Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘If they don’t, it leaves me with no option but to advance up their hill, handing them the advantage, and give them the simple choice: stand or retreat.’

  And it was to stand that the rebels chose as their far outnumbered hoplite phalanx waited in the rising sun for their Thessalian cavalry, under Menon, to attempt to expose the Macedonian phalanx’s right flank as it moved into position, coming to a halt just fifteen hundred paces from the base of the hill.

  Krateros rolled his shoulders and adjusted his posture in the saddle, his thighs gripping the flanks of his mount and his feet hanging free; he felt the weight of the lance in his right hand and enjoyed the glinting of the sun reflecting off its honed point as he surveyed the field from just behind the phalanx. Ahead of him was a first line of peltasts sent forward to cover the right flank of the infantry formation. Looking behind him, he satisfied himself that all his cavalry, in a column along the rear of the phalanx, had complied with his last order.

  ‘Stay close to me,’ he told the signaller behind him, ‘this will require timing.’

  With ranks redressed after its initial deployment, Antipatros gave the order for the Macedonian phalanx, almost half a league wide, to advance. Trumpets sounded along its length and, like a great beast rising from its slumber, the huge body of men slowly began to move, not quite evenly, so that the formation stretched here and there before contracting back into line as each individual gained a steady pace of march.

  Krateros hung back with his men, following the tactic that he and Antipatros had discussed as they had broken their fast that morning on fresh bread and olives: the objective was to win the encounter with as few casualties as possible.

  ‘If we don’t have too much cause for vengeance,’ Antipatros had told him, ‘then I can give most of the cities reasonable terms.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ Krateros had asked.

  ‘You’ll see when I come to deal with the Athenian delegation.’ The regent had winked in a conspiratorial manner but had enlightened him no more.

  But Krateros cared not for the niceties of post-war diplomacy; it was on the present fight that he was focused and this was the first proper land battle he had participated in for four years, since Alexander had defeated the Indian king, Porus, at the battle of the River Hydaspes. He would do as Antipatros had commanded and hold his men back, deliberately exposing the phalanx’s flank in order to tempt the Thessalians into a rash move. But, when he did let his men go, he was not going to ask for restraint; far from it, he was going to enjoy himself and expected his men to do so as well.

  And so the lumbering beast marched on, over the flat ground that suited it best; the unison crunching of leather-shod feet, almost a physical phenomenon as it rose from the plain, shook the very earth. The file closers at the rear worked hard to keep their charges level and at the same pace whilst the file leaders, veterans to a man, kept their eyes on one another to ensure that none got out of line.

  Krateros pulled on his bridle to steady his horse, made skittish by the passing of so many men and the sight of cavalry forming up just a thousand paces away across the field of battle. Then, to his surprise, he saw that the rebel phalanx was now coming completely down off its hill in a move that he immediately understood and was grateful for. They’ve fallen for it. They must be coming down in support of their cavalry but I would have kept at least twenty paces of the higher ground and had the lads piss down the hill to make it slippery to a frontal attack. They would still be close enough for their cavalry to rally. He strained his eyes to see if something was not as it appeared to be. We’ll need to be careful; you don’t give up that sort of advantage without a good reason.

  The Macedonian phalanx was now linking up with the peltasts in the first line. Together they pushed on, the peltasts at the lazy lope they favoured as the phalangites marched with rigid step. Beyond, the Thessalians, screened by jogging archers and slingers, trotted forward, making as if they were to attack the peltasts frontally. Krateros wiped his forehead, sweat was now seeping from beneath his kausia as the high-summer sun grew in strength. It’ll be a scorching day; the battle may come down to who has had the most water for breakfast; there’ll be no fresh supplies once we’ve joined. Pushing the thought from his mind, he waited for the moment to order the first deployment of his cavalry.

  A shrill horn screeched above the mass footsteps of the phalanx and the rebel archers and slingers broke into a run with the Thessalian cavalry keeping pace behind them. With a hundred and twenty paces between the two sides the skirmishers released shaft and stone to hiss into the dispersed formation of the peltasts. Down went a few, the rest loped on, crescent shields raised and javelins hefted, waiting for the moment that they should come into range. Missiles continued to hiss in from the skirmishers, clacking into shields and ringing off helms, but doing, otherwise, very little harm.

