Elephants and Castles

by Alfred Duggan

  ‘I see. You think I won’t last. And I think your League won’t last. Hellenes can’t work in partnership. But though we each hope to outlast the other we are in the meantime united against Cassander. Let’s fight as allies until we have won this war. In the meantime I must congratulate you on the good work done in your shipyards.’

  So much he could say with a clear conscience, whatever he might think of the close-order drill of soft opinionated Athenians. Down in Piraeus they were putting to good use that gift of Asiatic ship-timber. They were concentrating on a new model, all the better because Demetrius had helped to design it. Already he had a few seveners, the biggest sea-going warships in the world; Ptolemy had built a fifteener, but it could sail only on the Nile. Demetrius persuaded the Athenians not to go for size, though that was the great aim of most designers. Plenty of a good thing was more useful than one or two examples of the very best. They were building these new fourers by the score; a model bigger and faster than the three-ers of the old days, fit to lie in the line of battle beside the fivers of modern fleets. Their great advantage was that a crew trained to row the old three-ers felt at home in them; to row the great super-battleships called for a different technique.

  Athenian warships, manned by brave experienced sailors. Against this Cassander’s fleet was small and inefficient; Macedonians trailed a pike or stayed at home. Probably Ptolemy had the best navy in the world, certainly the most numerous. But since Egypt supplied nothing but money it rested on a very shaky foundation. Not only must foreign sailors be hired but the ships must be bought from foreign shipyards. If those ships were sunk it would be difficult for Ptolemy to replace them.

  Even in Athens Demetrius could not stop planning future wars; he seldom thought about any other topic. Nevertheless Athens was full of peaceful distractions. The citizens were always discussing new ideas; which was odd, for in the affairs of daily life they took pains to copy the manners of their mighty ancestors. They made, and enforced, more laws than most cities against blasphemy, against inordinate display in dress, against extravagant feasting, against immodesty in women, against luxurious expenditure. But their speculations were remarkably free. All over the place professional philosophers made a living by charging fees to their pupils; so long as they acknowledged formally the existence of the gods they might advocate any mode of human conduct. Artists of every kind were devising new means of expression. The new paintings in coloured wax were the talk of the town, so lifelike that they deceived even birds and animals. In sculpture the followers of the old ways were at daggers drawn with the new realists. Cheerful architects planned on their drawing-boards buildings so huge that even a king could not pay for them. There were men ready to design a new city from the ground up, others who hoped to carve a mountain into the statue of a single man, planners of long artificial canals. They were inspired by the knowledge that in Asia were cheap and industrious labourers by the thousand; with Hellenes to direct them they could alter the face of the earth as it had never been altered before.

  All these young enthusiasts flocked round the Saviour God, who might supply them with unlimited labour and unlimited funds. But of course the war must be won before any of these projects could be started.

  There were also the hetairae, the pride of Athens. But they were a diversion for the evening and Demetrius did not allow them to interfere with his serious task of training reinforcements.

  Eurydice, he was glad to note, was no bother at all. In Cyrene she had been a Queen, and she knew her rights and duties. She was content if her husband supped with her once in ten days; for the rest of the time she spent his money where it would help his popularity, with influential goldsmiths and dressmakers and artists.

  Before next winter the great war should end in victory. Cassander had been driven from Hellas; one defeat in Macedonia would be the end of him. His Macedonians were said to be restless under a ruler with no hereditary claim to the throne, and he was pressed for money to pay his mercenaries. Once Europe had been united to Asia Seleucus and Ptolemy would submit to save their lives.

  In early spring all was ready for the invasion. But when the citizen-levy of Athens was ready to march Demetrius received an urgent letter from his father.

