‘Sometimes you can be too clever,’ Antigonos said with evident satisfaction. ‘But that hasn’t slowed Kleitos down.’
As they had been watching the mesmerising death of the tower, Kleitos, seaweed flowing from his head and shoulders, trident pointing the way ahead, had extracted most of his fleet from below the sea wall and, with decks crammed with Arrhidaeus’ rescued men, had begun to form line of battle as the newly arrived fleet neared.
With less than a league separating the combatants, both now slowed so that they could tighten their formation, neither side wanting to be broken through and then turned.
Antigonos felt helpless as he watched the two fleets square up to each other from a distance. Although always a land general and an infantry one at that, he felt it wrong to be a mere observer at a battle that would decide who had control of the crossing between Europe and Asia; he did not, however, have any illusions about himself as a naval commander and knew that his presence was not being missed by whomever it was commanding his returning fleet.
To the shouted nauticalese of the officers and the shrill calls of pipes, the oarsmen spread their wooden wings and Kleitos’ fleet surged forward – the tower, the two sunken ships and hundreds of drowned men forgotten. Antigonos strained to see what was happening with his fleet but Kleitos had his formation so tight that there were few gaps large enough to see the situation beyond.
Antigonos signalled that they should follow at a distance – their ship, a small, fast open-decked lembi being unsuitable for fleet actions.
Now Kleitos was up to cruising speed, the sweeps rising and dipping with studied regularity, the calls of the stroke-masters’ pipes blending with the shrieks of the gulls circling and swooping down upon the fleet, plunging into its wake in search of discarded treats. Onwards, away from Antigonos, the great line of warships raced, the beat of its oars increasing to attack speed as it converged with the foe. Then, from the walls of Cius, artillery opened up; flaming bolts rose into the sky to fall amongst the ships.
‘Ha! We’ve taken advantage of the town being emptied and seized it,’ Antigonos said with satisfaction. As he did so, the boom across the harbour mouth dropped and the half dozen ships, the last remains of the blockading squadron under the command of the Cretan, Nearchos, slipped out and began to chase Kleitos’ fleet. ‘That’s right, Nearchos, pick off any stragglers,’ Antigonos said, rubbing his hands again and turning once more to the triarchos. ‘We’ll join them and see if there is anything we can do. Open the weapons box.’
The artillery continued until the fleet was at the extreme of their range; with two of the ships burning, flames fed by a freshening northerly breeze, they had done as much as could be expected of them.
Catching up with the ships spilling from the harbour, the lembi slipped in at the rear of their formation as it headed for the burning ships.
The shrill of the pipes grew in tempo as both fleets reached ramming speed and Antigonos, a bunch of javelins now in his left hand, prayed to Poseidon to grant him victory, hoping that Kleitos’ constant aping of the god would work against him; but then, he reflected, this earthly Poseidon had won many sea battles, one serving with Antigonos himself on Cyprus little more than two years ago, and another here in these same waters; he did not seem to be lacking in his guardian god’s favour. I needed his talent in Cyprus and now I have to fight against it; I was foolish to alienate him.
And then the first impacts cracked over the water: shattering blows of metal rams exploding through the bellies of ships; staccato splintering of snapping oars raked, blending with the screams of their wielders as the shafts punched back into the chests, imploding them; high over all came the grinding shriek of metal tearing wood as ships backed oars to extricate themselves from their violent coupling.
Down fell masts, crushing many on Kleitos’ full decks, Arrhidaeus’ packed men suffering cruelly – partaking in a sea battle had not been what they had expected as they had embarked – as grappling hooks flew through the air to snare a victim and pull it close in deadly embrace. And now Arrhidaeus’ men turned their close-packed numbers to their advantage; heavily armed, they swarmed into the enemy ships, leaping across the narrow gaps and overwhelming the more sparsely manned enemy; hurling them overboard, pierced and bloodied, into a sea already churning with the dying.
‘They’ve got the better of us,’ Philotas observed as the centre of Kleitos’ line appeared to move forward.
Antigonos could see it was the truth of the matter and signalled to the triarchos to turn back. ‘Back to Chalcedon, there’s nothing that we can do here.’
The six ships that had slipped out of the harbour also turned, having despatched the burning stragglers, being of insufficient force to take on the main body, even from the rear.
The rowers bent their backs to their task as Antigonos gazed out over the stern to the battle still unfolding for the worse. Kleitos had now forced his way through the centre; Antigonos’ fleet was riven in two, ready for piecemeal dispatch. The wails of the dying drifted over the waves, disembodied and losing their connection with the nautical chaos whence they had risen. Away they rowed as Antigonos contemplated his next move. As he did so, little pockets of ships filtered from either wing of the main battle, his ships, survivors, to make their way east, towards Chalcedon whence they had set out for Athens just eight days previously. I cannot afford to accept defeat; to do so here would mean that I wouldn’t have superiority in these waters again for a long time. Somehow I need to defeat a victorious fleet with the remnants of a defeated one. Still he looked back at the disaster, willing more of his vessels to appear; a few did but not nearly enough for his purposes.
