A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  “Sire, Tyrimmas son of Aretes has returned from patrol.”

  Before the page could say anything more, Tyrimmas had shouldered his way into the tent. He checked a little on seeing the assembled generals, and said, “I beg your pardon, sire, sirs. But my patrol’s found the Roman army.”

  Amyntas looked up sharply—Tyrimmas’s Scouts had been nowhere near his men—and Alexander said, “Where?”

  The Friends made way for the raw-boned Thracian, who stared for a long moment at the map, translating ink and charcoal lines into familiar countryside, before saying, “Here.”

  “Gods below,” Amyntas said, in spite of himself.

  The king glanced at him. “And you met your Romans—?”

  “Here,” Amyntas said, and touched a point a hundred and thirty-five stadia to the north and west of the place Tyrimmas had indicated. That was better than a day’s march, even over good ground, and the crude map showed a range of hills separating the two points.

  “Two armies,” Craterus said, half to himself, and tugged furiously at his beard.

  There was a sudden silence in the tent. There could be no question in anyone’s mind that they were facing two Roman armies, one blocking the best road to Neapolis, the other threading the narrow band of open ground between the hills and mountains to the south, in an obvious attempt to break the Macedonian line of communication with the Italiote League cities.

  Alexander said, “What’s their strength?”

  Amyntas looked up, startled, and got control of his thoughts with an effort. “We hit the patrol about here, say forty men, cavalry. We got free, followed them, and found the main army about twelve stadia back. From the size of the camp alone, I’d say they had a full six brigades.”

  “That’s three of their legions,” Laomedon said quietly. “According to everything the Samnites have said, their total strength is about four legions. There are two allied legions, too, based at Neapolis.”

  Alexander nodded. “Cavalry?”

  “I don’t know, sire,” Amyntas answered. “They’d half-fortified their camp, with that and the dark, I couldn’t be sure. But the ones we met weren’t Roman, that I can tell you.”

  “They’ve always relied on their allies for cavalry,” Laomedon said.

  “And the force you met, Tyrimmas?” Alexander asked. His face showed nothing but a sort of professional admiration for the Roman commanders.

  “Another three brigades, sire,” the Thracian answered. “Only a few squadrons of cavalry, though, maybe five hundred men.”

  “Did they know they were seen?” Alexander asked.

  Tyrimmas shook his head. “No, I’m sure they didn’t.”

  That was better news than any of the officers had expected, though Campania was hardly ideal country for a cavalry fight. Hephaestion nodded to himself, already working out the best ways to deploy his Companions. Craterus’s lips moved silently, calculating. Before he could finish, Ptolemy said, “That’s six thousand men on our tail, Alexander.”

  “And twelve thousand more ahead of us,” Craterus muttered. He could feel a trap closing on them and shook himself angrily. More loudly, he said, “I say we deal with them first, mop up the rest later.”

  Disconcertingly, Alexander smiled. “If we meet either one of those armies, it’s on their chosen ground. The Scouts have been telling us how scrubby it is, bad for cavalry—we may outnumber them both, but any battle would be too costly. No.” He leaned over the map again, tracing a line from the Macedonian camp directly across the hills to Neapolis. “How far would you say that is, Amyntas?”

  The scout hesitated, then said, “Two hundred stadia, maybe?”

  The king looked at the other scout. “Tyrimmas?”

  “I’d make it two hundred and ten stadia,” the Thracian said, warily.

  The Friends looked at each other, already able to guess the king’s plan. Ptolemy said, “Even with a forced march, the infantry would have a hard time covering two hundred stadia—and there’s the baggage and the women to consider.”

  “And there’s nothing to say Neapolis has been stripped of troops,” Perdiccas said. “If we arrive and find it fully garrisoned…” He did not need to finish.

  Hephaestion said, thoughtfully, “Laomedon said four legions at Rome and two at Neapolis, the Neapolitan ones being allies. There are about four thousand men in a legion, if it’s two of our brigades, and the Scouts can account for, say, eighteen thousand? That’s five legions right there. Neapolis can’t be that strongly held.”

