A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  “Horatius!” he shouted, and then, when the commander did not answer, “Romans! Stand fast!”

  The cavalry swirled past him, shouting their war cry. A single cohort of Romans stood firm on what had been the right wing. Cassius fought his way toward them, knowing only that he would rather die with them than be cut down fleeing. The centurion still in command shouted something that sounded welcoming and gestured to the tribune’s horse. Cassius leaped free then, abandoning the animal to its fete, and the centurion pulled him into the momentary safety of the line.

  On either side, the Companion Cavalry surged past, ignoring the knot of Romans in favor of easier prey. Cassius choked back a sob of sheer fury. He had won only a temporary respite, until Alexander’s infantry could close with them—and if the Neapolitans had held their ground, they could have made it safely back to the city. But they would see how Romans died.

  Alexander saw the disintegration of the Roman line with savage satisfaction. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the two Foot Companion brigades advancing inexorably toward the single cluster of Romans who still put up an organized resistance. Ahead, the rest of the Roman force streamed toward Neapolis, just visible now on the horizon, closely pursued by the Companion Cavalry. Alexander reined in sharply, shouting for a page. A boy appeared almost at once, thin face very white, but with his horse well under control.

  “Tell Neoptolemus to join Coenus, and deal with what’s left of their wing,” the king ordered. “Then they’re to follow me. I want Neapolis.” Without waiting for the page’s acknowledgement, he spurred after the Companions. Hephaestion followed, grim-faced.

  It was slow work dragging the cavalry away from the blood sport of the pursuit, but together the two commanders managed to gather nearly a full squadron before catching up with the main body. The ground was growing rougher; here and there they passed the piles of bodies where desperate Neapolitans had made their final stand. Hephaestion cursed softly, and spurred his tiring horse hard, driving it to greater efforts. If this kept up, there would be no prisoners left either to bargain with Neapolis, or with the main body of the Roman army. Alexander saw that, too, and urged his horse on, talking gently to it in a voice that did not match his grim face.

  They reached a broad stream, its water barely deep enough to cover the horses’ hooves. Hephaestion made a face, and let his horse pick its own path down the low bank, made muddy and treacherous by the passage of hundreds of men and horses. Alexander followed, then reined in abruptly in the center of the stream, holding up his hand for silence. The others paused, listening, and then they heard it, too: a man’s voice, shrill with fear and pleading.

  Alexander swore once and turned his horse down the stream itself, heedless of what might lie beneath the surface.

  Hephaestion said, “Alexander, wait!” The banks rose steeply further down the stream, making it the perfect place for an ambush. The king did not turn and Hephaestion gestured to the nearest squad leader. “You, and your men, come with me. The rest of you, ride along the banks.”

  There was a scramble for the banks as the Companions sorted themselves out. Hephaestion, wincing at the thought of what the riverbed would do to his horse’s hooves, followed the king.

  The stream curved south, the banks becoming higher and steeper. Bushes grew along the edge, screening the stream to either side. The troopers riding along the bank cursed as the trailing branches caught at their mounts’ legs and at their own feet, but kept station. At the bank’s highest point, four Companion troopers sat their mounts in the middle of the stream, staring up at the bushes. A fifth, dismounted, perched precariously hallway up the bank, pulling himself up by the protruding roots. He carried a dagger in his teeth. One of the others stuck his lance thoughtfully into the brambles above his friend, producing a shriek of pain and fear.

  Alexander shouted wordlessly and spurred his horse forward along the stream. Great plumes of mud and water spurted from beneath the horse’s hooves. The rest of his party spurred after him, and there was a great splash and cursing as one of the horses stumbled, throwing its rider. The king did not turn, reining in to confront the five troopers. They swung ‘round to face him, half startled, half chagrined. The man who had been climbing the bank dropped back into the stream, missed his footing, and went sprawling in the mud. He scrambled to his feet, not daring to curse, and took his horse’s bridle from the rangy youth who held it for him.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Alexander asked, without raising his voice. He had few qualms about the casual killing that inevitably followed a victory but he objected to pointless cruelty.

