Ptolemy took a deep breath. “You can tell the king yourself, Antipater. He wants you to lead the army south.”
Antipater glanced suspiciously at him. “I thought that command would go to you.”
Ptolemy shook his head. “They’re your men, you trained them. Who else?”
“And your position in all this?”
Ptolemy shrugged. “I’m the messenger, primarily.” It was a lie, but he judged it safe enough to tell. “If you’ll give me a brigade command, I’ll take it, or whatever you want.”
Antipater hesitated again, testing the suggestion. “Yes,” he said at last, sounding almost like his old self, “I’ll need you—the more experienced officers the better. So Alexander wants me to bring the army south… while he marches north, catch them between the two forces?” He nodded to himself. “Good enough. When does he start?”
“He’ll have started already,” Ptolemy said. “So how soon can your men be ready to march?”
Antipater hesitated a moment, lips moving as he calculated, then answered, “Ten days. Two weeks at the most.” He saw Ptolemy’s look of surprise, and added defensively, “They’re scattered across Thessaly now, to spread out the demand for supplies. I wasn’t anticipating a winter campaign.”
Ptolemy shrugged, hoping his expression of innocence would convince the regent. Philip had campaigned in winter often enough, and Antipater had served with him then. “Who could have? Ten days is plenty of time.”
Antipater nodded and rose stiffly. “I’ll get my officers on this right away—and it would oblige me if you’d accept a command.”
“Of course,” Ptolemy murmured, and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. A brigade command would let him keep some control of the coming campaign, without constantly having to worry about offending Antipater.
“But one thing, Ptolemy.” Antipater turned with his hand on the door latch. He raised his voice slightly, as though to reach some unseen listener. “I want you to know—I call on you to witness that I intend to speak to the king about the queen mother’s interference in affairs that are no concern of hers. If I should die on this campaign, of sickness or of wounds, I demand you remember what I’ve said.”
Ptolemy opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but Antipater cut him off. “And that’s for her information as well,” he said, more quietly. “You’ve not forgotten what a powerful witch she is.”
Before Ptolemy could think of anything to say to that, Antipater nodded politely and was gone, closing the door gently behind him. Left to himself, Ptolemy leaned back in his chair and whistled soundlessly. He had not forgotten Olympias’s reputation—no Macedonian could—though he was not entirely sure he believed it. But the atmosphere in the town, the sense of distrust, of anticipating disaster, even the constant, steady rain—it all had the feel of a spell, like a trail of soot from an ill-regulated lamp.
Then he shook himself again. Spell or no spell, Olympias was much to blame for the atmosphere pervading Pherae—and for Antipater’s decline. She had done her best to destroy him and he would say as much to Alexander. Ptolemy smiled rather bitterly to himself. It would do him no harm to say so, in any case: the queen mother had never liked him, suspecting—like half of Macedon—that Philip, not Lagus, was his father. He drained his wine cup, untouched until that moment, and his smile grew wider. Yes, something would have to be done about Olympias—and he was very glad that it was Alexander who would have to do it.
The main part of the army left Brauron toward the end of the month Dios, leaving only a skeleton force under Nearchus to protect the ships still in the harbor. The inhabitants of Brauron seemed genuinely sorry to see them go, and perfectly content to provide for the remaining troops. At Alexander’s order, the Athenian agent was allowed to escape, to give the city plenty of time to try to recall their share of the League’s army.
Two days after the agent’s hasty departure, the third of the army under Hephaestion’s command, including two brigades of Foot Companions, the Thessalian heavy cavalry, engineers, and most of the foreign infantry, split off from the main body, heading west and north by easy stages toward Athens. Despite their leisurely progress, Hephaestion’s force reached Athens without opposition, and faced only a token force outside the city walls. It was routed with the loss of perhaps a dozen Macedonians, and Hephaestion settled in for the siege. Diades, the short, balding senior engineer in charge of the siege machinery, had protested vehemently at not being allowed to mount a proper assault, and he took a bitter pleasure in selecting the most spectacularly useless sites for his engines. Hephaestion finally had to warn him not to be quite so ironic in his choices, for fear of giving the game away—after all, the Athenians had to believe their city would be attacked.