  “Exactly,” Alexander said. “Ptolemy, I know the whole army couldn’t cover that ground in a single day. I will take two brigades of Foot Companions—yours, Perdiccas, and yours, Coenus—all the Companion Cavalry, the hypaspists, the Agrianians, the horse archers; that force can easily reach the city and throw up a siege line. The rest of the army—Craterus, it’s your command—will follow at the best speed you can. It doesn’t matter if you don’t reach Neapolis in a single day, my force can hold a siege for two days if we have to. All that really matters is that you avoid the Romans. Hephaestion’s right, the Neapolitan garrison has to be depleted, and the city itself doesn’t like Rome. We can take it—and its harbor—before the main army can relieve them. And with Neapolis for abase, we’ll be in a perfect position to bring the Romans to battle on our terms.”

  One by one, reluctantly, the Friends nodded. Not even Alexander’s enthusiasm could hide the fact that they were in a dangerous situation, caught between two strong Roman forces. On the other hand, the king’s solution, though it carried its own risks, was exactly the sort of plan that had worked before. Alexander smiled again, sensing their acceptance, and said, “Good. We’ll ride at dawn.”

  Fabius Caeso received the information that his scouts had made contact with the Macedonians with outward calm, and closeted himself at once with his officers. An hour later, a scowling centurion emerged from the consul’s tent to fetch Caius Maelius Mesala, the half-Neapolitan commander of the allied cavalry. Two hours later, a chastened Mesala was on his way south, accompanied by a small escort, riding hard for Neapolis. The sky was growing light with dawn by the time the exhausted troop passed through the gates of Neapolis.

  Lucius Cassius Nasidienis, the military tribune in command of the Neapolitan garrison, heard the consul’s message through once while he dressed, then had Mesala repeat it once more before the garrison’s other officers arrived. The second, smaller force swinging south and east to cut off Macedonian communications was as yet undiscovered. Fabius was gambling that Alexander would try to close with him at once and ordered Cassius to take most of the Neapolis garrison to reinforce the second army. Cassius grunted dubiously—he had been in Neapolis for six months now, and knew only too well how his Neapolitan allies would react to the idea of any risk, calculated or not—and braced himself to override the Neapolitans’ inevitable arguments. He lacked the consul’s age and rank, and Fabius’s acid tongue, to goad them on. The sun had been up for hours before the first cohorts grudgingly formed up for the march.

  The Companion Cavalry and about half the hypaspists—there were not enough spare horses to mount the entire battalion—rode for Neapolis at the first brightening of the sky. Perdiccas’s and Coenus’s Foot Companion brigades went with them, escorted by the horse archers and the Agrianians. Alexander, riding at the head of the lead squadron, set a moderate pace at first, moving warily over the uneven ground. The infantry kept up easily, abandoning the neat marching columns to make better speed through the hills. As the sky grew brighter, the king picked up the pace. By the time the last of the Companion Cavalry squadrons made its way out of the hills and into the broad valley that led to Neapolis, the infantry was a good hour’s march behind. Alexander slowed his march to hold that distance, but kept on toward the city.

  The centurion in command of a Roman scouting party saw the Macedonians first, as they emerged from the long valley, and dispatched a pair of runners to warn the main column before the nearest horseman saw his g
roup. The Companion gave an excited yelp, wrenching his horse around and lowering his heavy cornelwood lance. His squad leader echoed the shout, spurring his horse to the charge. The Companions rode over and through the little party of Romans. The squad leader reined in, breathing hard, and turned to stare at the bodies lying in his wake, wondering if he had made a mistake in killing them all. The deed was done; he shrugged to himself, sent one trooper back to warn the king, and spurred on in search of the main Roman force.

  Alexander received the squad leader’s warning with outward calm. When the squad leader himself returned with the information that nearly two brigades of Romans were blocking their path, the king swore once, bitterly, and said, “We go on. Send a rider to warn Perdiccas.”

  Hephaestion said, “Do you want the hypaspists dismounted?” He did not need to ask why they could not wait for the rest of the infantry. They were committed; the Foot Companions would catch up soon enough, and the cavalry could hold the Romans until then.

