Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  ‘You probably caused it; now, if you please, I need to think.’

  ‘Money,’ Seleukos reminded him in a helpful tone.

  ‘The lads have accepted the offer,’ Antigenes informed Perdikkas well after nightfall the following day; his eyes were red and heavy-bagged from lack of sleep having negotiated with his Silver Shields ever since Ptolemy had been acquitted – every unit of the army had subjected their commanders to this less-than-military approach to giving and receiving orders.

  ‘They’re the final unit to agree,’ Perdikkas said, his relief palpable. ‘Now, perhaps, we can get on with the recovery of Alexander’s body before turning north to deal with Antipatros.’

  ‘And what makes you think that the army will agree to that?’ Seleukos asked.

  Perdikkas frowned his non-comprehension.

  Seleukos sighed in exasperation. ‘You have just set a really dangerous precedent: the army wasn’t willing to fight another Macedonian army until you bribed it. The lads are not stupid; if you’re successful in Egypt, and they all come away as wealthy men, then why would they want to risk losing their lives against Antipatros’ boys unless there was an even bigger financial incentive?’

  Perdikkas dismissed the idea with a petulant wave. ‘Peithon has brought the elephants; a few of the more vociferous of the bastards getting a trampled death will bring the others into line.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you do that this time?’

  ‘Because you said that money was the answer.’

  Seleukos shook his head. ‘I did and it was the answer; executing the ringleaders this time would have lost you the army and your life. We’re playing by different rules now, Perdikkas, this is Macedonian fighting Macedonian; the lads on either side aren’t going to be frightened into doing that by having a few hundred of them trampled to death, no, they’ll only go against old comrades if the incentive is rich enough – especially if they don’t like their general all that much.’

  ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Take it as you will, Perdikkas; I meant it just as a statement of fact.’

  I’ll give you a statement of fact: you’re a dead man if you carry on talking to me like that. ‘The men will see things much differently after I’ve led them on a successful river crossing.’

  ‘But Ptolemy has blocked Attalus from bringing the fleet down and you haven’t brought any boats with you; how are we going to cross?’

  Perdikkas waved a dismissive hand. ‘The Danubus, The Oxus, The Indus and The Hydaspes, I was at each of them with Alexander; I’ve learnt from the master: speed is the key; speed will get us across the Nile. And we start right now by digging a channel away from the Pelusiac Nile to draw the water off to render it more shallow and then we wade across.’

  ‘It didn’t work again this time either,’ Docimus, the officer supervising the digging of the channel, reported to Perdikkas.

  Perdikkas could barely supress the urge to batter the man senseless, despite his unswerving loyalty since Alexander’s death. ‘Why not? That’s the third day in a row.’

  ‘Because Ptolemy always knows our plans.’ Docimus pointed across the Pelusiac Nile. ‘He’s just across the river and our army is losing deserters to him every night. He always knows where we’re going to dig in advance and has archers ready in boats to disrupt the work whilst he has a bypassing channel dug on his side of the river rendering our channel next to useless.’

  Perdikkas slammed both his palms down on the desk. ‘But I’ve got six thousand men standing by to make the crossing and secure a bridgehead.’

  Docimus shrugged.

  ‘And that’s six thousand men who are going to hear of another failure,’ Seleukos pointed out. ‘Six thousand men who are going to be more disillusioned with your leadership.’

  Perdikkas rounded on him. ‘Why can’t you be more positive?’

  ‘I’m struggling to see anything positive in a situation where Ptolemy knows exactly what we’re about to do and thwarts us as, every day, Antipatros draws nearer and will soon push us into the Pelusiac Nile seeing as we can’t cross it.’

  ‘So, what do we do?’

  Seleukos had no doubts. ‘Give up wasting time trying to make the river shallower, find somewhere to force a crossing and lead the army there at night without telling anyone, not even me, your objective.’

  Perdikkas thought about the suggestion for a few moments. ‘Yes, that’s what I’ll do; I’ll send scouts out.’

