‘Well, at least he’s doing something right.’
‘Yes, but a desertion of that magnitude has added to the sense of Eumenes being on the rise and our cause being in serious difficulties. People are starting to wonder if they’ve backed the right chariot.’
Antipatros knew that his son was in the right of it; he wrinkled his nose, disliking Kassandros, irrationally, more than usual because he had been the one to point out his mistake.
‘Then I had better cancel my plans of going home and leaving the war to the Resinated Cyclops and take my army north to deal with the little Greek myself to make sure that eventuality doesn’t arise. If I can coordinate with Nicanor coming in behind him from Kappadokia it might be a success. Who knows but between us we might even shame Antigonos into doing a little better.’
‘You can try, but, frankly, I don’t trust him.’
‘I don’t trust anyone but that doesn’t mean I won’t try to bend people to my will.’
‘I get the feeling that Antigonos now has an agenda of his own and it doesn’t involve you.’
I’m too old to be dragging my weary body out on campaign, but I can see no choice if I want to keep respect and be able to choose my successor from a point of strength. Antipatros got to his feet, decisive and ready for action. ‘Well, we shall see about that after I’ve caught Eumenes. You get back to Antigonos and keep me informed of anything that smacks of growing ambition. I’ll take Iollas with me, he could do with the experience; together we’ll take back Celaenae.’
‘He’s gone, Father,’ Iollas reported as he led a unit of cavalry scouts, fresh from a reconnaissance of Celaenae, back into Antipatros’ slow-moving column. ‘According to the Elders, he left with his whole army two days ago.’
Antipatros shifted his stiff buttocks in the saddle and looked around the jagged hills of the valley through which the column trailed. ‘Two days? Which way did he go?’
‘That’s just it, Father. He went in all directions.’
‘All?’
‘Yes; he’s split his force into four or five units, the reports vary, and has taken to the hills.’
‘Hiding?’
Iollas shrugged.
Antipatros looked again at the hills to either side. ‘We’d better send patrols up to either flank, Iollas; I’ve just had the feeling that I’m being watched. Take whatever other light cavalry you need; I want you to spring any ambushes.’
But it was not Antipatros himself who was the target for malevolent eyes, as he realised less than an hour later when screams rose from towards the rear of the column, half a league away. Antipatros turned in his saddle to see wisps of smoke rising from the baggage; eastern horsemen swarmed around it. ‘With me!’ he shouted to the commander of his bodyguard as he swung his horse around and kicked it towards the column’s rear.
On he raced with a hundred companion cavalry following; down the ranks and ranks of infantry, many looking nervously over their shoulders as the screaming and the din of battle grew from the baggage train. To either side of the valley he could see swift light cavalry racing down the hillside as others sped back up, loaded with booty. A unit of Thracian mercenary cavalry, stationed at the rear of the column, was being held off from relieving the baggage train by enemy heavy cavalry whose handling of their mounts was far superior to anything that Antipatros had seen thus far in Asia. They must be Eumenes’ Kappadokians of whom I’ve heard so much; this could be our chance to finish them if we can take them from behind. As he watched, horse-archers began to strafe the Thracian cavalry from the flank, bringing more than a few down.
Urging his mount on, Antipatros glanced behind; his unshielded, lance-armed companions had their sleek weapons ready for the charge and had formed a wedge of which he was the tip. I shouldn’t be doing this; fighting in the front rank at my age. But there was no choice for Antipatros; to slink back to the rear ranks so close to impact would bring only shame, despite his record as a fighting general. ‘At them, lads!’ he cried, kicking his horse into full stride. Lacking a lance, he drew his sword as the wind of the charge ripped at his cloak and massed hoof-beats thundered in his ears.
But the Kappadokians were not commanded by a fool with eyes only for what was in front of him; as Antipatros’ men came to within hundred paces of their rear, a horn blared from their ranks and, as one, they pulled their horses around, turning to face the new threat; their erstwhile opponents withdrew in the face of mounting casualties from the horse archers to their flank.