  “They’d be cut to bits,” Alexander said, and shouted for a page to gather the squadron leaders.

  Cassius Nasidienis reined in gently, seeing the first of the returning advance guard, and felt the first stirring of fear in the pit of his stomach. He could not see the rest of the ten-man squad. The rest of his suite, the Neapolitan officers, runners, aides, and signaller, slid to a stop behind him, whispering nervously to each other. The man—Roman, reliable—fell into step beside the tribune, one hand resting on Cassius’s saddlecloth.

  “Well?” Cassius asked quietly, still searching the distance for the rest of the advance guard. The second man, breathing heavily, slid to a stop at his companion’s shoulder.

  “Trouble,” the first man answered, and could not refrain from glancing nervously over his shoulder.

  “Alexander?” Cassius asked.

  “Alexander’s cavalry.”

  Cassius twisted in his saddle to look back along the line of soldiers, straggling a little in spite of the best efforts of the centurions. The sweat was running under his corselet, soaking the coarse wool of his undertunic. With a real legion, made up of Roman troops rather than half-trained allies, he might have hoped to hold off even Alexander’s cavalry, but he doubted the Neapolitans would stand against a charge. “How many? And what about infantry?”

  “Maybe fifteen hundred, two thousand,” the second man said. “I didn’t see any infantry.” He eyed the tribune’s unlined face, and added, “They’ll cut us to pieces, without horses of our own.”

  Cassius recognized the trooper’s thought—it was common enough, for all that he had served in the army for eight years, and had earned his appointment—and said only, “How far?”

  “About a mile, and coming fast.”

  Cassius glanced over his shoulder and waved for the rest of his suite to join him. “Alexander’s cavalry is in sight, a mile off,” he said without preamble. “Horatius, put the two Roman cohorts on the flanks. Hector, Lynceus, make sure your centurions keep your people in the line. We’ll withdraw toward Neapolis.” He looked around the circle of faces, seeing nothing but panic, and said urgently, “They don’t have any infantry with them; the cavalry won’t be able to touch us if we just hold our line. We’ll retreat in drill order.”

  Horatius Regulus, a stocky, balding veteran of a dozen or more campaigns, saluted smartly. “At once, tribune,” he snapped, and glared at the officers to either side of him, until they, too, mumbled agreement. Privately, he shared Cassius’s doubts, but knew better than to let them show.

  Lynceus son of Androtimes, the younger of the Neapolitan commanders, said faintly, “As the tribune wishes. But shouldn’t we send a warning to the consul? And to General Gabinius?”

  Mesala pushed back his helmet and rubbed his stubbled face with both hands, trying desperately to regain some alertness. He had asked to come with the tribune, even after his all-night ride, and was just beginning to regret his rashness. “The horses are mostly fresh,” he said slowly, as much to himself as to the tribune. “We could make it to Fabius’s camp, or to Gabinius, by sundown.”

  Cassius hesitated, then nodded. He had too few horsemen—Mesala’s dozen troopers—to do any good against Alexander’s men; if he tried to use them against the Companions, he would only lose them all. “Go, warn Fabius.”

  Mesala nodded again and wheeled his horse away, shouting for his men.

  Hector son of Demetrius, who had been given a command only to conciliate one of the Neapolitan factions, said, “Shouldn’t we just escape while we can, tribune?”

  “No,” Cassius snapped. “If we run now, we’ll all be slaughtered. We will withdraw toward Neapolis in good order, and with our face to the enemy, and we may get out of this yet, if it’s only cavalry. And if you don’t panic.”

  Hector muttered something about being slaughtered in any case and Horatius said, “Stop wasting time, Greekling.”

  “Move,” Cassius said, and was at last obeyed.

  Horns sounded along the column, and the standards flashed as the centurions maneuvered their maniples into the line of battle. The line solidified slowly, centurions cursing their reluctant men into close order. The centurions left only the smallest of gaps between the first- and second-line centuries. Seeing that, the third-rank men exchanged nervous glances, and their centurions stood poised to stop any flight.

