by Andrew James
Timotheus had been shaken by the Persian barrage. In Greece they said bows were for cowards, and it wasn’t until he came East and fought first Babylonians, then the desert Arabs, that he had faced massed archers. But nothing had prepared him for the Persian arrow storm. Thank Ares the Greeks’ armour had held. He had known the slingers would be bad, but he hadn’t imagined even Phanes could arrange such a deadly crossfire. The treacherous bastard. Timotheus had already killed his brats and when this was over he’d have his balls.
He looked up at the line of bright gowns, dark-bearded faces and garish armour ahead. Gods there were a lot of them! He reminded himself only about half really counted. Twenty thousand lightly armoured infantry, another thirty thousand of those evil bows, ten thousand cavalry, and some deadly camel archers. The rest were levies, little more than peasants with spears. Their king was in the middle, easily visible high up on his chariot. Around him were horsemen, richly dressed, and in front his elite guards, the ones they called the Pomegranate Bearers, all in magnificent but light scale armour with purple cloths knotted over their helmets. And Zeus, they really did have gold or silver counterweights on their spears! Arrogant bastards. He’d collect a few of those after the battle. So these were the Persians, the men who had swept the civilized world. They had soundly beaten Pharaoh’s cavalry and chariots, but they hadn’t yet fought a phalanx. Now their dominance was about to end.
Six months ago, Timotheus had taken over from the fleeing Phanes as stratekos of the phalanx and this was his first chance at glory. He would show the traitor they could do without him. Pulling back his shoulders, lifting his head, Timotheus belted out the opening lines of the Greek battle hymn. In moments, thousands of voices were swelling around him. Sword in hand he walked forward, feeling twenty thousand men pulling in his wake. The walk became a trot, boots crunching, the Greek battle cry roaring in his ears. Aiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiai! The Persians were a solid line ahead, their tall shields forming a barrier, their spears pointing out. His chest running wild Timotheus raised his voice to a yell and the trot became a run, the ground racing beneath him, his men thundering behind, the Persian line bracing to receive the charge, the last adjustments of spears as Timotheus marked his man and ran screaming for all he was worth. A grim face ahead, and Timotheus drove his sword through flimsy armour into the Persian’s gut. Then an almighty crash as all down the line spara shields were smashed away and perfect ranks of bronze shoulders barged into Persian chests. The noise as the armoured lines clashed was deafening. The Pomegranate Bearers’ line buckled, Persians tall as giants and strong as oxen flung aside by the weight of the armoured charge. Men staggered back, shouting, and Timotheus was deep in among their ranks, the king’s chariot not far ahead, just a thin line of bronze and purple between him and the Persian tyrant who wanted to rule the world. Blood sprayed as a hoplite was cleaved almost in half by a Persian nobleman wielding a two-handed labrys axe. A noble on horseback thrust down at Timotheus but was far too slow, the Greek’s sword flashing up, the Persian’s arm severing at the elbow. Timotheus stabbed a Persian in the throat, then another in the chest.
The Persians looked stunned, the killing was easy, then he was climbing onto Cambyses’ chariot, his syntagma at his side, both of them yelling and thrusting crazily at anyone who came near. There was a huge circular shield on the chariot and while Timotheus cut at another Persian the syntagma landed a massive two-handed blow on it with his sword. The wood splintered. The King of Kings was there, staring down with petrified eyes, a spear in his hand. He thrust at the Greeks but stumbled, mistimed his stroke and left himself defenceless. Timotheus roared, cutting at anything that moved, while his syntagma faced Cambyses, levelling his sword blade for the killing blow.
Darius’s instincts had been honed in years of combat. Seeing the Greek’s sword blade come up his spear arm shot forward, his body twisting into the thrust. The point entered the Greek’s neck from the left side, level with his throat, then jarred against the spine. The man’s head shot up and back, the face grimacing with pain, then blood began pumping in hard jets from the wound to cover Darius in gore. The Greek’s sword fell clattering onto the chariot rim; his body slumped onto the yoke. Darius saw Cambyses look at him wide-eyed, but there was still another Greek on the chariot, an officer in brilliant armour, and Darius couldn’t reach him because he’d been driven away by the crush.