It had been an age since Antipatros had been involved in a cavalry charge and the joy of it now surged through him and a sense of youth returned, firming up his thigh muscles as they gripped the flanks of his speeding mount; he found himself screaming at the top of his voice and laughed inwardly, feeling the pent-up tension from the pressure of trying to hold the empire together since the death of Perdikkas flow from him.
But his opposing commander was wily and wise in the ways of horse-war: not for him the head-on clash of scores of beasts but, rather, a subtler approach. And it was with a shock that Antipatros registered one man in Greek tunic, bare legs and cavalry boots amidst the betrousered Kappadokians. Eumenes himself! This is far too good to be true.
With twenty paces separating them, the Kappadokian horn blared once more; down the middle they divided, veering away right and left, skimming down the widening flanks of the wedge, just out of range of the lance tips bristling from it. One javelin apiece they hurled as they passed and many found their mark, punching riders from mounts, slamming into the great chests or rumps of the beasts or skewering their skulls. Such was their skill, their complete oneness with their animals, that not one of the Kappadokians was unhorsed as the last of them cleared the rear of their enemy leaving dead and wounded – both man and beast – strewn in their wake.
The shock at being so outmanoeuvred slapped Antipatros in the face as he pulled his mount up, looking over his shoulder at the Kappadokians streaming away up the hill, screened by their retreating light cavalry, many of whom had sacks of booty from the baggage-train slung across their horses’ rumps. Smoke now drifted on the breeze as wagons burnt and the cries of women filled the air as the camp-followers mourned the dead or bewailed stolen goods. On the far side of the column, enemy cavalry could be seen retreating back up the slope towards the safety of the hills.
The column behind the baggage had ground to a halt, blocked by the chaos, whilst the rest had marched on, splitting the army into two uneven parts.
Antipatros slammed a clenched fist on his thigh, regretting it the moment it struck. I’ve been made to look a fool by a Greek leading a pack of barbarians. ‘Get the wreckage out of the way!’ he shouted at the commander of the baggage train, running towards him to report. ‘And get moving as quickly as possible, Andros; I can slow the column so that you can catch up, but I don’t want to halt it completely, not after that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Andros replied, giving a cursory salute and turning to run back to his ravaged command.
Antipatros looked around at the Macedonian dead and dying and finally understood the scale of the problem he faced. With cavalry like that and using hit and run tactics, Eumenes can hold out for as long as he likes, running rings around us, wearing us down, chipping away at our morale and always being one move ahead. Perhaps I’ve been too hard on Antigonos; Eumenes is a trickier foe than I’ve given credit for. I need to get him to face me in open battle but the trouble is: why would he want to do that?
But further thoughts on the subject were interrupted by the skidding arrival of a mounted messenger. ‘Sir! Sir!’
‘What is it?’
‘The van is under attack!’
Antipatros looked back to the head of the column to see cavalry again flowing down the hills to either side, releasing javelins or arrows and then speeding away as others took their place; to his left, almost directly above him, the Kappadokian heavy cavalry had rallied and were now making their way, at speed, towards the head of the column. ‘Back!�
�� he yelled. ‘Back before they have the opportunity to bring a charge home.’ Without waiting for his companions to form up, Antipatros pushed his tired horse into a gallop, a sickening feeling brewing in his belly; he was being toyed with and there was little he could do until he got his army to the relative safety of Celaenae. As he rode past the ranks of infantry he reflected on the unsuitability of heavy infantry in this rugged terrain and wished that he had not given so much of his mounted force to Antigonos.
And then it hit him: he had sent Iollas to spring any ambushes, and yet here they were charging down the hill at him.
Iollas!
With desperation clawing at his heart, Antipatros spared not his mount as he flogged it on with the flat of his sword. Although slower than before, the column still moved forward, the units under attack sheltering behind their shields as they kept going. Cavalry from the vanguard at the very head of the army had doubled back and was now forming up for an organised charge rather than piecemeal action. But still the enemy swarmed down the hills in a fluid motion, releasing an arrow or hurling a javelin before streaming away to let others inflict more damage. Hundreds of them had now joined the attack, they ebbed and flowed like the sea breaking on the strand and then rolling away, wave after wave in an incoming tidal surge.
