By the Sword

by Christian Kachel

  Drakon now pivoted from malicious instruction to cruel physical drills in full combat kit. It began with the familiar sarissa repetitions although Drakon added several new and creative techniques that hastened our muscle fatigue. After sarissa drills, we moved to short sword repetitions. These exercises were new to us and thus we were frequently motivated by Drakon’s cane when our form was lacking. The final hour of drill incorporated our lessons with syntagma manoeuvres teaching us the position of the sarissa, the placement of the feet, the shifting of our weight and our positioning in relation to each other. Drakon purposely added a level of complexity to these drills that exceeded our line’s nascent capabilities and regularly motivated us throughout the exercises. I was saturated with sweat under my stiff linen cuirass and a torrent rained down my brow from my helmet. Each bead created a river of itch on my face that I could not easily alleviate because my spear required both hands. I would sometimes sneak my hand in to wipe my brow which frequently elicited a sharp correction from Drakon’s motivator.

  Drakon ended our torment for the day and it was clear that while our line of recruits had bolstered our physical endurance along our gruelling march to Cappadocia, our ability to employ battle tactics was severely lacking. Our line huddled together within our bivouac after the day’s training to eat and converse. The eight members of our contingent were all impressive in stature and mettle which added to my fears of being singled out by Drakon as unworthy of joining the syntagma and being sent to the rear where there was no honour or glory to be won. Everyone was too exhausted for meaningful conversation but Stephanos led the group in introductions. Bacchylides and Spear were still not on good terms and I was too fatigued to participate and feigned sleep. In my semiconscious state, I did gather three of the four names of the other recruits- Lycurgus from Thessaly, Philippos of Pydna, and an imposing specimen from Corinth who went by the name Boxer due to his participation in the sport during the last Olympic Games.

  Drakon greeted us at daybreak and admonished the disorderly state of our bivouac. A few unnoticed debris fragments were the grounds for the chastisement and several motivating strikes were delivered before breakfast. On one occasion, Drakon struck me with his motivator along my left forearm which caused what felt like a small fracture. I had been hit countless times since becoming a recruit but this pain lingered and had a debilitating effect on my ability to perform the day’s training. I dared not complain to Drakon and fought through the sting that arose from each spear thrust. The pain became unbearable and my thoughts now saw me sitting in a cage among my own filth waiting to die. This notion encouraged me through the painful morning spear exercises until I was finally granted a reprieve as we transitioned to short sword drills primarily using my uninjured right arm. After an hour of thrusting, parrying, and blocking, Drakon called us to port arms and again began ripping our sarissas from our grasp. Some recruits were now able to resist Drakon’s violent attempts while I braced for a shot of pain from my forearm. Drakon stood in front of me, grabbed hold of my spear, looked me in the eye and pulled the sarissa with the force of an ox. The pain cut through my forearm like a knife and I let out a loud scream as the spear was ripped from my grasp and landed on the ground. I immediately grabbed my left arm and fell to the ground before Drakon could club me. My reaction surprised our ouragos and he refrained from immediately punishing my sorry display of soldierly.

  “What is this? Why are you crying like a woman?” Drakon demanded.

  “I think I have a broken arm from this morning,” I hesitantly responded.

  Drakon immediately grabbed my left forearm and inspected it. I let another grimace of pain to which he told me to shut my ‘man-pleaser.’ My arm was a little swollen and severely bruised. Drakon squeezed it in several different places and instructed me to see the surgeon after the day’s training was completed. He added that if I hadn’t screwed up I wouldn’t have been struck in the first place. He then kicked me to the ground. This act of clemency surprised me but I assumed he respected my attempt to conceal the injury and continue training. From the look of his scarred body he’d probably had a similar wound at one point or another. The day’s training concluded with movement formations which were still too new and complex for our line to perform properly. Drakon corrected our incompetence with his motivator but ensured not to hit my injured forearm. Upon conclusion of our movement drills, Drakon ordered me to the surgeon’s tent and to report back to him afterwards. Stephanos held my dinner for me as I departed and found myself truly alone for the first time in weeks while making my small trek.

  My walk was punctuated by the pungent odours of elaborate concoctions as I passed by countless soldiers readying pots over open fires for dinner. I cherished my short amount of solitude and purposely took my time to extend the fleeting moment before arriving at my destination. The surgeon’s tent had several patients in line being treated for various training injuries or accidents and a few succumbing to illness. I quietly awaited my turn and observed the interactions taking place. Several surgeons were present and a statue of the healer god Asclepius, with his snake-entwined staff, was in a corner. The surgeon’s tent was well stocked with all manner of herbal remedies, bandages, braces, and surgery tools. A young surgeon pointed to me and asked me my name, position, and ailment.

  “Andrikos, assigned to the Pydna Syntagma commanded by Lykos, under Strategos Androkles,” I replied.

  “A real soldier,” the surgeon responded lively. “We usually only get injuries from labourers or logistical pukes with venereal diseases from screwing too many whores in the baggage train.”