The main part of the army moved north into Boetia, meeting no resistance until they were two days’ march short of Thebes. A troop of Acarnanians, that city’s contribution to the League, ran headlong into a squad of Scouts. The Scouts, outnumbered, fought their way free, but the next day Craterus’s brigade, supported by six squadrons of Companion Cavalry, made contact again. The Acarnanian commander, himself badly outnumbered this time, made a stand nonetheless, and was decisively beaten. From the prisoners, Alexander learned that the League was behaving exactly as he had hoped—the Acarnanian commander spoke with real bitterness of councils devoted to insults and politicking rather than strategy—and was moving its army slowly southeast to cut him off from Thebes. Alexander slowed his own progress even further, and sent more parties of Scouts out ahead of the main army.
The League commanders chose to make their stand in a broad plain some twenty stadia north of the river that marked the border of Boetia, less than a day’s march from Thebes itself. Alexander’s advance guard had held the fords for some days; now the king brought the main body up quickly, before the League could shift to some more advantageous ground. The chosen field was harvest stubbled, but flat enough to let cavalry maneuver easily—and the Companion Cavalry was far superior to anything the League could muster. It was the perfect battleground for Alexander’s purposes, and he accepted the League’s stupidity as a gift from the gods.
Gathered in the outer section of the king’s massive, three-roomed tent, the generals studied the hastily amended maps and listened for a final time to the Scout commanders’ descriptions of the League’s chosen ground. The reports were more than satisfactory; the clipped voices began to take on a note of pleased anticipation. Listening, Alexander smiled and leaned across the map, gathering their attention with a glance.
“Craterus, you’ll have overall command of the phalanx,” he began. “Advance obliquely, left flank refused; outflank them on the right if you can—I want to draw the Athenians out of line, make an opening for the Companions. The Scouts and the Agrianians will screen our advance.”
Heads nodded all around the table, recognizing familiar tactics, and Coenus reached for another cup of wine. His brigade would be in the center of the phalanx, with nothing to worry him but the necessity to keep formation and kill Greeks.
“I’ll take command of the Companions myself,” Alexander went on. “Neoptolemus, the hypaspists will anchor our left flank. You’ll be facing the Theban line, so I expect you’ll see some hard fighting.”
Neoptolemus nodded, his sun-browned face very sober. This was only his second campaign as the hypaspists’ commander, and his first major battle under the king’s eye. He leaned forward again to study the map, as though a perfect knowledge of the land would still his fear. Alexander gave him an encouraging smile—the hypaspist had proved his worth a dozen times over as a battalion commander—and turned his attention to the cavalry. “Menidas, Erigyius, your men will screen the left flank.”
Erigyius, who commanded the ethnically diverse, lightly armed Allied Horse, stirred faintly, and said, “The League cavalry is better armed than my men.”
Before the king could answer, Menidas said, “You screen the hypaspists. My men can hold the cavalry.” He tugged at his scente
d beard, and did not add the rest of his thought: his mercenaries could hold the League horse, but could not break it. Erigyius nodded, not happily.
Alexander, reading their thoughts, said, “That’s all I ask.” He glanced again around the circle of faces, picking out the infantry brigadiers. “Craterus, Meleager, your brigades will hold the center of the line. Polyperchon, your brigade will link with the hypaspists on the left.” He paused theatrically, anticipating the reaction he knew his next order would produce. “Coenus, you’ll link with Theagenes on the right. The Sacred Band will hold the right flank.”
There was a sudden, profound silence in the dimly lit compartment, a silence so deep that the generals could hear the challenge of a sentry somewhere on the perimeter. The Macedonians exchanged disbelieving looks, but before any one of them could decide to speak, Theagenes cleared his throat.