Around him the shouting and screaming rose to fever pitch as asabari and nobles struggled to fend off the Greek assault. A Persian satrap cut at the Greek on the chariot but fell to a spear in his eye. Arm stretched out, Darius managed to land another blow but it clanged off the Greek officer’s cuirass, and still he clung to the chariot. Scenting the King of Kings was in their grasp more Greeks were piling up, fighting their way forward, stabbing and thrusting as they battled to reach Cambyses, while Persians fought desperately to resist. Leaning down from his white horse, Vinda thrust his spear at a Greek. Blocking the thrust easily the hoplite rammed his shield up into Vinda’s face. The noble fell from his horse and was trampled underfoot.
Darius hated Cambyses but right now he hated the Greeks more. Beside him, two more Persians fell to hoplite spears and others staggered back as the mass of bawling Greeks surged towards the chariot, arms reaching out to pull Cambyses down. Darius was caught in the crush and couldn’t move but Phanes was suddenly at the King of Kings’ side, screaming hatred at the Greek officer on the chariot yoke. ‘Timotheus, you bastard, I’ll …’ The words were lost in a growl as Phanes grabbed the man by the throat, lifted him up one-handed and drove a sword into his groin. Standing straight-backed beside him, Otaneh rammed his sword into a hoplite’s throat.
The Greeks were screaming. Seeing their stratekos go down they fell back from the chariot, locked shields and levelled spears, and suddenly Darius was threatened by a solid line of hoplites, faces covered by bronze, overlapping hoplons protecting them from throat to knee. The King of Kings was safe for the moment, but the Persians were milling aimlessly because the Greeks were a solid formation again and no one knew how to reach them. Darius thrust his spear at a Greek. The shaft shattered as the iron point rang off his shield boss. He flung it aside. Desperate to find a way past the shield, Darius kicked the man in the shin and felt a searing pain as his sandalled foot smashed into a bronze greave. He flung his shattered shield into the enemy’s face and instinctively the hoplite lifted his hoplon to protect it. Darius tugged out his akinakes sword, dropped into a crouch, stabbed up into the Greek’s thigh, feeling the blade touch bone. The hoplite went down pouring blood, and tearing the hoplon from his arm Darius thrust it at the man on his left, stabbing with his sword at the man on his right, driving a wedge into the tight formation. He was in among the long spears now, hacking at them with his blade, pushing, shoving, biting and kicking to force the Greeks apart. Blows landed on his armour, then they stopped and Persians were yelling as they poured into the breach behind him, akinakes stabbing swords in their hands, short precise thrusts aimed between helmet and cuirass forcing the hoplites to drop spears and draw swords to defend themselves.
In front of Darius, hoplites were moving with astonishing slowness. He heard a long, drawn-out rasp of iron as a Greek pulled his sword clear of its scabbard, saw him raise his helmeted face to look at Darius and lift the razor-edged blade. Someone else raised a fist towards Darius and shouted in Greek: ‘Kill that fucking Persian bastard.’ Two faceless, helmeted Greeks turned to look at him. The first swung his sword in a wide, sweeping cut at Darius’s neck. Darius couldn’t see the man’s eyes but he knew where they were looking. He raised the stolen hoplon and the blade smashed into it. A faint shadow beneath the Greek’s helmet showed his mouth opening and Darius heard the sound of breath escaping in surprise as his arm jarred to a halt. He raised his own sword and drove it into the Greek’s throat. The scream seemed to take for ever to come, by which time Darius was already facing the Greek to his right, who rammed a hoplon at him. Darius growled at the pain as he took it on th
e shoulder, and grabbed the top rim, tearing it aside. The panicking Greek’s arm was caught in the shield straps and he screamed as the bone broke. Darius dragged his arm forward, exposed the armpit and lunged his sword deep into it.
There were Greeks to Darius’s right and left, calling encouragement to each other. He heard an officer shouting at them to ‘close the fucking breach’ and ‘hold the fucking line’ but more and more Persians were pouring into the breach and the line was breaking down. The tide was turning. The Greeks had been fought to a standstill, their unshakable confidence had faltered. Now they were just trying to stay alive. Darius saw helmets turning left and right as they looked for routes of escape. Gaps began appearing in the formation as hoplites fell and no one moved to close up the ranks. No longer a united, invincible formation they became isolated groups of soldiers clustered around officers or standards.