And then the way forward presented itself. ‘Philotas, when we get back I want you to go across to Byzantium and hire whatever ships, fishing boats, any vessels that can transport men; I don’t care about the price, just do it.’
‘Of course. What do you plan to do?’
Antigonos slapped his son on the shoulder. ‘Demetrios, remember that force you were gathering for Menander that is due to leave at dawn?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, they’ll have to leave later. Kleitos’ fleet is going to have to spend the night somewhere; get all the archers, slingers and peltasts down to the harbour by midnight and cram them in every available ship; in fact just get everyone who is suited to an operation like this. We’re going to give Kleitos a nasty surprise, just as he’s toasting a victory.’
And it was, unsurprisingly, on the Thracian side of the water that Kleitos chose to moor or beach his victorious fleet that night; but that did not concern Antigonos, he was not worried about the niceties of asking permission of Lysimachus for venturing onto his territory as he planned to be back in Asia before the Satrap of Thrace even heard about it.
He chuckled to himself as the flotilla, made up of over two hundred ships and boats of all sizes, rowed north, guided by the fires on the beach and the distant drunken shouting and singing. Just how many men Demetrios had managed to cram onto the vessels was unknown as they had been assembled with haste and embarked with even more alacrity. Antigonos’ ship and the half dozen who had been in the harbour, along with a dozen triremes and twenty large merchantmen that Philotas had hired in Byzantium – for a price that would have made the eyes of even the most rapacious pirate water – formed the lead squadron. Then came the ships that had been extricated from the disaster, fifty-four of them commanded by Kassandros’ man, Nicanor of Sindus; they were followed by over a hundred smaller vessels, some only able to carry five or six men, which brought up the rear with Demetrios in charge of the left flank and Nearchos of the right. But, whatever their size, they were heaving with soldiery, light-armed and quick-moving. More than five thousand of them and just the kind I need for a thorough massacre. The thought brought out yet another chuckle; Antigonos was determined to enjoy himself that night to make up for the pain of the day.
As he drew nearer to the celebrating victors, Antigonos could s
ee in the flicker of the firelight that the majority of the ships had been beached with only thirty or so, the larger ones, of the one hundred and twenty rocking at anchor a little way off the shore with skeleton crews left aboard to keep watch.
The plan had already been discussed amidst the flurry of organisation before they had sailed and there was not an officer, neither naval nor infantry, who did not know what was expected of him: nothing short of murder. And thus, still far enough away from the shore to remain invisible to eyes used to the brightness of many driftwood fires, the three squadrons split: Antigonos headed a thousand paces to the west of the fleet, Demetrios with his smaller craft to the eastern side of it, Nicanor of Sindus with the remains of his warships headed straight towards the shore and the ships moored just off it.
Two hundred paces out from the strand, Antigonos signalled for the rowers to cease their grunting labour and let the ships glide in silence over a calm sea beneath a sky brilliant with the wealth of the universe. Through the lapping of small waves kissing the shore, the great keels just nudged the sand, bringing the ships to a gentle, grinding stop. It was not a time for caution – that they had got this far without the alarm being raised was a thing of wonder – Antigonos nodded to Philotas next to him and leaped from the rail down into the shallows; he did not need to beckon his men to follow, each sporting a black headband as a mark of recognition. Helmetless and wearing the same as the mercenary peltasts following him, a tunic and sandals and armed only with a spear and a sword, with his shield on his left arm, he ran, in silence, along the beach towards the fires. Over to his left, the bow- and sling-armed light infantry fanned out, looping inland a couple of hundred paces, moving at a much-faster pace, almost a sprint, so as to be in position as the main body of troops hit from either side.
Antigonos could hear Philotas’ breath rasping in his chest and smiled to himself. I’ll enjoy ripping into the old bugger about his fitness over a cup or ten of wine after this. Gods, this is fun.
The singing and raucous laughter was growing as drunkenness claimed more and more victims but, even so, the inevitable shouts of alarm soon roared over the celebrations; Antigonos accelerated. At fifty paces out, the first projectiles hissed in from the archers and slingers out in the dark, scores of them, thumping into flesh or kicking up small clouds of sand around recumbent forms. In raced Antigonos, yelling at full pitch now that surprise had been achieved, and it was with joy that he skewered a young lad who had jumped to his feet in fright and then failed to move in shock; he doubled over the spear transfixing him as Antigonos kicked his groin and yanked his weapon back, freeing it to leave the lad howling on his knees. On he ploughed, lashing out at throats and bellies with his spear and cracking faces with his shield.