  ‘No, Perdikkas, then Ptolemy will find out that you’re thinking about a surprise crossing. Call all the scouts in and question them as to the best place they’ve seen; you make the decision and tell no one and then keep them locked away until we’re across.’

  For nine hours, since dusk, Perdikkas had led his assault force of six thousand men, including Antigenes and his three thousand Silver Shields and thirty elephants, south-west along the Pelusiac Nile. In silence they went, their kit muffled with rags and all the equipment they would need loaded onto their backs, for Perdikkas was determined upon complete surprise.

  Ten leagues they had covered and they were now at his chosen crossing point. The first glimmer of the false dawn played in the east as the ranks of shadowed men lined the river bank ready to make the fording as soon as there was a glimmer of light to see by.

  ‘Speed is the key,’ Perdikkas repeated to himself for the hundredth time that night. ‘Speed will see us across the river and into the fortress and, once in, then we have our way into Egypt opened.’

  And it was with confidence that Perdikkas waited for the deep reds of dawn to hit the high clouds of the desert sky, for he had been told of Kamelonteichos, an abandoned fortress, unused for hundreds of years, which guarded a ford long forgotten.

  ‘But if you know of this place then surely Ptolemy would have heard of it as well?’ he had said to the man who told him.

  The man had shrugged and said only that the last time he was there, four days previously, the fort still showed no signs of occupation. Perdikkas had the man gagged and thrown in irons immediately and had led his men out of the camp that very night.

  The call of awakening wild fowl and the gentle lapping of the great river were all there was to hear in those quiet moments at the birth of a new day and Perdikkas found himself holding his breath for long periods as he waited for the first rays of the sun to reflect down and give form to the water.

  It was with no fanfare or volley of sharp orders that the advance was ordered, solely a hand signal from Perdikkas; he stepped into the river as the far bank became visible and there was plainly a silhouette of the fortress. In he went, his feet squelching in the Nile mud as the water came up to his knees, then thighs, groin, waist, chest and, much to Perdikkas’ relief, remained level there, just below his shoulders. On he pushed, the current causing little trouble in this slack-water reach on the river; fifty paces, one hundred, and then he was halfway, one hundred and fifty paces from the objective. With heart beating fast, he glanced behind to see Antigenes leading his Silver Shields, dark shadows on the water, some holding ladders above their heads. Forward he forced himself, part swimming with his arms until, breaking the dawn air, a shout rose; he looked to the north and bile rose in his gullet. There, streaming through the pale light, hundreds of mounted men pressed their horses hard and, as he watched, the first of them entered the fortress.

  Ptolemy, you bastard; how did you find out?

  PTOLEMY,

  THE BASTARD

  ‘UP ONTO THE walls!’ Ptolemy shouted as he brought his horse to a skidding halt on the smooth fortress-courtyard stone; springing from the saddle, his lance still gripped, he ran to the worn steps leading up to the wall. With men clattering after him, he pounded to the top and, looking out, sighed with relief at the sight of the nearest enemy still a good thirty paces from the western bank of the river. ‘I beat you, Perdikkas!’ he shouted at his erstwhile comrade. ‘Turn round and go back to Babylon; Alexander and Egypt are mine; you’ll never take either o
f them from me. All you’ll do is needlessly spend the lives of your men.’

  But Perdikkas pressed on, shouting at his men for more speed as, behind them, the elephants began the crossing.

  So it has finally come down to this, has it? We’re really going to fight each other; what would Alexander have thought? He smiled at the notion. Of course, it’s what he wanted, I’m sure; otherwise he would have made it clear who should succeed him rather than leaving chaos. No one will ever outshine you now. His smile broke into a chuckle. But I’ll get close, old friend, provided I can keep you here.

  Laughing at the cynicism that the great man had shown in guaranteeing his name for ever being the greatest, Ptolemy walked along the river wall encouraging his men as they formed up and prepared to repel an assault by former comrades, for they all knew the Silver Shields.