With no thought for his own well-being, Antipatros crashed into the nearest group, javelin-armed Paphlagonian light cavalry, just as they veered away, back uphill, having launched their weapons. Sword swirling above his head, iron grip belying his octogenarian status, he brought it down to take the arm of a surprised sparse-bearded youth, before crashing his mount past him and cutting the blade back up into the face of an older man in elaborately embroidered long tunic and trousers. Blood exploded from the shattered visage as the victim arched back, Phrygian cap flying through the air, with a bestial scream dying in his gorge as it filled with gore. On Antipatros went, through the loose formation, slashing left and right thinking nothing but death, uncaring of the growing precariousness of his position the deeper he delved. And then a shudder ran through the enemy before him and, with great urgency, they retired, many looking over their shoulders: the cavalry of the vanguard had charged home, scattering those they could hit and inducing flight in the rest, relieving the pressure on the hard-pressed van who cheered their saviours as they continued their march. Away sped Eumenes’ cavalry, heeding not the solitary Macedonian in their midst such was their desire to avoid the needle-sharp lance tips that had already reaped many of their lives.
As the enemy cleared, Antipatros found himself alone in front of the vanguard cavalry as his companions finally caught up with him. He nodded to the commander and then turned to look up the hill at the fleeing mass. His breath caught in his throat: for there, high above and to the right of him came Iollas’ troop, slanting away from the retreating foe, taking advantage of their disorder to make a run for the front of the column and relative safety.
But the sight of an isolated, weak enemy proved far too alluring for Eumenes’ cavalry whose skirmishing had been curtailed by a far stronger force; three or four score veered towards Iollas’ men with impetuous haste and ululating cries celebrating the excitement of the chase not more than three hundred paces from them but further up the hill.
That Iollas would be intercepted was likely but not inevitable. ‘After them!’ Antipatros screamed at the commander of his companion cavalry, beating his exhausted horse once again with the flat of his sword; the beast whinnied in protest, rising on its hind legs and flattening its ears, but consented to move forward with a leap upon receiving a second stroke. Struggling to maintain his seat as his horse careered away, Antipatros sent up a prayer to Aries, the god of war, to hold his hands over his son until he could come to his aid. The column’s cheers for the vanguard cavalry turned into shouts of warning for Iollas’ men, urging them on to more speed.
Having seen the danger, Iollas changed his path dead away from his pursuers, now a mere hundred paces from them, and for a few moments held his distance as Antipatros and his companions raced after. But, with a jangling of harnesses, snorting and a stamping of hoofs, Eumenes’ Kappadokians appeared over a crest, high on the hill, ahead of the chase. Without hesitation, the little Greek urged his men forward, straight down the steep slope at breakneck pace. Shouts from the column grew more desperate as it became increasingly apparent that Iollas’ men were destined to lose the race.
Desperation grew in Antipatros’ breast as he felt his mount flagging, oppressed by the distance already galloped and the incline of the current slope; no amount of beating could make the beast move faster and he turned to see that his companions’ horses were also on the verge of exhaustion, sweat-foamed and frothing at the mouth.
But even had they had the speed of Pegasus, they would not have prevented Eumenes from smashing his Kappadokians into the flank of Iollas’ troop. In they thrust, sending beasts crashing onto their sides, shooting men into the air; equine limbs thrashed as they tumbled down the steep incline over and over, crushing their erstwhile riders and snapping bones in a chorus of bestial shrieks and human anguish.
‘Iollas!’ Antipatros cried as he saw his son fending off the sword thrusts of two men as he strove to pull himself out of the chaos. Again and again he parried with increasing desperation as men all around him fell to overwhelming odds. And it was with an inevitability that broke Antipatros’ heart that Iollas’ frame jerked and then became rigid.
‘My son!’ Antipatros cried to the sky as the sword dropped from Iollas’ hand and he slithered from the saddle.