  I thought this response odd coming from a doctor but he quickly explained himself. “My name is Philotheos, I used to be a soldier once. I was in over my head, however, and took a blow to my shoulder, cutting a number of muscles and tendons. I couldn’t raise my left arm over my head from then on and decided to make myself useful as a surgeon. What lochos are you assigned?”

  “None yet, I am still in training which is why I am here.” My unimpressive recruit status quickly lost his attention and he became impersonal and detached for the rest of my visit. As he was inspecting my arm an assistant interrupted him with a small box of medicines.

  “Excuse me sir,” said the assistant, “I have a box containing the last of our supplies of white and black hellebore, fenugreek, and willow. What shall I do with them?”

  “Set the hellebore and fenugreek in the back; we will only use them in emergency,” Philotheos ordered. “Take some of our reserve funds and procure more willow from the nearest settlement tomorrow and tell everyone to use it sparingly until we procure a proper supply from the next large city.”

  “Yes sir,” replied the assistant as he quickly disappeared.

  After examining my injury, he diagnosed me with a broken upper forearm. “Normally I would apply cerate and bind up your arm to prevent its movement. I doubt this would be conducive to your basic training, however, so I am going to give you a removable brace that you can wear for most exercises that will keep your arm and wrist in a favourable position. You are going to be in pain for several more days and you need to wear this brace for at least three weeks. Tell your ouragos to try and refrain from striking you in that arm for a while- or you could just not fuck up again,” Philotheos added with a smile. “See me again in a week,” were his departing words.

  I returned to our recruit bivouac at a deliberately slow pace to enjoy the last remnants of my solitude. I first reported to Drakon and told him of the surgeon’s prognosis. He grunted and dismissed me. I took my dinner from Stephanos and retired for the evening where a welcome audience with my father was waiting for me.

  Chapter 14

  “My son, a genuine foot soldier in the army of the Kings,” my father proclaimed proudly. Iatrokles was sitting in front of Drakon’s tent, fiddling with his sword and helmet. Despite being a dream, I was still nervous the ouragos would appear to see me acting as an accessory to the violation of his possessions.

&n
bsp; “Not yet father, I still must survive that maniac,” I replied motioning to Drakon’s tent.

  “You will,” he assured. “And how does this make you feel?”

  “Excited of course.”

  “Yet you have lingering angst from your last night in Ilandra.”

  “Yes,” I weakly responded while looking at the ground.

  “We spoke of what had to be done, for yourself and the safety of the family. The woman, she is what vexes you.”

  “Yes. I think she was the cause of Nearchus’…act. That and a broken heart.”

  “And you think both you and he are damned for this action? It is true, you killed those men for the legitimate reason of safety and justice. But the mother was killed as an act of selfishness- a way to protect yourself from implication and public scrutiny. Had you the full conviction of merit behind your actions, you would not hesitate to let her live and publicly defend yourself.”

  “So it’s true?” I asked with worried eyes.

  “It’s true you made an impulsive and unrighteous decision in the heat of emotional intensity,” my father determined. “Other men with more structured upbringing might have made the better choice. She is not blameless for raising such vipers either. However, the whole of your existence has not been characterized with egregious examples of immorality and thus you have the option to even the scales of final judgment with your actions going forward.”

  “Through courage on the battlefield?” I asked. “I think I will act bravely but I am nervous.”

  “Through a great many choices. Overt courage spurred by bloodlust isn’t going to buy your way into the Elysian Fields. Courage brought on by love of one’s brothers-in-arms and the glory of Greece is another story, however. Although the Fates are always with us, we are ultimately responsible for our own actions when presented with their choices.” With that, I awoke to our unpleasant reveille from Drakon signalling the beginning of another day’s training.

  The next several days blended together. My brace did help alleviate some of the pain in my arm during the short sword and manoeuvre drills but it took every ounce of fortitude to complete our morning sarissa exercises without falling out or dropping my spear. I did so on two occasions to which Drakon rained down motivation on every spot other than my left arm. Others had been falling out too. One recruit in particular, Demaratos, had the misfortune of an unmotivated attitude as well. Demaratos was brutalized by Drakon frequently, to which he finally exclaimed, “Why don’t you break something on me like you did Andrikos so you can baby me through training as well!”

  This was especially offensive to Drakon, for it impugned his station as an ouragos- which was unacceptable. He further beat Demaratos and applied restraints to his wrists with his arms behind his back. Drakon then brought Demaratos up to his knees and addressed our line, “I want you to look at this unworthy shit stain kneeling before you. If you are physically weak, I can beat it out of you or I can send you to the rear units. If you are insubordinate in battle, however, you will get your mates killed and I can’t have that. We do have a remedy for insubordination and you all saw it on your first day here. That is where this undeserving scum is going to rot for a long time. Demaratos, you are going to be my latest example of suffering to my new recruits, now get up! The rest of you clean your gear until I return.” Drakon wedged his motivator into Demaratos’ wrist restraints and used it as a lever to steer Demaratos away. None of our line would trade positions with Demaratos now for all the gold in Persia.

