Alexander the King

by Peter Messmore

  ≈

  Alexander’s plan worked perfectly, at the start of the operation. But well before dawn, in nearly total darkness, the unrelenting rains became even more intense. Scores of Alexander’s men were struck by lightning and killed as they were getting into the large boats for the crossing. The cavalry’s horses were terrified by lightning and thunder and they reared away from their riders and slipped into the muddy river embankment before entering the swift water of the river. Then, Alexander’s forces were surprised by something that could not have been seen in the low visibility skies.

  “This is only an island in mid-stream,” Alexander shouted to his commanders in the following boats. “Make for the real embankment! Do it now! We are vulnerable here and can be picked off while we are being swept forward in this fucking muddy river.” The king’s shouts were barely audible amid the crashing thunder that surrounded his struggling fighters.

  Some were able to make their way eastward, and they started to climb up the muddy embankment. Calvary riders were in the water, riding their choking and terrified horses from the unexpected island to the opposite bank. An enemy attack right now would annihilate them all.

  Only iron will and battle hardened-discipline made it possible for most of the king’s fighters to struggle to the river’s eastern side. More than a hundred drowned, pulled under the muddy river by their heavy armor. As the rains continued unabated, Alexander helped his remaining men up the river embankment and directed them into their battle formations. Each looked like a wet rat. They were sodden, cold, angry, and ready to take as many lives as they could.

  The Indian defenders saw what was happening. Immediately, an Indian general dispatched a swift rider to Porus with the message that Alexander was crossing north of the Rajah’s main forces. Porus’ only chance now was to intercept Alexander and kill the Greeks before they could establish a foothold on the eastern shore. But he could not remove his entire southern army at Haranpur. That would give the Greeks opposing him there an unfettered opportunity to begin their river crossing. Porus sent his son racing north, while he remained with his main force opposite Craterus at Haranpur. He had been outmaneuvered; it was his only possible course of action.

  Soon, the Macedonians and Indians met in combat. Porus’ son was heavily outnumbered, and the chariots that most of his forces arrived in were quickly immobilized in the mud. The enemy swept them aside easily. Most were annihilated by the most battle-hardened veterans in Alexander’s army. Four hundred Indians, including Porus’ son, were killed. The rest retreated south to join Porus.

  Waiting in reserve between Alexander and Craterus’ main forces at Haranpur, were Meleager, Attalus, and Gorgias. Seeing Alexander’s initial success, they forded the river and joined him to meet Porus. It was lighter now but the dark skies continued to empty their monsoon rains over the hard-charging Macedonians and mercenaries.

  Porus was in a hopeless situation. If he turned to face Alexander, Craterus would ford the river, allowing thousands of enemy fighters to come at him from the rear. If he remained where he was, Alexander would attack him on his flank and rear.

  “We will fight Alexander,” he shouted to his commanders. “Leave most of the elephants here to block the river crossing. Everything depends on us taking out their king. There’s a flat sandy area not far from here. It will give our cavalry and elephants a chance to maneuver. Sound the battle trumpets!”

  The main battle was underway. Alexander conducted a series of cavalry charges that confounded the enemy and eventually pulled them into a trap. But Porus’ elephants were devastating to Alexander’s phalanx fighters. A hundred elephants charged the Greeks and began to stomp them into the ground. The screams of crushed men filled the air. The berserk elephants picked up other Macedonian fighters in their trunks and slung them high into the air. These attacks, made even more terrible by the elephants’ wild trumpeting and slashing ivory tusks, continued without interruption.

  Never had Alexander’s fighters experienced such battlefield terror. For the first time since they had left Macedonia, battle fatalities mounted early and the battle’s outcome was in doubt.

  Stunned beyond effective fighting at first, the phalanx at last regained its discipline. They circled the elephants, called for archers to eliminate their handlers with arrows and then used their spears and javelins to penetrate the soft underbelly of the giant animals. Macedonians slashed at the elephants’ trunks with their short swords while other fighters managed to chop at the huge creatures’ feet, like a woodsman taking down a mighty tree. Chaos reigned and death was left, right, below, and above each fighter.

