the enemy sword, then instantly focused his attention on the man to his right. An adversary’s eyes always indicated his next move. This one was looking at Milo’s head, his sword raised, protecting his side with his shield. The expression on his face showed fury, with no hint of fear. Clearly, he was an experienced mercenary. Milo would have to focus on deflecting his blow.
With only a few yards separating them, his adversary’s face suddenly became a mask of surprise. A few seconds earlier, he had spurred his mount to a gallop, but now the horse stopped abruptly, propelling his rider forward into a momentarily vulnerable position. Milo dug his sword under the enemy’s shield, penetrated his protective leather as if it were silk, and sliced the mercenary’s liver, as his horse continued to advance. The lesions multiplied as he pulled his sword from his enemy’s body. At the same moment, Milo thrust his shield forward and felt a strong blow. He heard a cry of pain and felt the rider to his left fall to the ground. He slowed his horse as he continued to push through the enemy lines, which had come almost to a halt. He leaned to the left, keeping his pointed shield close to his body. The force of his advance crushed another enemy soldier. Now he was surrounded by the Sybarite cavalry. His mount stopped dead as it crashed into an enormous horse that was standing still. He felt a brief burst of panic as he began to slide, but he managed to stay in the saddle. The horse to his right reared on its hind legs, knocking the rider off. One man lunged his horse at Milo, but the animal insisted on stepping sideways, offering Milo his enemy’s left side. He turned, plunged his sword under the man’s armpit, and pulled it out swiftly.
By now, Milo had penetrated the enemy’s third rank. He quickly glanced around him to choose another adversary, and discovered the Sybarite cavalry was in complete disarray. All the horses had stopped and were pivoting, hopping on their hind legs, or walking sideways in very elegant ways, though useless for combat. The Sybarites pulled desperately at the reins and dug their heels frantically into their horses that refused to obey. The two hundred who had intended to disrupt the flanks couldn’t even begin their encirclement maneuver. Taking advantage of the chaos, the Crotonian horsemen advanced deep into the Sybarite cavalry, lunging and slashing at will.
The Sybarite horses had been trained to delight their aristocratic owners. Since birth, they had been taught to dance when they heard music. Knowing this, Milo had placed hundreds of musical instruments in the front lines of his army. Then he had waited to give the order to attack until the enemy horses were close enough to hear his musicians clearly. Now, the musicians continued to play with all their might as they marched toward the battle front.
It’s working! thought an exultant Milo.
A few yards from him, in the fourth row of the cavalry, Tellus was terrified. He looked from one side to the other, unable to understand what was happening. His army’s charge had seemed unstoppable, yet when the thunderous music had begun to play from the Crotonian lines, their horses had stopped unexpectedly and started dancing. His own mount was pivoting, making full circles as it shook its mane rhythmically.
Tellus had seen Milo riding toward them an instant before the music started. The colossus from Croton, adorned with his laurel and olive crowns, was leading his paltry cavalry’s assault. Tellus had been convinced they would crush him. It was then that the horses had started behaving in such an odd way, and Milo had taken advantage of that to spear one man and knock another out with his shield. He continued penetrating the ranks, attacking a third soldier with his shield. Fortunately for Tellus, who could see
the Crotonian heading straight for him, an enormous steed intercepted his path and blocked him. At that moment, Branco, on his right, yelled and spurred his horse toward Milo. The mount moved forward, heading for the Crotonian general, but immediately turned and started prancing sideways, throwing Branco’s attack posture off balance. Even though the Spartan recovered quickly, Milo, surprisingly agile for his girth, sank his sword into Branco’s side.
Seeing his most valuable officer fall, Tellus felt the icy clutch of panic.