  Antigonus dictated his state papers in the chatty style of his normal conversation. ‘My dear son, Cassander may keep his kingdom for another year. I have news of an opening too good to be missed. Since we drove Ptolemy out of Syria he is desperate for ship-timber. Now he is trying to conquer wooded Cyprus. His brother Menelaus has invaded the island, with a strong army and about half the Egyptian navy. Deal with Menelaus. If you are quick you may catch him before he is reinforced. Then Ptolemy, who dare not now face us on land, will not dare to face us at sea; and you will be able to devote the following year to Cassander without risk of a diversion in your rear. I am sorry to upset your plans, especially as I suppose your ships are fitted out and ready to move at once. Phila sends her love to you, and to her colleagues. How many bedrooms shall I reserve for you in the new palace I am building at Antigoneia on the Orontes?’

  Demetrius summoned a council of war.

  6. CYPRUS

  It was a glorious morning for a battle, clear sunshine right to the horizon which showed like a wall of blue against the paler sky. A slow swell seemed as if it would last all day, so that the rowers would not be put off their stroke by unexpected waves. There was a light onshore breeze, better than a flat calm for men who must labour to the limit of their strength; though the set of the wind meant that the lee shore of Cyprus looming high to starboard would claim crippled ships. That would make things easier for the victors, Demetrius thought to himself; he was pleased, since he was certain of victory.

  From the poop of his tall sevener he could survey the disposition of his ships. They stretched to starboard in a firm well-ordered line until the right-hand squadron hugged the shore. It was unusual for the admiral to take station on the left, since in any battle the right is the post of honour; but Demetrius had a plan, an intricate and daring plan, and this was part of it.

  The war of Cyprus had opened with a swing. With 15,000 men Demetrius had landed unopposed, and offered battle to Menelaus, whose army was slightly smaller. After some half-hearted skirmishing Menelaus fell back into the strongly fortified city of Salamis, whose harbour had ample room for his sixty warships. That was as good as could be expected. Demetrius had settled down happily to the building of siege-engines and the laying out of trenches, the branch of warfare which he most enjoyed.

  But Ptolemy had reacted with unexpected speed. You never knew when one of Alexander’s veterans would imitate the lightning marches of his youth. Long before a breach could be battered in the walls of Salamis, even by the most novel engines, the Egyptian grand fleet was at sea. With the fleet came transports carrying a considerable army. Agents in Alexandria put the army at 10,000 men, and probably they were right. Such figures soon became public property when mercenaries had friends or kinsmen serving with their enemies. The problem was as simple as if it had been set out on a Persian chessboard. Here was Ptolemy with 140 ships and 10,000 men; here was Demetrius with 118 ships and 15,000 men; on the far side of him lay Menelaus with 60 ships and 13,000 men. On land the brothers outnumbered him significantly, and at sea their force was nearly double his.

  The textbooks of strategy published by many retired veterans of India laid down exactly what Demetrius ought to do. He should raise the siege of Salamis, fortify a strong position inland among the mountains, and wait for his father to send reinforcements. That was what all his subordinate commanders advised, at the council of war which discussed the impending operations; 23,000 Egyptians, less the garrisons they must leave to guard their communications, could not compel a well-led army of 15,000 men to deliver battle in the open field; and an attack on an entrenched camp, with such a slight superiority in numbers, would be a hazardous adventure. The campaign would stand still until Antigonus made the next move; which might just as well be an advance
on Egypt from Syria as an addition to the army already committed to Cyprus. In that case Ptolemy must withdraw to defend Alexandria, and then the Syrian army must retire before him. Next year they would all be back where they had started, with few lives lost and no general’s reputation damaged by a defeat in the open field. A retreat inland was the sensible course, so sensible and obvious that it would not discourage the mercenaries in the Army of Hellenic Democracy.

  Instead, Demetrius had decided to play double or quits. He would fight Ptolemy at sea before the Egyptian army could come to land, while the enemy were still hampered with transports and baggage. If he lost, defeat would be final; for Menelaus lay in his rear with a strong army and sixty undamaged ships. But if he beat Ptolemy he would conquer Cyprus.

  To block the narrow harbour of Salamis he left ten picked warships. Only ten ships against sixty, but side by side they barred the channel and the enemy could not see that they were unsupported. ‘Besides,’ he said to the council of war, ‘a general who has shut himself up is usually slow to come out again. Behind his walls he feels secure. He has already persuaded himself that the open country belong to his besiegers. Menelaus will get word of our movement; at the outposts mercenaries gossip with old friends on the other side. He will recognise the chance to break out. But he won’t jump at it. He likes safety. He will take more than a day to brace himself for the adventure, and one day is all we need.’ With reluctance the council had agreed.