  And then, with a hundred paces between the forces, another series of horn signals rent the air; the Thessalians broke into a canter, penetrating the skirmish lines and breaking into a gallop aimed directly at the peltasts. The moment that Krateros had been waiting for had come and, taking off his kausia, he thrust it above his head; at a repeated signal, echoing throughout the formation, the cavalry trotted forward in column out from behind the shadow of the phalanx and, once clear of it, turned to form line, now a good five hundred paces from the rear of the peltasts.

  On came the Thessalians, closing the gap with the Macedonian forward line, ninety, eighty, seventy paces; the peltasts released their first volley. High flew the javelins and at that same moment the Thessalians, in a display of prodigious skill which few could have attempted, swerved as one to their left, racing along the frontage of the peltasts so that almost all the volley fell short.

  Krateros smiled to himself as he gave another command and the horns rang out; it was as he had hoped. They haven’t seen us and are trying to get around the peltasts to take the phalanx in the flank; they’re in for a nasty surprise. He looked along his lines as each unit formed a wedge, like teeth in the maw of a giant wolf.

  A second javelin in their hands, the peltasts took the required quick steps, arched their backs, with their right arms extended behind them, and released again, catapulting the projectiles on by flicking the leather loop at its centre with their forefingers. No sooner had those javelins launched than the Thessalians once again changed direction to charge forward, whooping and urging their mounts to lung-bursting excess, for they aimed to gallop underneath the volley. For the most part they did; the rear ranks suffering some hits but those horses and men tumbling to the dust had none behind them to impede. And on they came still, almost fully intact and displaying no lack of cohesion, directly at the peltasts who began to show signs of wavering as individuals looked to their rear or fumbled with their third javelin.

  Krateros immediately saw the implication of the move. They’re desperate; they’re happy to take unnecessary casualties trying to break the peltasts in the hope that their rout will demoralise the phalanx before they hit it in the flank. Krateros’ heart sped. We’re going to have to charge through our own disordered, fleeing troops.

  The phalanx marched on, closing with its opposition, and the Thessalian charge neared home and, sure enough, unsure of what to do, the peltasts wavered; some knelt behind their shields, those equipped with long thrusting spears braced them against the ground, others hurled their final javelin and turned to flee whilst more than a few just stared at the infantryman’s nightmare hurtling towards them.

  And Krateros’ time had now come.

  It was as the first of the peltasts went under the hooves of the lead horses, two hundred paces away, that Krateros turned to his signaller. ‘Sound the charge.’

  Up went the notes and, with a cheer and much equine snorting and jangling of harness, two thousand of Macedon’s finest cavalry broke into a walk. Krateros immediately signalled once more, the horn blared and the lancers eased into a t
rot as the Thessalians broke through those of the peltasts who had stood their ground, leaving a trail of dead and wounded in their wake as they drove those routing before them. But the sight of superior cavalry now coming into a canter was not what they had bargained for; they had hoped to be given a chance to crash into the soft underside of the phalanx and reap havoc against undefended infantry who could see their comrades in flight, being run down and butchered within a few score paces of them.

  As Krateros brought his lance from its upright position and held it overarm ready to stab down upon the first enemy he reached, the signaller called the gallop and eight thousand hooves pounded the ground to the chorus of war-cries practised over the years throughout the known world. The Macedonian Companion cavalry were at full charge with one objective: Thessalian blood.

  And, with less than a hundred paces between them, the Thessalians turned and fled.

  With wind in his face, a cry in his throat and a lance in his fist, Krateros urged his horse on as, at the point of the central wedge, he led the cavalry to slaughter. With no time or chance to manoeuvre, they rode down the fleeing peltasts and trampled those already wounded or broken beneath thunderous hooves. With eyes showing white with battle fever, nostrils flaring and slack-lipped mouths foaming, the great beasts of war pounded the earth as they pursued their prey, now less than fifty paces from them with the swirling dust of swift retreat rising in its wake.