Darius thrust his sword at a Greek, whose shield went up to take the blow. He thrust again. This time the hoplite stepped back, then froze, eyes behind the helmet staring at Darius in terror. The Greek threw the shield at Darius’s face, turned and pushed his way out the line. Next to him his comrade did the same, throwing down his heavy helmet, barging his way between the files until he reached the rear ranks, then running. An officer slashed at him with a sword, but missed. Other hoplites saw the two fleeing men, exchanged glances and followed. Panic spread like wildfire. Discarded spears and shields rattled on the ground as the Greek line melted away.
Suddenly Gobryas was standing next to Darius, his shield arm hanging at an odd angle, his armour torn, but blood on his spear point, eyes manic with battle fever. Then the Greeks were running. A great cheer rose from thousands of dry Persian lips. For a heartbeat, Darius hesitated as the enormity of what was happening sank in, then he raised his arms and cheered with the rest. The noise rolled across the battlefield as the entire Persian army joined in. They started chasing. Darius felt the euphoria of conquest giving new strength to tired legs, his blood pumping and senses at fever pitch, jumping over bodies, cutting down fleeing Greeks as they struggled under the weight of heavy bronze. Most hoplites had already dropped their spears and shields; now they threw off helmets and hastily unbuckled or cut the straps on their cuirasses and flung them to the ground. But it cost precious moments, time they couldn’t afford.
Ulululululu! Ulululululu! With high, blood-curdling cries the Persians struck Greeks down. Darius dragged a hoplite to the ground and slashed his throat. They were offering no resistance now, many falling to their knees and trying to surrender, but dying all the same. It was merciless and barbaric, but something savage in Darius’s soul exulted at the slaughter. They were enemies. They had to die.
There was a hoplite running in front of him, a trickle of blood down the back of his leg where it must have been grazed by a javelin. His armour gone, he was wearing just a leather kilt and plain tunic. His hair was very fair like Phanes’s. Darius never saw his face. As he drove the point of his akinakes into his spine the hoplite gave a horrible moan. Reaching out, Darius caught an exhausted Greek by the tunic, screaming wordless sounds as he stabbed him in the head, saw him fall, slashed a third across the back of his neck, thrust a spear which he’d picked up from the ground into the small of a fourth man’s back. He went down with his legs jerking, body thrashing wildly on the salt crust as his blood soaked away. Everywhere was the sound of blades thumping into flesh, whimpering men and the coppery taint of blood. Terrified Greeks ran in all directions, some in their confusion even back towards the Persian lines. Looking up as he chased, Darius saw a few Persian nobles on horseback slashing down with scimitars at fleeing Greeks, then heard the trumpets calling the asabari to the hunt.
Soon Darius’s chest was heaving and he was drenched in sweat and blood. His arm was too tired to kill and his legs too tired to carry him. Other Persians were also slowing or stopping. Worn out by fighting and running in armour, they doubled over and filled their lungs. Nearly half the Greeks had been slaughtered, but the remainder were almost at the Egyptian lines.
From behind came a thunder of hooves. Darius turned to see thousands of asabari bearing down, bright gowns faded by swirling dust, chinstraps on their hoods streaming in the wind. Three Persian soldiers were near him. He stood with them, watching. The hoof beats grew louder as the asabari approached, drew level, then galloped past in a deafening mass, whipping their mounts.
The Greeks must have heard the asabari and felt the ground shaking, but few wasted time looking back. Staggering and exhausted, seventy-five paces still to go, they knew they would be outpaced by the galloping horses. But running was the only choice they had. Some asabari fired bows as they galloped, arrows whipping low across the battlefield, others concentrated on closing the gap. Greeks struck by arrows stumbled and fell.
The asabari reached the hoplites and enveloped them in dust. Through it, Darius saw kopis scimitars flash in the sun as they rose and fell. The slaughter was swallowed in swirls of grey, but the sounds of screaming men and metal hacking at flesh were vivid. Slowly the screaming faded. Asabari began trotting back, appearing out of the dust in twenties and thirties, colourful gowns restyled with sprays and jets of blood. Their faces were weary but contented. They had slaughtered the remains of the dreaded Greek phalanx.