  The Macedonians, advancing at a steady trot, did not waver at the sight of the solid line of infantry. At the head of the leading squad, Alexander lifted his lance, signalling the troopers to close up behind him. All along the rough line, the other squad leaders did the same, abruptly transforming the mass of riders into a disciplined line of wedge-shaped formations, like the teeth of a saw. The king gave the war cry, echoed instantly and terrifyingly by the Companions. The horses lurched to a canter and then to a gallop.

  On the Roman left, a Latin recruit, completely unnerved by the shouts and the approaching horses, threw away his shield and turned to run. The nearest centurion blocked his way, swinging his sword backhanded. The recruit fell, his head nearly severed from his shoulders. The centurion stepped silently into the recruit’s place. The rest of the century stood firm.

  As the Macedonians came within javelin range, Cassius shouted, “Loose!” The trumpeters sounded the two-note call, and the deadly spears flashed from the line. The Companions faltered. One animal went down, tangling the following horses; the squads to either side veered away, cursing, and pulled their own animals out of range. Alexander swore to himself—the Romans were not going to be frightened into breaking their line—and wheeled his own horse away again.

  “Gods,” Horatius said softly. “We held them.”

  Cassius grinned fiercely at him, then beckoned to the nearest runner. “So we did. You, pass the word. We’ll withdraw, in drill order. Third-rank by alternate centuries, then first-rank, then second. Tell each commander, and the senior centurions, and get back to me when you’ve done it. They’re to wait for my signal.”

  “At once, tribune,” the runner said, and dashed off down the gap between the cohorts.

  Cassius turned back to Horatius. “Don’t you see? Not even Alexander can make a horse charge a line of spears head-on. And he’s left his infantry behind. We’ve got time, Horatius. We may make it back to the city yet.”

  Horatius grunted agreement, but said dourly, “It’s a long way, tribune. A very long way.”

  Sobered, Cassius nodded, scanning the ranks for his runner. He stared out past the milling cavalry, even now planning for the next charge. At last the runner returned, bringing the acknowledgements. Cassius beckoned to his signaller. “Sound the withdrawal.”

  The man set his horn to his lips, braced himself, and produced a braying three-note call. It echoed up and down the line, and the third-rank men began to move. Alexander caught the movement at once, and raised the war cry, pointing toward the potential gap in the Roman line. His squad swung close again, forcing the horses toward the spearpoints. The third-rank men grounded sp
ears and stood firm. Swearing, the king let his horse have its head, swinging away from the line. As they turned away, the Romans loosed a flight of javelins, downing three of the Companions. A fourth javelin, nearly spent, grazed the king’s leg between the skirt of the corselet and the top of his shin piece, leaving a long, bloody scratch. Alexander hardly felt it, staring first at the Macedonian bodies, and then at the Roman line as it shifted ponderously backward. They had not gained much ground, but enough small gains could keep them away from the infantry. Shaking his head, he shouted for the nearest squad leader, and then for Hephaestion. When they appeared, he said, “We have to hold them here.”

  Hephaestion winced, thinking of the men it would cost them, but understood the necessity. And cost them it did. Three times more the Romans sounded the retreat; three times more the Macedonians charged and were driven back. They left dead men and horses behind them, a few more each time. A young squad leader, thinking he saw a gap, charged headlong between the Roman lines, and was promptly cut down. A dozen of his men died with him, caught on the spears or hacked to death with the deadly Roman short swords. Each time the Romans gained a few more yards of ground.

  It was not enough. As the Romans began to retreat for the fourth time, there was a cheer from the Macedonians, starting at the rear of their line, and moving rapidly forward. It could mean only one thing, Alexander’s infantry had arrived at last, and the Roman line wavered. Cassius cursed them hoarsely, and shouted for the signaller to sound “form line”. The man raised his trumpet, but the notes wavered and cracked, and only a few of the other signallers answered his call.

  “Sound again,” Cassius said, but the signaller was staring over his shoulder, face distorted in terror. Cassius turned, too, and saw the third rank disintegrate. First one man, then another, than two more, and finally whole groups and files threw away their weapons and ran toward Neapolis. The signaller threw away his horn and ran. Cassius lifted his sword but the man was too quick for him.