  In one day he must win his victory. A drawn fight would not help him in the least. If Ptolemy was merely checked he could land his troops elsewhere in the island and still manoeuvre to raise the siege. This day’s fight would be all or nothing.

  He had disposed his fleet for victory or death. On his right, inshore, were his weaker ships, contingents from Asia and the islands and those rowed by hired mercenaries. The seaward left wing, which he led in person, was made up of his own picked seveners. There were seven of these in all, longer and broader and more stoutly built than any warship with lesser rowing- benches. They had been made to his own design in his own shipyards; their rowers and marines were his own faithful servants, men who had followed him since his first campaign six years ago.

  Next to the seveners, the super-dreadnoughts, lay the forty ships of the Athenian navy. With four men to each oar they were just strong enough to lie in the line of battle. The shipwrights of Piraeus could have built seveners or even something larger; but Demetrius wished to employ all his excellent Athenian sailors, and fourers could be turned out in quantity during the single winter that Athens had been free. It was curious that independent Athenian democrats, men who would not work as foremen or bailiffs or in any other job that entailed obeying orders all the time, jumped at the chance to row in a galley. It was about the hardest work ever demanded of a man, so hard that the Carthaginians were said to use chained slaves as rowers; but in Athens it was considered honourable, and more fitting for a democrat than fighting on land. For only a man of some means could fit himself out with the complete panoply of a spearman. Athenians were proud of their seamanship; once afloat they obeyed orders without answering back. An Athenian fourer, manned by volunteers, could face any fiver rowed by Ptolemy’s hirelings.

  The Egyptians were quite close before he could see them in detail. Warships with their masts stuck in readiness for battle did not show clearly against the heaving sea. But an experienced look-out could count ships by their oar-foam before he could clearly discern their hulls; Demetrius knew that he faced Ptolemy’s 140 ships, without detachments. He himself had in line only 108, since ten of his best vessels were bottling up Menelaus.

  In the enemy fleet there was only one sevener. Most of their ships were fivers, as might be expected; but among the nearest, on the hostile right wing, were a few obsolete three-ers and some clumsy hulks which might be oared transports hastily modified for battle. Demetrius whistled with joy. He had been surprised by the reports of his spies, though he believed them; it had seemed unlikely that Ptolemy, with neither ship-timber nor trained sailors to be found in his kingdom, could send to sea as many as 200 warships. Now it was explained. Ptolemy had added to the paper strength of his fleet by bringing in vessels unfit for modern war. This was going to be easier than he had feared.

  Best of all, Ptolemy had drawn up his line exactly as Demetrius had hoped. That solitary sevener must be the flagship; it lay in the middle of the fleet, with the weaker auxiliaries far out on the wings. Ptolemy planned to attack in the centre, as though he were fighting in the open sea; he had forgotten that menacing lee shore on his left.

  Everywhere trumpets sounded. Flutes trilled as the rowers changed from paddling to the fast battle-stroke. Demetrius heard his shipmaster mutter, ‘In, out,’ and thump the gunwale to give out the time to the flagship’s flute. The great sevener began to draw ahead of the Athenian fourers.

  Demetrius turned to the officers on the poop behind him.

  ‘Remember, gentlemen, no boarding before I set the example. Of course we shall sink the first ship we ram; I’d be ashamed of you all if we didn’t. But we are fighting against odds, and we must sink three or four before we think of booty. Whoops, there goes the first arrow! We’re off! Shields up, and stand firm for the bump! ’

  He began to sing a nonsensical nursery rhyme. This was the supreme joy that life had to offer. He was going to bowl over these enemies, smash them, make them turn tail. They would try to kill him; but they couldn’t, because he was a better man than any of them. All the same, he was risking his life, and could there be a more pleasurable gamble? He would win, because he was Demetrius son of Antigonus. All the thousands of men in his fleet had confidence in him. And Ptolemy’s thousands had rowed a long journey to furnish this pleasure. How good of them to come to meet him! What a pity so many of them would be drowned. A battle was the best pastime imaginable, but it would be better still if no one were killed. But then no one could display his courage. Anyway, here was this splendid battle, specially arranged for his enjoyment. He would enjoy it.