  The first ladders thwacked against the wall, almost as one. Poised with his lance, Ptolemy waited as the lead men raced up. With naught but lance-armed cavalry manning the defences, there would be no arrows nor javelins beating down upon the attackers, the infantry were at least an hour behind; such had been Ptolemy’s concern when his spies had crossed back over the river reporting that Perdikkas was moving south under cover of darkness with a small force of infantry, some with ladders, supported by elephants. The fortress at Kamelonteichos was the obvious target for such an expedition and Ptolemy had raced through the night with his cavalry to prevent Perdikkas taking it for he was under no illusions: if Perdikkas were to be successful then he would be free to march on Memphis and the outcome of that was uncertain, to say the least.

  A thrust down onto the upraised shield of the first Silver Shield on the ladder was Ptolemy’s opening blow in this war of Macedonian against Macedonian. Cracking down again and again with his lance-tip onto the sixteen-point sun-blazon of Macedon engraved in the metal, he dislodged the shield and, for an instant, the old campaigner’s neck was exposed; an instant was all Ptolemy needed to slice his lance between cuirass and collar-bone. With a shriek the grey-bearded veteran of a score of battles and countless skirmishes arched back as Ptolemy twisted the blade; for a moment their eyes met and surprised recognition registered in both, for Ptolemy knew the man well and had shared many a wineskin with him and his comrades around campfires all over the empire that was now turning in upon itself. Ptolemy pulled his lance free and pushed the image of the dying man tumbling back into the press of men at the base of the wall from his mind; now that this war had started there would be no going back. There would be no room for sentiment although there would be much reason for it: in order to win he would be forced to kill many former comrades, some he had known personally, some not – indeed, he may even be called upon to kill friends. The thought gave him no joy as he skewered his lance into the next man on the ladder. But if this is what it takes to secure my position in Egypt, then so be it. It was Perdikkas who delivered the first blow, not me; that man’s death is on his conscience, not mine.

  On they came, wading out of the gloom-cloaked Nile, soaked and muddied, dark shadows flooding forward to the assault, flowing across the river’s edge and coursing up the ladders in the face of determined, stiff resistance. Relentless was the lance-work of Ptolemy’s comrades; shoulder to shoulder along the two hundred paces of wall, they thrust down and down again, spilling men from ladders with blood gushing black in the grey light as reinforcements issued from the river running behind them. Wave after wave of them poured into the attack, running over the bodies of their comrades but the defenders held and the tide was turned.

  But it was the bestial trumpeting blaring out from the obscured distance, striking fear into Ptolemy’s heart, that told of the real reason for the easing of the infantry assault; out of the shadows they lumbered, their dark skin glinting with moisture as the light strengthened, shades resolving into beasts with huge ears flapping and long proboscises raised and shrieking as they had been taught by the Indian mahouts astride their necks. On the back of each was mounted a Macedonian with a monstrous pike, twenty feet in length, ankles entwined, for security, in a rope around the belly of the beast. A line they formed whilst crossing the ground to the fortress; a wall of elephants, each wearing bronze protection on their heads, war-beasts in their prime, closing in on the ancient stone of Kamelonteichos, untended for centuries, crumbling and pitted. And it was obvious what Perdikkas intended, for elephants cannot jump walls nor climb ladders.

  ‘Their eyes, their eyes!’ Ptolemy yelled as, trumpeting with ear-splitting shrills, the organic battering-rams advanced.

  Before the cavalry lances of the defenders could be brought to bear, the extended pikes of the riders thrust up and into their faces. Men ducked and dodged as the honed tips punched and cut, opening cheeks and necks of men unable to defend themselves. A few cast their lances like spears, losing them to little avail, for none struck a mahout or rider, glancing instead off the rough hide of the brutes. Fast and lethal were the pikemen so that none were able to strike an elephant before, as one, with heads of bronze, all thirty butted the ancient river-wall of Kamelonteichos.

  And it shook as if struck by a thunderbolt from Zeus himself.

  Back a few paces the mahouts brought their charges, back in order to go forward once more; and again the walls trembled so that Ptolemy rocked on his feet as a pike tip hissed past his face. Back the monsters went a further time, as the infantry, waiting behind, cheered their endeavours, and Ptolemy knew the ancient structure could take not much more of this modern warfare as cracks appeared underfoot.