“I thank you, King Alexander, for the honor you show us. We will not fail you.”
Craterus rolled his eyes at that. “Alexander,” he said abruptly, and made a disgusted face as the other generals shifted away from him, visibly disassociating themselves from whatever he was going to say. “Alexander, I don’t doubt Theagenes’s loyalty—” he saw the king’s face darken, and added grudgingly, “—or the rest of his men. If they wanted to betray us, they’d’ve done it already, I grant you that. But they’re not Foot Companions, and they’re not trained to the phalanx. I doubt the wisdom of asking them to hold the right flank.”
Theagenes said, stung, “We’ve been following your tactics since we joined you.”
“Seven years,” Polyperchon said, neutrally, his eyes on the king. Alexander valued Craterus for his willingness to say the unspeakable, but sometimes the brigade commander went too far.
Alexander said, “The Sacred Band has earned the right to the place of honor. This is as much their fight as mine.” There was a note of finality in his voice that silenced all further opposition. He waited a moment, and then, satisfied, calmly began to outline possible contingencies, sketching out his orders for each situation. Slowly, and then with increasing concentration, the generals gave their attention to the problem at hand, each one forming his plans for his own men. The commanders fought in line with their men; once the battle was fully joined there would be no opportunity for further orders. Alexander had the double gift of knowing what orders to give and then knowing how to trust his men.
The morning of the battle dawned cool, with a brisk wind that blew scraps of clouds across the sun. The wind would make it impossible for the archers to do much damage to the League line; Alexander stood in the doorway of his tent for a long moment, testing its strength before deciding against any changes in the battle order. The soldiers, hunching over a cold breakfast, felt the wind, too, and prepared themselves for an even harder fight.
The last squad of Scouts rode in as the king was snatching a hasty breakfast. Alexander listened to their captain’s report—the League troops had stood to arms all night, as afraid of mass desertions as they were of a Macedonian surprise attack—and ordered the good news passed along to his generals while he himself made the requisite sacrifices. When he was done, and the omens had been judged favorable, trumpets sounded to begin the march. The men formed up by unit, grumbling to take the edge off their fear, but as the king rode the length of the column to take his place at the head of his own squadron of Companion Cavalry, the complaints turned to cheers. Alexander acknowledged the cheering as he spurred past, the sound sparking the familiar excitement, an ecstatic joy almost indistinguishable from terror.
As the Scouts had reported, the League army was already drawn up in battle array, letting the Macedonians take the initiative. Well screened by cavalry and the light infantry, the Foot Companions shifted ponderously from column to obliquely angled phalanx, the Sacred Band on the right flank leading the way. Alexander eyed the League cavalry massing against his left, and dispatched two more Companion squadrons to reinforce Menidas.
The light infantry, their work done, fell back against the phalanx, which opened ranks slightly to let them through, then closed up again and moved on. For a moment, the League line held steady, and then, almost imperceptibly at first, the Athenian battalions began to shift to their left, trying to keep from being outflanked. The commander of the Leucan battalion immediately to their right cursed them soundly, and lengthened his own line in a vain attempt to keep contact.
The Athenian cavalry, which had been hanging back in some confusion, rallied at the sight of the danger to their fellow citizens, and swept in toward the Macedonian flank. Alexander had been waiting for that move. He lifted his lance in signal and gave the war cry, setting spurs to his horse in the same instant. The Companions exuberantly picked up the cry, surging forward after the king. Alexander shouted again, giving himself up completely to the terrible excitement of the battle. He forced his own horse in among the Athenians, stabbing at their leader. The lance’s heavy point slid uselessly across armor; the king shortened his grip and struck again. This time the point sank home, wedging itself deep in bone. With an effort, Alexander wrenched it loose and struck again, hardly noticing when something struck his armored shin. The lance point skittered across an Athenian shield and shattered against its metal rim. Alexander threw away the broken shaft, and drew his sword.