Suddenly, Milo fixed his eyes on him. The hero of Croton had no way of knowing who Tellus was—they had never seen each other—but he was his next target and he charged at him like Zeus’ lightning bolt. He swerved expertly around Branco’s horse and reached Tellus. The Sybarite tried desperately to meet Milo head on, but his mount continued to pivot. He twisted in his saddle, raising his sword arm toward the commander-in-chief of the Crotonians. Maybe I can slow him down long enough for someone to come to my rescue, he thought in anguish. Milo struck a forceful blow, and Tellus felt a tug. There was no pain. He looked at his arm and saw, to his horror, that his hand and forearm had disappeared. There was nothing from the elbow down. The stump spouted a jet of blood over his horse’s mane, and he knew he was about to die. One second later, he felt Milo’s sword shattering his ribs and piercing his lungs. He looked at Milo incredulously, but saw no hatred in the Crotonian’s eyes, only determination.
His enemy pulled the blade from his chest, causing a lacerating pain.
“Gods,” murmured Tellus.
He collapsed on his horse. As the accursed animal continued to pivot, Tellus slid slowly off its back and fell to the ground, where he lay on his side, his face against the earth. As his vision dimmed, he contemplated the strange forest of equine legs, between which, like ripe fruit, the bodies of his comrades dropped.
CHAPTER 109
July 23rd, 510 B.C.
The massacre intensified.
Milo fought valiantly from his horse, trying to take advantage of each second. He went from one enemy soldier to the next, his sword a nonstop blur of action. To him, there was little honor in the ease with which he had already killed several of the enemy’s cavalrymen. But I didn’t start this, he told himself, sinking his sword into another body.
Several yards ahead, the Sybarite infantry was a yelling mass hidden within a cloud of dust, on the point of reaching the combat front. Milo looked behind him and saw his own infantry soldiers already falling on the chaotic ranks of Sybarite cavalry. His soldiers threw themselves at the enemy riders like a swarm of angry wasps. Some Sybarites attempted to dismount to fight at ground level. They tried to scramble down however they could from their disobedient steeds, but the moment they hit the ground, the Crotonians’ lances and swords had already run them through. Only a few minutes after the battle had begun, more than half the Sybarite cavalrymen, the most valuable and best-armed men of that ragtag army, lay bleeding to death under their horses.
The inexperienced Sybarite infantry had run blindly behind their cavalry, enveloped in a thick cloud of dust. Suddenly, they saw something they hadn’t expected.
“Our cavalry will crush the Crotonian army,” their brand-new officers had repeatedly assured them. “You’ll just have to go in among what’s left of them to finish them off”.
Instead, what appeared in front of them was an almost impenetrable web of dancing horses. The Sybarite soldiers in the front lines slowed their all-out run to an unsure trot and then halted a few steps from the wall of horses. Seconds later, to their horror, they saw the first Crotonian cavalrymen emerge in their direction.
Milo was the first to spur his horse among the terrified Sybarite infantry. Shortly afterwards, the rest of the Crotonian cavalry fell on the thirty thousand inexperienced and poorly armed Sybarite civilians. By Zeus, it’s like attacking a crowd at a marketplace, thought Milo. He felt his impetus weakening, but regained it instantly. Any show of mercy before the enemy started its retreat would mean the death of his own soldiers. He made his sword fly left and right, unleashing a whirlpool of blood and death. He felt some cuts and nicks on his legs, but he was wearing thick protective leather gear, and his assailants were armed only with sharpened sticks and kitchen knives.
After a while, the area around his horse opened up. Milo sat tall to check on the situation behind him. He had divided his infantry into three regiments. The first two were finishing up the extermination of the Sybarite cavalrymen, and beginning to join their own cavalry against the army of Sybarite civilians. The third regiment, seeing it wasn’t needed at the front, and finding it impossible to move forward anyway, had split into two and was marching toward the flanks. There, the soldiers climbed the hillside or waded into the sea till they had passed the battle front. When they reached the other side they attacked the Sybarite infantry’s flanks.
Milo grunted, satisfied with his officers’ maneuvers, and looked again at the enemy ranks in front of him. Many were pushing each other, trying to get away from him, but he saw a group prepared to confront him, so he gritted his teeth and attacked them.
The Crotonian cavalry’s frontal assault, combined with the third regiment’s flanking tactics, caused the Sybarites closest to the front to attempt a retreat. The inertia of the too-tightly-packed troops, however, kept pushing them forward, sending the men in the front line straight into the Crotonian swords. Most of the unfortunate soldiers didn’t even have a shield, and received the first cut on their hands or arms as they raised them in a pathetic attempt to protect themselves.