  If Perdikkas takes the fort and gets his army across then my position could well become precarious; and if these beasts carry on like this then that could well happen. And so, with little to lose, Ptolemy cracked aside a darting pike with his forearm and grabbed it; yanking it towards him, in a sudden, brutal motion, he ripped free of the grasp of its wielder. With fleet hands, one over the other, Ptolemy pulled the pike up and then spun it over, reversing it. Down he thrust it into the eye of one of the great beasts; maddened with pain it reared up, trumpeting to the skies, dislodging the disarmed rider to trample him beneath stamping feet, as the mahout clung on with grim determination. Changing his angle, Ptolemy stabbed again; this time his weapon glanced off the bronze head-protection of the thrashing beast as the rest of the force crunched once more into the fast-disintegrating wall. Again the ground shook and the air filled with more cheering from the watching Silver Shields and again Ptolemy jabbed his pike; deep into the second eye it gouged, blinding the brute; in its terror it turned right and crashed into the animal next to it, spooking it. Rebounding and then turning, as its mahout scrabbled with one hand in a pouch at his waist, it bolted in the opposite direction, hitting the beast to the left of it, causing it to panic as the sightless elephant ricocheted away back in the opposite direction. Bestial terror spread and cohesion was lost as beast after beast was infected with the madness of the blinded animal. Leaning down over the wall the defenders worked their shorter lances without fear of reprisal from the pikemen, struggling to stay mounted and unable to wield their weapons. Down they stabbed, wounding the brutes and goading them into rampage; they turned and back towards the watching Silver Shields they tore, forcing them to flee to the relative safety of the Nile but not before some fell beneath trampling feet, bursting bellies and heads as if no more than overripe grapes.

  Away went the army of Perdikkas, back across the Nile as the elephants splashed in the shallows, dislodging silt and turning the waters a thicker, darker brown. As they calmed, the blinded beast’s mahout finally managed to extract the spike and mallet from his pouch; holding it firm at the back of the head he struck with all his might, forcing the iron into the brain as a final act of mercy; tears in his eyes for the beast he had spent half his life with. Down it crashed, crushing a wounded man writhing on the ground; the mahout jumped free and, sprinting, joined the rest of the army in retreat from the failed river crossing.

  It was a sombre task collecting the corpses of former comra
des and Ptolemy ensured that it was done with the respect and solemnity it deserved. The pyres were built on the bank of the Nile and Perdikkas’ army watched from across the river as they were lit. With smoke spiralling to a cloudless, desert sky, the Silver Shield raised their swords and saluted their dead comrades and the men who had shown them the proper respect in death.

  Ptolemy watched, with a smile playing upon his lips, as Perdikkas tried to get the Silver Shields to move off, his bellows blowing across the water; but they would not go until the last pyre had burnt out and then, with a final salute, they trudged east, away from the river. What now, my one-time friend? Are you going to waste more lives or are you going to leave me alone, Perdikkas? Or should I just push matters towards a permanent solution? He turned to Arrhidaeus, next to him. ‘I think it’s time to open negotiations with Perdikkas’ officers.’

  PERDIKKAS,

  THE HALF-CHOSEN

  DEFEAT WAS A dish that Perdikkas had never tasted and bitter it was; more bitter than he had ever imagined. None of his men or officers could meet his eye as they made their weary way east, out of sight of Ptolemy. Having sent the rest of the army, accompanying the two kings, to meet them, Perdikkas ordered a camp set up a league from the river. It was with mounting shame that he dismissed the men and called his officers to his tent for a briefing. Never had he thought it possible that he would suffer a reverse, never; but never before had he fought Macedonians.

  The truth of the matter was expressed by Seleukos: ‘When Macedonian fights Macedonian there will always be a Macedonian loser and today that was you; the trick is not to get used to it.’

  ‘Then what do I do? If I turn back now, straight after a defeat, then I’m no more than a beaten general with precious little authority.’