‘Hold!’ shouted a disembodied voice from within the Kappadokian formation. A horn sounded thrice and disengagement was immediate, allowing those of Iollas’ men still mounted to beat it back down the hill without pursuit.
The Kappadokians pulled back, all except one man; Eumenes dismounted and knelt beside the motionless Iollas, cupping his head in a hand, as Antipatros pulled up his horse and leaped from the saddle.
‘My men will stay back if yours will,’ Eumenes said.
Antipatros nodded and turned to his companions. ‘Stay where you are.’ He came to his son’s side, looked down at the vacant, staring eyes and collapsed in violent, chest-heaving sobs.
‘I didn’t realise that it was him until it was too late,’ Eumenes said, his voice quiet. ‘I’m sorry.’
Antipatros let his grief run for many racing heartbeats, tears streaming onto Iollas’ face and chest as he hugged the lifeless body. After some while he sucked in a few huge lungfuls of air and brought himself back under control. ‘It’s the madness of it all, Eumenes, we’re killing each other but for what?’ He gestured down at his dead son. ‘Why did he have to die?’
‘Why did any of them have to die, for that matter?’ Eumenes replied, looking around at the dead scattered about.
Antipatros raised his bloodshot eyes and looked at his enemy. ‘All because that arrogant young pup refused to name an heir. “To the strongest”: with those three words he condemned Iollas to an early death and here we are, you and I, fighting each other for control of his legacy. And for what?’
Eumenes was certain of his answer. ‘I’m fighting to ensure that the Argead royal dynasty remains supreme in the empire. And you?’
Antipatros thought for a few moments, looking at the ring on his finger. ‘So am I; at least I thought I was. Which was why I opposed Perdikkas, who seemed to want to take the kings’ power for himself.’
‘And I supported Perdikkas because he represented the kings.’
‘But then, when you defeated Krateros and made me look stupid for dividing my forces, I made it personal. It was my mistake, my pride; had it just been kept to a business level we could have come to an accommodation, I’m sure of it. There was only a very fine line between us; but that doesn’t matter now.’ Antipatros shook his head and spat. ‘But what do I care anymore? I’m done with it.’ He gestured at Iollas. ‘No cause is worth the death of a son and certainly not this one. Keep your war or settle
your differences; it’s all the same to me now. I’m going back to Macedon to die a grieving man.’
‘And the kings?’
‘I’ll take them with me; I’ll not let them be used as pawns in the power game anymore.’
‘Will Antigonos let you have them?’
‘Of course he will; he’s not interested in them, they serve no purpose for him. He doesn’t care about legitimacy, like you and me. He’s just biding his time with a view to making his own bid for power once I’m gone. Face it, Eumenes, the empire is lost; the Argead royal house consists of a fool, a child and Alexander’s bastard, for I’ll take Heracles with me as well.’
‘What about Kleopatra?’
‘What about her? I ensured that all her potential husbands are taken; I didn’t want the situation complicated any further by her marrying and becoming pregnant. She can stay in Sardis or return to Macedon; her time is over.’
‘And me? Will you secure me a pardon from the army assembly? If you do I could come to an accommodation with you and Antigonos.’
‘Frankly, I don’t care one way or the other. I’m leaving Asia; you can fight for it or not, it’s none of my business anymore. I tried my best to make a settlement at The Three Paradises, but it has failed. I don’t believe that you will be able to come to an accommodation with Antigonos unless you agree to serve him as he attempts to sweep all before him.’
‘In that case I would certainly have to oppose him; I’ll only serve the blood of the Argead house.’
Antipatros got to his feet and looked at the little Greek with a mixture of incredulity and pity. ‘And so the war will just continue. Dream on like that, Eumenes, and the inevitable result will—’
‘Be more sons dying.’ Eumenes also stood. ‘If I were to cease fighting for the Argead house then all the lives already lost in that struggle would have died for nothing. Get me that pardon and I’ll still champion the kings’ cause again rather than just fighting to survive.’
The Three Paradises Page 15