  There was a momentary silence and then a trooper riding an ugly brown gelding said, with some embarrassment, “Sire, we’ve caught a Neapolitan.”

  Alexander eyed them for a moment longer, knowing perfectly well what they had had in mind, then said, “So I see.” He looked up at the bank then, seeing a faint glimmer of white among the dark leaves. “You there, come down. Your life’s safe.”

  There was a scurrying noise, and the bushes churned wildly. A figure, weaponless, without armor, dropped from the bank and threw himself to his knees in front of the king. Alexander’s horse tossed its head and danced sideways, momentarily startled. The king soothed it automatically.

  “Alexander, Great King, spare my life,” the Neapolitan wailed.

  “He’s already done that,” Hephaestion said, quite audibly. He was beginning to dislike the Neapolitan.

  “You will not regret it, Great King, I can be of use to you,” the Neapolitan babbled, still on his knees in the mud. “I am Hector son of Demetrius; I am of importance in the city, and no friend to Rome. They forced me to join them; there were many like me on the field today, who’ll welcome you to Neapolis.”

  “Get up,” Alexander said. Cocking his head to one side, he considered the Neapolitan as he scrambled to his feet, scraping futilely at the mud. The man’s tunic had once been a good one; its woven border still showed exotic colors and metallic threads through the mud. The man who chose to wear such an expensive tunic into battle was at the very least a rich man and rich men were influential in any city. “Hector son of Demetrius,” he said aloud. “I have no quarrel with Neapolis, only with Rome.”

  “And the gods know Neapolis has no quarrel with you,” Hector said fervently. “You will be welcomed with open arms, as our liberator.”

  Hephaestion snorted dubiously at that, having heard such promises before, but Alexander said, “Thank you.” He pointed to the nearest of the five troopers. “You, Glaucias, give him your horse, and be glad you didn’t kill him.”

  Glaucias dismounted with very poor grace and handed his horse over to the Neapolitan. One of the king’s troopers boosted the shaking man onto the saddlecloth. Alexander swung his horse downstream again. “Follow me.”

  It was late afternoon, the shadows deepening between the overhanging banks. The king’s party retraced their path down the stream, and left the water as soon as the horses could make their way up the bank. Neapolis was visible in the distance, starkly outlined by the setting sun. Alexander squinted thoughtfully at it for a few minutes, then sent most of the Companions he had collected back to Coenus and Perdiccas. The two brigadiers would already have dealt with the remains of the Roman forces; one last effort was needed from them now to secure the city. Hephaestion protested briefly at the loss of the cavalry, pointing to the line of scrubby trees that half blocked their line of march. Alexander answered tartly that they would collect the rest of the Companions as they went, and rode on before the cavalry commander could respond.

  The pursuit had gone further than the king had expected. By the time the horses drew level with the little wood, only a dozen troopers had joined the king, and most of those rode wheezing, exhausted horses. Alexander gave Hephaestion a quick look, and waved for the troop to swing well clear of the trees. The cavalry commander grunted his approval, but too softly for the king to hear.

  “Sire! King Alexander!” The youn
gest of the troopers pulled up his horse at the edge of the wood, pointing in among the trees, then whistled. A riderless horse emerged from the wood, responding to the boy’s familiar call. Its trappings and bloodied saddlecloth were Macedonian. The nearest troopers drew their swords.

  Alexander urged his own horse closer, letting it walk a little way into the trees. A few yards in, the wood opened up again into a shaded clearing. A body in a Macedonian cloak was crumpled at the far side of the open space, the broken stump of a javelin protruding from between two segments of the corselet. Alexander beckoned sharply to the nearest troopers and drew his own sword as the men moved into the wood beside him. It seemed suddenly very quiet, so that the sounds of the horses, the soft, metallic rattling of harness and bridle, sounded very loud. One of the troopers, seeing the body, gave a quiet exclamation. The other dropped his lance, useless among the trees, and drew his sword.

  Alexander said, “Get the others. We go in.”

  Hephaestion, coming up behind him, cursed softly to himself, less at the inevitable decision—if there were still a pocket of Romans in the wood, rather than one lucky straggler, they could hardly be left there—than at the thought of hunting through forest in the fading light. He drew his sword and edged forward until he was riding at the king’s left.