  After a bloody ebb and flow of the battle lines, the Greeks and Macedonians slowly advanced on the Indians. The elephants, watching what was happening to the injured and dying animals, now escaped control of their handlers. They started a wild charge in every direction that took out as many Indians as Greeks and Macedonians.

  Porus saw what was happening and led one last, vain charge. However, the tide of battle had changed.

  Alexander ordered his phalanx to lock shields and mount the final charge. The rest was a bloodbath.

  Craterus was now fully across the river and Porus was caught in the middle. The slaughter of his fighters was immediate and merciless. Twelve thousand Indian fighters soon lay dead or dying in the mud-mixed-with-blood goop that was the product of a massive battle.

  Porus lost most of his commanders and the last of his two sons. He attempted to flee the field, but a spear wound had injured him so badly that he had to get down from his war elephant and simply wait for capture. He was covered with blood, too weak to continue the fight.

  ≈

  Macedonian officers held Porus for King Alexander while he wrapped up the battle. Then he and his personal bodyguards rode to meet the rajah of Paurava. His great courage and valor during the battle was obvious to every Macedonian. Alexander dismounted Bucephalas, who had been injured seriously in the battle, gave his stead to a handler for treatment, then walked to examine the man he had just defeated. He felt like a little boy approaching his tall father.

  Through a translator he spoke. “You are my most ferocious opponent,” he said in a soft, respectful voice. Torrential rain continued pelting both men as Alexander asked, “How to you wish to be treated?” Alexander asked.

  “Like a king,” Porus answered without thinking.

  Alexander was struck with the nobility of his enemy’s answer and was pleased. For the first time, he had finally met an honorable barbarian of great dignity. He smiled, then was startled by a lightning bolt that landed close to his group. It created a pungent smell that permeated the rain swollen skies. “Isn’t there anything else that you want for yourself?” he asked Porus.

  Porus, sitting in the mud, waited for the translation. Then he wiped blood from his face with rainwater and answered the invader who had just defeated him. “Everything is contained in that one request,” he replied.

  “You are a great leader,” Alexander said. “We will treat you as a king; you will like what I have in mind for you. My physicians will attend you and then we will talk.”

  Alexander turned on his heel, slipped in the mud and then made his way to inquire about Bucephalas.

  Walking alone, with twelve bodyguards trailing behind, he was lost in private thoughts. A strange miasma came over him as he suddenly sank to the middle of his boots in Indian mud and nearly fell. Pulling free, he continued his trek in the storm.

  How much longer can I continue these monumental battles? He had lost nearly four thousand of his fighters in this battle. His propagandists would suppress that figure and make it far less than it actually was. The real death numbers could never get back to Greece. But worse than the physical loss of so many of his best soldiers was the psychological impact of them dying so far from home.

  India was his, after only one battle. But how much longer could he expect his men to follow him? His electric mind was flashing with ideas that rivaled the fierce monsoon li
ghtning and thunder that would not stop in his newly conquered land.

  CHAPTER 19

  EASTWARD TO THE BEAS

  “Alexander has ordered thirty days rest,” the aging battalion commander said to his young friend. “We need it. There is great unrest in the ranks. How much longer does he think that games and poetry competitions will keep us happy?”

  His younger companion, a changed man after the Jhelum River battle, just leered at his friend. His rash confidence had nearly disappeared. With his left hand, he was holding his bandaged, arm-stump where his right hand used to be. One of Porus’ war elephants had crushed it during the worst chaos of the Jhelum battle. Only the quick action of a fellow fighter, who had severed it at the wrist, had saved his life. “My nightmares are filled with elephants’ trumpeting,” the young soldier said. “I’ll never get over it.”

  “Your stump looks awful,” the older man said staring at the bandage. “Is that yellow liquid medicine or infection?”