  Ever on, Krateros led his men, gaining on the enemy and clearing them from the phalanx’s flank as it, in turn, collided with the rebels, thrusting pikes, with ease, past the long spears of the hoplites, to stab and push.

  With a lunge, Krateros lanced a straggling Thessalian in the kidneys, arching him back with a scream, to fall on his neck and disappear under a wall of horseflesh and dust. And again he jabbed as the wedges to either side of his also made contact, scooping up the fleeing Thessalians between their teeth, chewing them to bloody shreds.

  But, with a glance to his left, Krateros saw that the slaughter could not go on; they had left it too late. The rebel phalanx had, at first contact, begun its ordered withdrawal back up the hill and Antipatros was not to be tempted; he immediately broke off rather than fight an elevated foe. Krateros’ reaction was instant. ‘Withdraw! Withdraw!’

  The signal rang out and was carried along the line; most heard and reined in their mounts but for some the blood-lust was too intoxicating and they rode on stabbing at the enemy’s exposed backs; few of them returned to their comrades as they rallied to the rear of the phalanx, now parked, immovable at the base of the hill, defying the rebels to try their luck once more.

  ‘And about time,’ Antipatros said as, a couple of hours after midday, the heralds came down the hill. Krateros waited with him having left his cavalry to tend to their mounts. Behind them, the phalanx had withdrawn five hundred paces but remained in formation, eating bread and dried meat brought up from the camp.

  Krateros noted, with interest as he sat beneath a canopy on the field of victory, that neither Menon nor Antiphilus had chosen to come in person. Although it had not been crushing, just five hundred, or so, of the rebels dead, as compared with a few over a hundred of the Macedonians – mainly the unfortunate peltasts – it had been decisive: the rebel commanders knew that their troops would be unwilling to fight again.

  Now it was time to negotiate terms.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Antipatros said with the smile and the light voice of a reasonable and patient man. ‘I cannot treat all the rebel cities in the same way; some are guiltier than others. Lamia, for example, only joined the rebellion after I managed to extract my army from it; it did so, I presume, because it had no choice in the matter, seeing as the rebel host was billeted on it.’ He looked at the two heralds with a troubled and confused expression. ‘Tell me, gentlemen, should I treat Lamia as I would treat Athens, the city that started the rebellion? Would that be fair on Lamia? Or should I treat Athens in the way that Lamia deserves? Would it be fair on little Lamia that Athens, which has been the cause of all this woe, is punished so lightly? Would that be justice? I think not. No, go back to your masters and tell them that each city will be dealt with according to its guilt. Tell Menon of Thessaly that I am willing to overlook his treachery if he and his men come down to me now, otherwise I will start the destruction of the nearest Thessalian towns and keep going until he comes to his senses. And let it be known to the mercenaries that they can find employment in my army if they are down from the hill by an hour before dusk. The contingents from the cities will stay in your camp until a temporary truce has been finalised.’

  The senior herald, a man with a strong Athenian accent, looked nervous at the pronouncement. ‘And what about Athens?’

  Antipatros feigned confusion. ‘Athens? What do you mean, what about Athens?’

  ‘What will you do with Athens?’

  ‘Do? What do you expect me to do about Athens? What did Alexander do to Thebes when it led a rebellion?’

  The herald swallowed. ‘He razed it to the ground and sold its citizens into slavery.’

  This time it was surprise that Antipatros affected. ‘Did he now? Every one of them?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘You believe so.’ Antipatros considered the statement. ‘So you would prefer it, as I’m sure would every citizen of Athens, if I didn’t do to Athens what Alexander rightly did to Thebes, am I right?’

  Again the herald swallowed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Krateros watched with concealed amusement as Antipatros worked himself up into a state of indignant ire; he was not disappointed as the regent leapt to his feet and pointed a jabbing finger at the herald.