  Alexander acknowledged the other’s presence with the merest flicker of a smile and said, “Sathon, you and your men dismount, fan out with me.”

  “At once, sire,” the squadron leader answered.

  Alexander twisted to look over his shoulder at the Companions crowding into the wood behind him, and lifted his sword to wave them forward. In the same instant, a javelin flashed from among the trees ahead. It struck the king high in the side just at the edge of the corselet, ripping through the leather outer skin and tearing away the metal plates before slicing deep between the king’s ribs. Alexander fell backward, grabbing left-handed for the horse’s mane. The frightened animal reared, throwing him under the hooves of the following horse, which danced backward, shrieking. The king rolled free, and was up in an instant, one hand pressed to the broken corselet. There was blood on his fingers.

  Hephaestion kicked his horse forward, putting its body between the king and the trees from which the javelin had come. “Sathon, Aristo, get them, ride them down.”

  To either side, troopers kicked their horses into motion, diving into the woods. A dozen men, veterans all, pulled their unwilling horses to a stop halfway across the clearing, forming a line between the king and the unseen enemy. They waited nervously, swords ready, but there was no further attack. Hephaestion dropped from his own horse, tossing its reins to the nearest Companion, and took the king’s shoulders, easing him gently to the ground. Alexander was very pale, eyes wide and not quite focussed. He breathed in short, painful gasps.

  “Let me see,” Hephaestion said.

  Alexander spread his fingers slightly and shook his head. Hephaestion hissed softly between his teeth at the sight of the welling blood and began loosening the ties of the corselet. The javelin had sliced through one of the cords that held the shoulder piece in place; Hephaestion loosened the other, and then, very carefully, cut the laces that held the chest pieces together. He lifted the king slightly, and a trooper appeared from nowhere to take Alexander’s weight. Together they eased away the broken corselet. Alexander winced visibly but made no sound.

  The young trooper who had found the riderless horse dropped to his knees at the king’s side. The boy’s face was stricken, but he had kept his wits about him: he held out a strip of cloth torn from someone’s undyed tunic. More such strips were bundled in his hand. Hephaestion nodded his thanks, too coldly afraid to remember the boy’s name, and glanced up at the trooper supporting the king’s shoulders. The man nodded reassuringly and tightened his hold on Alexander. Very carefully, the cavalry commander eased aside the king’s hand, and put the wadded strip of cloth against the wound. Alexander twitched in spite of himself, left hand contracting into a painful fist.

  Hephaestion felt his own muscles tighten in sympathy. The wound was an ugly one, a deep slash that ripped away a triangular piece of flesh along and below one rib, baring the bone.

  The first piece of cloth was soaked through already. Hephaestion snapped his fingers for another, and the boy gave it to him, too frightened to ask questions. The bleeding slowed gradually. Hephaestion left the last sodden pad in the wound and added two more on top of that, binding them all in place with longer strips cut from his own cloak. Alexander winced again as the bandages were tightened, but breathing was less painful. He whispered, “Help me get the corselet on.”

  Hephaestion gave him a startled look, and said, “Alexander, I—”

  “Put it on,” Alexander said. With an effort, he sat up fully, bracing himself with his left arm. “I can ride. And I want Neapolis.”

  Hephaestion still looked rebellious, but caught the king’s hand as he reached for the nearest piece of the corselet. “All right,” he said, a little too loudly. Alexander was right, unfortunately: only his presence would be enough to overawe the Neapolitans, and get them possession of the city without further fighting. And the corselet would hide the bloodstains well enough. “But wait for Perdiccas?”

  Alexander nodded, pain throbbing in his side with every breath. Hephaestion shook his head, but together he and the older trooper got the king to his feet and put the corselet back together around him. Awkwardly, Alexander twitched his cloak forward, hiding the torn leather and broken scales. Then the two troopers helped him back into the saddle. He collected the reins, trying to ignore the sudden weakness sweeping over him, and there was a cheer from the forest. The pursuing troopers had returned.