In the center of the phalanx, Craterus heard the king’s first shout, and raised his own war cry. The Foot Companions surged forward all along the phalanx, forcing the League line back a few paces before the hoplites steadied. Craterus, cursing steadily under his breath, could see gaps developing in the League line where the flanking maneuver had pulled the Athenians away, but could not risk breaking his own line to exploit them. He hunched his body to take a Megaran spearpoint on his own shield, and thrust hard with his fifteen foot sarissa. The point slid, then caught. Craterus pushed hard, grunting with the effort, and felt something give. He stumbled forward a step in spite of himself, the Megaran spear snapping under his weight, but recovered in an instant, wrenching his sarissa free. To either side, the Foot Companions shifted to keep contact. Then there was a sudden flurry of movement to his left: the hoplite whose spear had broken darted under the Macedonian spears, sword drawn. Instinctively, Craterus lifted his shield to parry the blow, but he wasn’t quick enough. The sword smashed into his helmet, slicing away the cheekpiece and carving deep into his jaw. Half stunned by the blow, Craterus fell back into the shelter of his shield, barely managing to keep his sarissa lowered at the enemy, and saw the file-leader to his left drop his own sarissa to hack at the Megaran. The Megaran went down, and a spearpoint from the rear ranks made certain of him. Blinking away the tears of pain, Craterus steadied himself, and thrust again at the enemy line.
Then, as suddenly as it always happened, the Athenian cavalry shattered, first the rear-rankers and then the point-men throwing away their weapons in a blind rush to get away. Alexander shouted hoarsely for the nearest squadron leader to pursue, and turned his own attention back to the locked infantry. For a moment, his vision was blocked as the pursuing squadron swirled past him, and then he saw, quite clearly, how the battle lay. The Sacred Band, fighting with almost superhuman fury, had failed to turn the Athenian flank, but their effort had opened gaps in the League line. Neither Craterus nor Polyperchon, hard pressed to support the hypaspists on his left, had been able to exploit any of the breaks. Alexander raised his sword again, gathering his squadron, and drove for the nearest gap. The League troops held for a few moments longer, then broke, the line fragmenting into its component parts. The Macedonians surged forward in pursuit.
The battle itself took less than two hours, but the pursuit lasted until sundown, and it was fully dark before the last of the Companion squadrons straggled in, wearing the expressions of men both drained and sated by the killing. Torches still moved across the plain: the remainder of the League army searching for its dead. The Macedonian army had lost only a hundred men, both dead and wounded; the League had not yet begun to count its losses.<
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Alexander waited in his tent to receive the delegations from each of the League cities. Now that the battle was over, the slaughter disgusted him—it had been a waste, completely unnecessary if only the League had kept its treaty.
“Corinth, Megara, Leucas, Euboea, a couple of Laconian towns,” he said aloud, to kill his own thoughts. Those were the contingents whose commanders had appeared to ask for their dead, acknowledging defeat, and to beg preliminary terms for their cities. “And Athens has asked for her dead. That leaves—who?”
Erigyius, whose men had been as involved in the pursuit as the Companion Cavalry, did not seem to ear, staring into the flame of the nearest lamp. Both Meleager and Polyperchon looked uncomfortable, and Neoptolemus managed a lopsided grin. Craterus, still holding a bloodied cloth to the sword cut that had nearly broken his jaw, jerked his head toward the corner where Theagenes sat, Menander waiting at his shoulder.
“Them,” Craterus said indistinctly, and relapsed, wincing, into silence.
“Do what you want with Thebes, Alexander,” Theagenes said, without looking up. “Burn it; we’ll help.” Despite his effort to sound merely angry, the words came out anguished, betraying the bitter loyalty beneath his fury.
The Theban’s words seemed to fill the tent. Craterus looked away, embarrassed, and Coenus mumbled something incoherent, his voice trailing off as he realized how inadequate his words would be. Alexander said, gently, “Theagenes—”
A Choice of Destinies Page 9