  “It’s not medicine,” the younger soldier answered. “In this heat and rain wounds won’t heal like they do in colder climates. I have an infection. The physicians say they have used everything they have. I may lose the rest of my arm if things don’t improve. What I wouldn’t give for a cool day without rain.”

  The older soldier gave his friend a gentle rub on his head. He had also been badly injured in the Jhelum battle. His legs showed deep cuts, and he would probably never be able to run again. He too feared infection in India’s unrelenting heat and humidity. “Mold grows on everything,” he complained. “Even when I polish my sword and armor, rust forms in half a day. My leather straps are cracked and nearly useless.”

  His friend nodded his head in understanding. “Alexander still gazes eastward,” he said. “He will ride to the sun on our backs.”

  “Let’s return to camp,” the older fighter said at last. “I want to talk with our comrades about our situation. For the first time we can complain publicly; everyone is doing it.”

  “Is action being considered?” the younger man asked. “Is an insurrection brewing?”

  “Not yet,” the older man answered. “But Alexander must be made aware of our weariness. Things can’t continue like this. Returning home is the only thing that is going to calm things.”

  The two men walked back to camp in near silence. Both were devoted to Alexander and considered him a god. Nevertheless, their spirits were almost broken. If they could just make it back home, a life of semi-luxury awaited them. However, both knew that Alexander’s pothos-driven wanderlust must be assuaged first. They also understood that more men would die before that would happen.

  ≈

  “Bucephalas is dead,” the king’s stable physician announced. “It was a combination of two spear thrusts and old age. As mighty as he was, life left him. A noble spirit departed the earth.”

  Tears formed in Alexander’s eyes and he sobbed openly. No one had ever seen him cry. Fighting a complete breakdown, he dismissed everyone but Hephaestion.

  The two men had grown apart during the last weeks because of Alexander’s apparent love for Roxane. Now Alexander needed his oldest friend to give him comfort.

  “I know what he meant to you,” Hephaestion said, hugging the king with one arm. “What kind of funeral do you want?”

  Alexander, red-eyed, regained control and motioned for Hephaestion to sit on a nearby couch. “Bucephalas was twenty,” he began. “I want a city established on the west bank of the Jhelum in his honor. His funeral will be an affair of state. I will name the city Bucephala. A dignified shrine will be built there of fine stone. No one must ever be allowed to forget my magnificent friend. After you, I loved him most.”

  Alexander observed that Hephaestion was pleased with his words. He knew that his friend would take the comment as an indication that their long period of personal animosity was over.

  “Construction on both the city and the shrine will begin immediately,” Hephaestion answered. “Do you want other commemoration sites honoring your victory over Porus?”

  Alexander sighed, rubbed his eyes, and then acknowledged the importance of Hephaestion’s question. “Yes, I want another city built where we conducted our Jhelum night-crossing. We’ll name it Nicaea to honor the victory. Build both cities of that mud-brick these locals use. It won’t last long in this cursed rain, but it will help establish my legend. That’s all that matters in the great scheme of things.”

  “An appropriate action,” Hephaestion answered. “What are our military plans? The men are restless; there is talk of returning home.”

  “I’ll have none of that,” Alexander shot back angrily. “India can’t be that large, and we may be close to the Great Eastern Ocean. My soul will not rest until I stand on its shores.”

  “When you leave, send Craterus in here. I’ll order him to coordinate the construction of the two new cities. I’ll also order him to begin construction of a vast new fleet that will take us down the Jhelum, to the Indus, and out to the open sea. I need you with me as we move eastward. There is still a lot of mopping up around here before that can happen.”

  “What are you going to do with Porus? He has nearly recovered from his wounds. It seems that he may support you. His treatment now could be critical for the success of the outpost that you want to establish here.”

  “I’ve decided to give him control of his former lands,” Alexander said. He looked at Hephaestion and saw that he was surprised. “A garrison will be left here to keep him honest. But I don’t want Ambhi taking control after we leave. Each of them will be allowed only enough power to counterbalance the other.”