  The first trooper shouted over his shoulder, “You see? They can’t kill the king.”

  A second man, a blond Illyrian, shouldered past him, holding up two dripping objects. Alexander blinked at them, momentarily unable to focus. Then the Illyrian tossed the severed heads to the ground in front of the king, saying, “There’re two of the bastards that did it, sire. We’ll get the others, too.”

  Alexander nodded and managed to say, in something approaching his normal voice, “Thank you. A golden cup for each of you.” It was the traditional Illyrian reward. The blond man whooped his pleasure, turning to his companions with delight. Alexander turned his horse away, steadying himself against the animal’s neck. Hephaestion pushed close and Alexander straightened with an effort.

  “I’m all right,” he said aloud. “On to Neapolis.”

  In the heart of the forest, Horatius Regulus crouched unmoving in the limbs of a tree, hoping the branches would hide him from the troopers still combing the wood. His whole body ached with the effort of keeping absolutely still: the slightest unnatural tremor of leaves would betray him. Resolutely, he set himself to ignore the pain, to wait patiently for full darkness so that he could slip away to warn the consul. His mouth twisted bitterly. He would have two failures to report now, besides the battle. He had missed his chance to kill the Macedonian king and in doing so had signed the death warrant for what was left of his century. But there had been nothing else to do and if he hadn’t missed… He put that thought aside with an effort. Alexander was hurt, which could only help the Roman cause. And there was always the chance of fever, perhaps even a mortal one: on balance, that was worth the death of all his men, and his own, if it came to that.

  The sound of horses crashing through the underbrush was moving away at last. Cautiously, Horatius shifted his grip on the nearest branch, then drew his leg up until it was braced more comfortably against the treetrunk. Despite his care, the dead leaves rattled alarmingly and a handful sifted down to join the others carpeting the base of the tree. Horatius tensed and shifted his grip on his second pilum. There was no sign that the Macedonians had heard, and, slowly, Horatius relaxed. It sounded almost as though the last of the horsemen were moving out of the wood. Still, it was not until after midnight that the Roman dropped painfully from his hiding pla
ce and struck out northwest toward the consul’s army.

  A Choice of Destinies

  Chapter 7:

  Neapolis, late autumn (Apellaios), 30 imperial, to Latium, winter (Peritios), 31 imperial (326/325 B.C., 427/428 A.U.C.)

  A Neapolitan delegation was waiting at the city gates to offer Alexander their submission. The king roused himself to accept it with appropriate ceremony, letting Hephaestion and Hector son of Demetrius do most of the talking, and then ordered his men to take immediate possession of the town’s citadel. Only when he was certain that all the Macedonians were safe within its walls did he allow the Friends to persuade him to bed. Hephaestion, swearing unhappily to himself, dispatched messengers to Craterus explaining what had happened, and asking the brigadier to send Philip, Alexander’s Acarnanian doctor, ahead to treat the king.

  When Philip arrived, only half a day ahead of Craterus’s force, he clucked angrily over the wound, and spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning and rebandaging it. Alexander, too weak to protest, accepted a drink containing poppy syrup, and submitted without complaint to the doctor’s ministrations.

  When the doctor had gone, Alexander lay back against the pillows, exhausted. Philip’s medicine had only partly masked the pain, but the king had been too proud to complain. In the far corner of the room, shadows shifted momentarily, billowing outward like a curtain. Alexander frowned at them, willing the movement to stop. Then the shadows steadied. A figure stood there, a man in old-fashioned armor, heavy helmet pulled down to hide his face. The king opened his mouth to challenge the stranger, then stopped abruptly as he recognized the markings on the massive shield. He had half memorized that section of the Illiad as a boy, dreaming of the day some god would give him armor as fine. The shape freed its sword arm from its heavy cloak, and pushed back its helmet. Its face was the face of Achilles, familiar from statues and embellished by a boy’s imagination, but the helmet rested easily on the ram’s horns that curled back from the forehead. Alexander shivered: not Achilles, then, who was after all his ancestor, but Zeus Ammon, the god who had spoken at Siwah. The apparition stared back at him, perfect face showing neither praise nor blame.