Diving forward, with his fists together, he threw his arms out to either side, shield knocking the senses from one man, his fist the teeth from another, and exploded through a group of four marines, already unsteady on their feet, and then forced himself on into a unit of Arrhidaeus’ men mustering into some sort of order. ‘Don’t let them form up,’ he yelled at the troops following him as he buried his spear irretrievably into the ribcage of what seemed to be their officer. Out his sword flashed, scything up under the chin of the next man leaving his jaw hanging by a bloody thread as his tongue slopped to the ground. And then he saw them: Nicanor’s warships were amongst the moored ships, trapping them, preventing the escape of all but a few; men swarmed over their sides to overwhelm the holding crews within. With a nonchalant stroke he pierced the eye of a screaming sailor barrelling towards him, sword waving over his head, and then paused to let the men in his wake surge past whilst he worked to regain his breath. Behind him lay the dead; ahead fought the living, but such was the completeness of the surprise and such was the influence that Dionysus had already had on the defenders that the quick soon joined the dead.
Flaming brands from the fires were hurled into the beached ships, contrary to his orders, and in his fury he took off the arm of one of his own men as he went to fire an enemy vessel. ‘Leave the ships alone! Do you hear? Leave the ships alone! They are mine!’ But such was tumult that very few heard. The flames continued to rise and by those flames he could make out the vessels that had escaped out to sea: most of them were taken but one, the largest, had resisted and, despite many men attempting to board it, grabbing at the oars, it was edging back, away from Nicanor’s squadron and out into the night. ‘Kleitos!’ Looking around his eyes focused on a small boat, with six oarsmen, just coming into land; he ran towards it, wading through the bloodied water. ‘Turn around!’ he ordered. The helmsman, shouting at his oarsmen, did as he was told with the speed and precision of one that has spent their whole life in boats.
Antigonos struggled aboard. ‘Try to get me within hailing reach of that ship.’ The helmsman gave a broken-toothed grin, called the stroke and the boat pulled away, leaving the ongoing carnage on the beach behind.
‘Kleitos!’ Antigonos shouted through cupped hands as they neared the fleeing ship. ‘Kleitos, come back and swear to me; fight for me, Kleitos.’
A dim figure could be seen coming to the rail and peering out as the ship slowed. ‘Antigonos? Is that you?’
‘Kleitos, I was wrong. I should have come to you in peace.’
‘It’s a little late now, don’t you think?’
‘Not at all. I’ll give you your satrapy back; just come and serve me.’
The laugh that came over the water was hollow; Antigonos could just make out Kleitos pointing his trident at him.
‘You cannot give nor take away satrapies, Antigonos; only the regent can do that in the kings’ names. Go to Polyperchon and swear to him and the kings and then the fighting will stop and you’ll have no need of me. It’s you now, Antigonos, you who is continuing the war. You refuse to acknowledge the rightful regent, you gave Kassandros his ships; it’s all about you.’
‘I am the commander-in-chief of Asia!’
‘No, Antigonos, that’s where you’re wrong. You’re not anymore. Polyperchon has written to Eumenes and offered him the position; I’d be very surprised if he refuses it, wouldn’t you?’
The information hit Antigonos like a slingshot. ‘That’s not true.’
‘Why would I lie, Antigonos? You are the rebel now; you are the outsider. That being so, why would I want to come and serve you? Goodbye, Antigonos, enjoy your life as an outlaw!’ With one final wave of his trident, Kleitos disappeared into the gloom on the deck.
It was in sombre mood that Antigonos waded back to the beach. The fighting was over and the dead lay as thick on the ground as did the smoke in the air; here and there a ship still burnt but work-parties laboured to extinguish them as others went about gathering the weapons and possessions of the defeated.
‘Was that Kleitos?’ Demetrios asked, coming up to his father with Nicanor of Sindus in tow.
‘Yes. He told me that Eumenes has been offered my position in Asia.’
‘That’s what Adea told us,’ Nicanor confirmed. ‘I didn’t have time to tell you in the rush to get this all ready. She has left Polyperchon, taking King Philip over to Kassandros; she was a mine of information.’
‘So it is true then?’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it; Polyperchon’s days are numbered. We took Adea back to Macedon on our way here. She has claimed the regency of her husband; she will be the one making the decisions in Pella.’
‘It’s not Pella I’m interested in; it’s Asia. Take whatever time you need to make repairs to what’s left of the fleet and then back to Athens; give my thanks to Kassandros and tell him that I will aid him in any way that I can in his struggle against Polyperchon. In return I expect him to do the same for me as I take the army south to deal with Eumenes.’
EUMENES.
THE SLY.
‘…LOST HIS LITTLE flask of oil!’ Eumenes and Hieronymus both doubled up in laughter at the fifth time this punch-line had been repeated as a part of the literary duel between
Euripides and Aeschylus in Aristophanes’ comedy, The Frogs; they had been amusing one another by reading the play aloud in a secluded walled garden at the heart of the palace of Mazaca, the capital of Kappadokia.
‘The army is ready to march, sir,’ Xennias informed Eumenes from the garden’s entrance.
‘Thank you. I’ll come and address them.’ Eumenes wiped his eyes and got to his feet, smiling at Hieronymus, sharing the stone bench underneath an apricot tree.
Hieronymus returned his compatriot’s smile with equal warmth. ‘Not in the style of Euripides, otherwise at the end of each line the men will shout out…’
The Three Paradises Page 29