  In the days that followed, another recruit’s body surrendered. Lycurgus from Thessaly fell out of our exercises one too many times and was sent to the rear units. As we watched him depart our line for the relative safety and ease of the rear, there were probably a few recruits who were willing to trade positions with Lycurgus, myself possibly being one of them. Bacchylides suffered a leg injury during this time and was forced to conduct the rest of our training in a cumbersome leg brace, adding to his generally unpleasant demeanour.

  It had been a week since my arm injury and I reported back to the surgeon’s tent as instructed after the day’s training. There were several people ahead of me and I spotted my combat surgeon Philotheos running back and forth looking very busy. There was an older man sitting next to me with a lapel insignia on his tunic indicating he was a member of General Eumenes’ Staff. The man was about mid forty with sandy blond hair and chiselled features from years of exposure and toil. He had the appearance of a silent professional, someone who had full confidence in their knowledge and abilities and didn’t care if anyone knew it or not. I immediately coveted his impressive poise and assuredness. He spotted me staring at his staff officer insignia, causing me to quickly turn away.

  “What are you here for son? What is your name?” he asked warmly.

  “I have a broken arm from basic training. I am Andrikos, assigned to the Pydna Syntagma commanded by Lykos under Strategos Androkles.”

  “Who is your ouragos?”

  “Drakon.”

  “Oh, that explains it,” he responded with a smile. He was the second person who smiled at my injury within the surgeon’s tent. A doctor other than Philotheos appeared to attend to the man and he spoke in a low tone so that I could not hear the conversation. The surgeon appeared to be responding to the man in the negative and the man was becoming increasingly angered. A few more words were exchanged with the man cursing the surgeon under his breath. The man then saw me looking at him inquisitively.

  “You don’t hide your interest in others well do you?” His question embarrassed me and I immediately looked down at the ground and apologized. Seeing that I was still curious as to what transpired he added, “That frail little nobody is denying me materials that are essential to an upcoming operation- materials whose purpose is as foreign to these waifs as a sword is to a woman.”

  Being caught up in the kindness the man had showed me, I suddenly blurted out, “There is another surgeon you should talk to. Stories about frontline combat and important missions on behalf of the General’s Staff are the key to his heart. Someone like you should have no trouble sparking his interest. I overheard him stockpiling ingredients of a lethal nature last week,” I proclaimed enthusiastically, pointing to Philotheos.

  “Put your hand down!” the man said in a low but forceful rebuke. “Don’t ever point at someone when you don’t want their attention.” His demeanour quickly thawed after the reprimand. “Thanks for the advice kid, get that arm healed,” were his departing words as Philotheos called me to him after seeing me pointing like an excited fool.

  “What’s the matter? The green recruit can’t wait his turn?” asked Philotheos sarcastically.

  “I got into a conversation with that man and he asked me who I was waiting for. I certainly did not mean to appear impatient,” I explained deceitfully.

  “Well let’s take a look. You don’t seem to be in any acute pain. You’ve been wearing the brace?” he asked while removing it, poking and prodding the injury. His machinations elicited far less pain then last week and he seemed satisfied with my progress. “Continue wearing it for two more weeks, then return it to me,” were his final instructions as I exited the surgeon’s tent and made my way back to the recruit bivouac.

  The next morning we rose and assembled in formation to begin the day’s training. Drakon took his position to address our line and informed us that Antipater’s forces had allied with Ptolemy and crossed into Asia Minor from Greece. Our army was to join with the forces of Neoptolemus, Satrap of Armenia and veteran of Alexander’s conquests, to meet Antipater’s allies in battle. Preparations were to be made immediately and our line was informed that we would all be reporting to our lochos today. Stephanos and I looked at each other with excited grins as we heard this news. Many weeks of hard march, followed by another week-plus of torment under our ouragos, had finally delivered us to our units within the Royal Army.

  Drakon called out our names, notifying us which lochagos to report. “Bacchylides, r
eport to Lochagos Cleisthenes; Stephanos, Croesus.” I could feel my heart now beating faster as I waited to hear my name called. “Spear, Philon; Andrikos, Croesus.” I looked at Stephanos enthusiastically as I envisioned us fighting together in battle. When Drakon concluded calling out our assignments he unenthusiastically congratulated us and dismissed us to pack up our bivouac and report to our lochagos.

  Stephanos and I found our lochos’ bivouac and asked for the lochagos. We received several unflattering remarks and condescending sneers from our new lochos mates as we made our way to Croesus. Our lochos’ bivouac was squared away with all tents perfectly aligned and wooden planks between them serving as walkways over the dirt and mud. We found Croesus sharpening his short sword outside his tent. He was solidly built with a black beard that covered his face almost to the bottom of his eyes. He was a Spartan and when his helmet was donned one could not make out any facial features other than a crooked nose and two black eyes which would intimidate the roughest Scythian barbarian. He looked directly at us as we approached, forcing me to avert making direct eye contact with him. It was clear that he was not impressed with our appearance as we stood at attention.