  “How much of this do you want your commanders to know? Their unrest is real. Some of the officers are already saying that the best way to gain control of a kingdom is to be defeated by Alexander.”

  Alexander smiled, recognizing the truth of Hephaestion’s observation. “I’ll give them a city to sack soon. That always calms any unrest in the ranks. I’ll keep telling them that the Great Ocean is just beyond the next river or hill. It has worked for eight years and 141,000 stadia. They will follow where I lead.”

  “Their morale is the lowest it’s ever been. Some are swearing that they will never fight elephants again. I must tell you, this is serious.”

  “You trouble yourself with matters that are beyond your command level,” the king said in a condescending voice. “Put it out of your mind! I’m on top of this. Go now and send for Craterus. I feel my pothos rising again. My adventure is not over.”

  Hephaestion left and Alexander was alone. He knew that Craterus was out of camp so it would take time for him to return. His mourning for Bucephalas was not complete. He would use this quiet time for final supplications. He got on his knees and prayed to Zeus-Ammon to take his mighty stead into whatever spirit world existed for animals. “Let it be a place where monsoon rains never fall, where he will never face angry war elephants again,” he said. He raised his arms heavenward and chanted a simple prayer-song that his mother had taught him when he lost a dog to death. Slowly, the spirit of his sacred father descended upon him and his grief began to lessen.

  Then he rose and went to a table to read the latest letter from Olympias. It had taken five months to reach him. Self-satisfied, even calm now, he was convinced that Asia had not heard the last of Alexander of Macedon.

  ≈

  It was midsummer and the final days of the monsoon continued unabated. The deluge had filled all of the rivers and low-lying land, forcing most of the snakes in northwest India to seek higher ground. Every house and tent was infested with both poisonous and nonpoisonous snakes of every variety. Alexander’s army could only cope with the slimy invasion by sleeping in open-air hammocks, strung between sturdy trees. Flimsy tents surrounded these makeshift arrangements but most soldiers were fearful of falling asleep in them. Despite these precautions, poisonous snakes hiding in their boots bit some men and they died painful deaths. Insurrection, like the unrelenting rains of India, was in the
air.

  “The bastards are ingrates,” Alexander complained to Ptolemy. “I gave them a three-day sacking holiday and they still won’t listen to me. When I spoke to them, there was just silence. To a man, they all want to go home with their plunder.”

  “This is your most serious crisis with the men, especially the Macedonians,” Ptolemy answered. “They are unified and won’t budge. Scores of them have told me that if you want to continue east, you must do it without the real leadership and power of your army. They know that the mercenaries and Persians don’t have their fighting skills or experience. They are right.”

  “Are you siding with them, Ptolemy?” the king asked with a deadly look on his face.

  “I’m not. But we are at an impasse. They look across the Beas River and see only the endless, level plains of India. Every man knows that the Great Eastern Ocean is nowhere in sight. You must do something quickly.”

  Alexander was furious and walked around his command tent in a tight circle. A large puddle was forming on the floor of the tent, beneath a rip in the top, caused by a sudden rainsquall. The king slipped in the water and almost fell. The mishap only made him angrier. “All right! Assemble my senior officers. I’ll convince them and then we will deal with the men. This mutiny will not go any further!”

  ≈

  “We have come this far and now the men, even some of you, have given up,” the king began speaking to his top commanders. “The ridiculous claims of an even larger empire east of India are horse shit! There are no more wide rivers to ford, and we have learned how to fight the elephants. Where has your courage gone?”

  Alexander had worked himself into an agitated state and quickly realized that his comments were bordering on insult. With great internal control, he calmed himself. The action was a trick that Aristotle had taught him as part of debating strategy. He lowered his voice and slowed his delivery.

  “If we turn back now, everything we have worked for will be lost. Is that how you want our legend to end? Do you want it remembered that we were never whipped by a real foe, but dissipated by fatigue and wild rumors of a phantom army three times our size?”