  The bump came; a hard bump, because the shipmaster had taken advantage of his admiral’s ecstasy to run against a weak adversary. He met the little three-er squarely, beak to beak, instead of trying to sheer off a line of oars by a glancing blow. The flagship shuddered, and some marines fell flat on her deck. But the beak of the little Egyptian was driven back right through her bow-planking, so that she drifted away a waterlogged and unmanageable wreck.

  ‘A bigger one next time,’ shouted Demetrius. ‘Come on, boys, get rowing again. Master, hard a starboard. Pull on that steering-oar. Don’t row through their line, row down it. Hoist the signal “Follow the admiral” so that the other seveners turn with us.’

  He had come out of his trance. He was alive all over his body. He could see and hear everything that happened in every part of the action, right up to the Cyprian shore. In the centre the island contingent bore up very creditably under Ptolemy’s attach. Fine seamen, those islanders; they had lost some oars smashed, but so had the Egyptians. By clever steering they had avoided a head-on crash and the two lines of battle were locked together. Close inshore his weakest squadron had been driven back, but they were still fighting and none of their ships had been completely disabled.

  The seveners on his immediate right had smashed through the enemy line with him; beyond them the Athenians held their own against bigger fivers. Everything was going according to plan.

  Once the flagship had speed on her he rolled up the Egyptian right. His shipmaster caught a fiver broadside on, so that the beak cut her nearly in half. As her crew jumped overboard Demetrius remembered to tell his marines not to shoot arrows at men struggling in the water.

  The Egyptians backed water, turning to form a defensive flank. It was the only sensible thing to do; but ships going astern, with the steering-oar hard over, move terribly slowly. The flagship caught another fiver, shearing off her starboard oars. Three ships wrecked, and not a scratch on his own crew. This was life as a god should
live it.

  Ptolemy’s men did not panic. The worst of them were honest mercenaries who gave value for money, and they were stiffened by devoted retainers who had served their leader since Alexander died in Babylon. They kept the beaks of their ships towards the foe, striving continually to restore their shattered line. But now there was a lee shore behind them. Inexorably they were driven towards it.

  By midday the rowers on both sides were too exhausted for further ramming. The ships barely moved, jostling beak to beak. This was the time to board. Demetrius jumped from the bows of his flagship to the foredeck of an enemy fiver. His staff and marines, even some of his rowers, swarmed after him. In a few minutes the fiver was won, but Demetrius did not himself board another. In those few minutes he had seen rowers cut down at the oars, men stabbed in the throat as they cried for mercy, fugitives run through the back. It was not the kind of fighting that gave him pleasure. Returning to his flagship, he gave the order to back water, clear of the melee; during the rest of the action his ship moved up and down the line, occasionally boring in to lend her great weight where it was needed.

  The sun was still high when Ptolemy admitted defeat. The great Egyptian flagship, the only sevener in their fleet, had also retired from the fighting line. Suddenly she charged, shearing off the oars of two Athenian fourers who tried gallantly to intercept her. A gap showed in Demetrius’s line, and other Egyptian ships streamed through it. But they did not come about to take their foes in the rear; they limped off westward at the best speed of their exhausted rowers. After a score of Egyptians had got through the Athenians closed the gap; and the remainder of the enemy, hemmed close against the rocks of Cyprus, cocked their oars in token of surrender.

  Too weary to stand, drenched with sweat and spray, Demetrius crouched in his folding chair. He could see that his men were accepting the surrender of all who sought quarter, as was natural when mercenary fought mercenary. There seemed nothing more for him to do. He was about to give orders to make for the shore when he felt the flagship turn under him as the flute struck up the battle-stroke. He sprang to his feet, looking round for this new danger.