From his privileged position high on his horse, Milo could see the same thing happening along the entire front: panic was causing a wave of retreat among the Sybarites, which then spread to the last ranks. Wrapped in a thick cloud of dust, pressed against forty rows of men and completely lacking formation, the men at the rearguard continued to push forward, unable to see what was happening on the front lines. They could hear an incessant roar of terror and agony, but weren’t sure who it was coming from. When they sensed the mass of men pushing them back, some turned around only to meet face on the sharp weapons of those who had been instructed to stop any retreat. Even so, several men tried to escape. They were knifed without mercy, and the rest pushed forward again with renewed force.
“Move forward!” they shouted in terror at their comrades. “Push, by Zeus, push or they’ll shred us!”
Another wave of soldiers advanced, meeting the continuous waves of retreating infantry and the surges from the sides of those who were being attacked on the flanks. The mass of the Sybarite army was a strip half a mile wide and a hundred feet deep, a convulsing blanket of men who had quickly gone from euphoria to hysterical terror. The waves sometimes shifted in opposite directions. Wherever they met, the pressure burst open men’s chests.
The musicians played for twenty minutes.
By that time, the Crotonian army had slain almost all of the two thousand Sybarite cavalrymen, with the exception of the thirty or forty soldiers who had managed to control their horses and flee through the flanks. At that moment, they were riding toward Sybaris.
Shortly afterwards, the Sybarite infantry retreated. A quarter of their soldiers must have fallen by now, Milo calculated. The only reason more hadn’t perished was because the number of bodies in the battle zone made it difficult to advance. Croton’s hoplites had to trample on mounds of bodies to continue attacking. On occasion, they had to help each other over the waist-high piles of bodies.
Unfortunately for the Sybarites who tried to escape, Croton’s third regiment had already surrounded their army almost completely. The Sybarite retreat was so massive they managed to break through the circle at several points, but in the process, thousands fell. The remainder began a long run toward the river and what was left of the camp where they had dreamed of an easy victory. Croton’s infantry pursued them, but, hampered by their weapons and armor, they only managed to catch those who were less fit, or wounded.
Up to that point, Milo hadn�
��t given the order to take prisoners. Disarming and watching them required troops that were needed for combat. Any enemy who was caught was knifed on the spot, making sure he couldn’t get up and then attack from behind. The front kept advancing, and leaving enemies alive behind them was dangerous. The Crotonian soldiers who were some yards behind the front and not fighting thrust their swords into the chests or, if their cuirasses made that difficult, the necks of the fallen Sybarites.
Milo pulled on his horse’s reins, allowing the Sybarites he was about to fall on to move back. His arms and legs were covered with blood, his own and that of others. There were so many bodies around him the ground was barely visible. He watched the enemy army’s retreat. From the sea to the hill, the plain was covered with running men. He shook the arm holding his sword in the air and shouted to draw the attention of his cavalry officers.
“Follow me! We must take them prisoner!”
Several times he repeated the word prisoner. He knew that if he didn’t, the Sybarites would be exterminated.
He rode along the hillside toward the river, overtaking his infantry troops and then the Sybarites. Half his cavalry followed. He looked to the right. The rest of his cavalry advanced along the shore, completing the encirclement.
The Sybarites he overtook had given up hope. They had managed to leave the enemy infantry behind only to discover that their exhausting flight had been futile. A long line of horses was overtaking them on either side of the plain with the obvious intention of blocking their path further ahead. Some stopped in their tracks, but began to run again when they saw the Crotonian hoplites bearing down on them.
General Milo planned his next steps as he rode.
We won’t be able to catch up with the horses that escaped, he thought, worried. Those riders would reach Sybaris by nightfall and alert the whole city. Even so, he hoped Sybaris would surrender easily. They had lost most of their men fit for combat. They would be forced to accept all conditions imposed on them, beginning with the reinstatement of the aristocratic government. They would also be forced to comply with the Crotonians’ conditions immediately. If they were given time to react, they might use the gold they had confiscated from the rich to hire a powerful army.
Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) Page 48