Through the battlefield haze, Darius saw a distant flash of gold as Pharaoh’s armbands were raised to the sun. His Greek mercenaries had been destroyed, his realm was in peril, and he was throwing everything forward to save it. Axemen, spearmen and javelin men advanced in a mass, while archers came on behind, firing over their heads. The rams’ horns blew, the Egyptians sang and the man-god himself rolled forward in his chariot, ensuring victory by entering the fray.
As the Egyptians advanced on a wide front, the entire Imperial force of ten thousand asabari trotted forward to meet them. Exhausted, Darius just watched. They were a fine sight with their rosettes flashing, weapons glinting, many with jewelled saddlecloths and gowns. Answering the trumpets, in waves of four or five hundred the horse archers galloped towards the advancing line, rode across its front firing the powerful recurved bows, then turned away, twisting round to fire over their shoulders as they went. Every time the Egyptians moved forward a fresh wave of asabari attacked. Sometimes sixty or eighty Egyptians fell. Sometimes two hundred or more. Wave after wave left the plain littered with corpses, strung along the line of the Egyptian advance.
Soon the Egyptian line was so ragged it hardly resembled an advance at all. Darius began to doubt it would ever come in range of the massed Persian bows. Cambyses must have thought the same. To the sound of a blaring trumpet twenty thousand of the Persian archers advanced in crisp ranks. Before them came the spara shields, and ten thousand spearmen as a protective screen. The whole force moved forward in slow, measured steps to the beat of the kettle-drums. Seeing them the Egyptians halted. Pharaoh and his captains exhorted their men to attack. The priests blew horns and threatened curses, but the men were terrified. Even before the Persian archers came in range, the Egyptians looked like a defeated army.
The familiar call of Persian trumpets sounded. Bows were bent, arrows whistled, dipped and fell, flight after flight crashing into the Egyptian ranks. ‘That’s the end, then,’ a Persian next to Darius said wearily as the Egyptian line started to crumble. From somewhere he pulled a flask of strong date wine and offered it to Darius.
In the distance, the Egyptians were screaming as the asabari rode in to slaughter them.
A lone gold-glittering chariot raced beneath a cloud of dust along the Memphis road. When Pharaoh disappeared out of sight Darius looked around, trying to decide how he felt. Around him were more dead and grievously wounded than the world had ever seen in a single day. The ground was strewn with them, eyes staring and arms flung in hopeless gestures. Most were shaven-headed Egyptians or bronze-clad Greeks. Men were saying in awe that fifty thousand enemies had died, and seven thousand Persians. Between the corpses were thickets of arrows studded with pieces of brok
en armour, hacked-up shields, shivered spearshafts and blunted swords, some with the blades broken. An occasional head, arm or hand sat grotesquely in the dust and there was a foul stench in the air. Vultures, crows and kites were circling, flies were gathering in swarming black clouds. Blood congealed in the sand.
Persia had won a great victory.
Darius felt numb. More than anything he wished there was a way of letting Parmys know he had survived. He removed his hood and helmet, and went in search of water.
15
Outside Memphis, Egypt, six days later
Cambyses sat on his throne beneath a shady pavilion on the banks of the Nile. Darius stood before him. Flanked by eunuchs and generals, with the royal fly-swatter attentive over his shoulders, the king’s expression was grave as he nodded to the Chief Eunuch. Bagapata reached out with a bony hand and snatched the silver-topped spear from Darius’s fingers.
‘You thought you could fool me, son of Hystaspes?’ Cambyses asked. ‘I had my doubts when the stratekos told me to promote you. Men whispered in my ear that you would happily see me dead. But at Pelusium I saw with my own eyes that they were wrong. Of course, I would have killed the hoplite myself if necessary. But you did not hesitate. You cut him in the neck. The swiftness of your action leaves no doubt that you are loyal.’
With enough bad grace to curdle milk, Bagapata thrust a new, gold-topped spear towards Darius. Darius remembered the wide-eyed terror on the king’s face as the hoplite attacked, and suppressed the urge to laugh.
The last six days had been chaotic. The sack of Pelusium, the Egyptians in headlong retreat, the frantic but unsuccessful dash to cut off Pharaoh before he reached Memphis, it had left Darius no time to reflect on saving Cambyses’ life. Now that he could, he felt a fool. If only he had looked the other way! He’d acted instinctively. Not out of loyalty to Cambyses, but to the office of the King of Kings. But that wouldn’t help him if Parmys found out.