  ‘Then you’d better tell your leaders to come and fucking beg me! I spent the winter locked up inside of Lamia, eating rats, rotten grass and the stuff between my toes because of Athens. I didn’t bed my wife for six months because of Athens; six months! Can you imagine how I felt? Six whole fucking months! Now, if Athens wants me to show some sort of leniency then I want to sit down with Phocion and Demades and hear what they have to say concerning Athens’ behaviour and that of Hyperides and Demosthenes. And I will do that, when they’re ready, amongst the ruins of the agora in what’s left of Thebes. Perhaps that will focus their minds. Now fuck off!’

  Krateros watched the startled heralds bow and scuttle away until they were out of hearing range before bursting into laughter. ‘You’ve just made yourself the most unpopular man in Attica. There is nothing an Athenian hates more than being told what to do.’

  ‘And I wasn’t the most unpopular man before?’

  ‘I think Alexander still held that, even though he’s dead, because of his Exile Decree forcing Athens to return Samos to its rightful owners.’

  ‘Perhaps so, but I’m happy to take the mantle from him and teach these fucking Greeks a lesson.’

  ‘If they come to the Thebes talks.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll come all right; I’ll make sure of that.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Once I’ve settled with Menon and Antiphilus I’m going through the Pass of Thermopylae threatening to storm every rebel town I come across; those that surrender will have no harm done to them and be forced to accept a Macedonian garrison. But those that don’t, well…’ He turned to Krateros and smiled. ‘Well, they’ll remind the Athenians exactly what happened to Thebes.’

  Krateros continued to chuckle. ‘You’re a man after my own heart, Father; Alexander knew the power of coercing the strong by demonstrating his intent on those less so. It saves Macedonian lives in the end. Let’s hope they understand the lesson as I’ve never been that partial to a siege.’

  PERDIKKAS,

  THE HALF-CHOSEN

  ‘THE SIEGE WILL be lifted only, and I repeat, only,’ Perdikkas said, enunciating each word as if he were talking to a deaf old crone, ‘when Ariarathes opens the gates and comes out on his knees and pleads for forgiveness from the two kings.’

  The spade-bearded Kappadokian herald kept his n
ose pressed into the dust as he lay prostrate at Perdikkas’ feet, beneath a canopy overlooking Mazaca, the city that the rebel satrap, Ariarathes, had chosen as his seat, in central Kappadokia. ‘But lord, King Ariarathes begs you to allow for his advanced years, he is—’

  ‘Eighty-two, and has swollen knees,’ Eumenes cut in, standing behind Perdikkas’ chair, ‘we know; you have said so before. You have also, before, been told that Ariarathes is not a king and yet you’ve just referred to him as such. I find it puzzling that a man should be so willing to have his tongue cut out.’ He signalled to the guard standing next to the herald; the man drew his knife.

  ‘My apologies, great lords, it was a slip of the tongue.’ In his alarm, the herald completely missed the comic value of what he had just said as Eumenes and Perdikkas shared a look and burst into laughter; the man raised his eyes a fraction to see what the cause of the mirth was.

  Perdikkas slapped the arm of his chair and brought his features back to a serious countenance. He signalled to the guard to put away his knife. ‘No need for that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Eumenes agreed, still chuckling, ‘it would be a shame to silence for ever such a comic talent.’

  Perdikkas looked down at the man, who immediately averted his eyes. ‘Now get up and deliver my message to the traitor.’

  Eumenes cast a look over towards the besieged city; much smoke rose from the siege-lines as the Macedonian troops prepared their midday meal. ‘And be grateful that, due to your masterful word-play, you have a tongue to do it with and won’t be relying on acting it out – mind you, with talent like yours I’m sure you would be able to do it in a way that would have everyone falling about with laughter.’

  ‘Evidently not,’ Eumenes said as he looked at the herald writhing upon a stake set upon the city walls a short while later.

  Perdikkas slammed his fist into his palm. ‘Why does everyone defy me?’

  ‘They don’t defy you, Perdikkas; it’s not personal – at least, in Ariarathes’ case it’s not personal – it’s pride. Would you go kneeling to him if the roles were reversed?’