A Choice of Destinies

by Melissa Scott

  “Stay where you are,” he shouted to his men. “Don’t let them be swept away.” This was not a cavalry battle, not yet; for now, his men could do nothing but support the infantry.

  On the right wing, the Agrianians, already heavily engaged, heard the war cry, and redoubled their efforts. The Roman skirmishers gave way reluctantly, leaving bodies huddled in their wake. The Macedonians, too, left bodies behind them, mostly killed by stones from the deadly Ardean slings. Pithon, his light shield shattered by a Roman sword, threw it away, shouting hoarsely for his men to go on. A moment later, a stone struck him in the neck, and he dropped without a sound. Balacrus, his second-in-command, sprang to take his place.

  Ariston saw the Agrianian fall and gave a shriek of pure fury, spurring his horse at the nearest cluster of Romans. The rest of the Paeonians, conditioned to blind, tribal obedience, followed him, screaming Under that unexpected, impossible assault, the Romans gave way, falling back toward the hills.

  Menidas, edging his cavalry forward in the narrow gap between the hypaspists and the Roman forces in the hills, saw the sudden charge with a blind disbelief that changed quickly to delight. Only the Paeonian would have tried such a thing and succeeded: a new gap was opening, wide enough to take the right-wing cavalry across the river. Shouting for Erigyius and the Thessalians to follow, he plunged into the water, driving hard for the opposite bank. The Roman cavalry was waiting for him. Menidas thrust hard with his spear, horse dancing beneath him, throwing up great plumes of spray. Then other Greeks were beside him, lances working. One man fell, speared through the body, his screaming horse struggling to turn and run away, and then Menidas had forced his own horse up onto the bank, striking desperately at everything ahead of him. A spear grazed his shoulder, but he was too terrified to feel the wound. Then there was a shout from his left, and more horses scrambled onto the bank. The Roman cavalry fell back to gain room for the charge, and more Macedonians fought their way onto the bank. The Roman charge drove them back a little, but could not dislodge their foothold.

  All along the phalanx, the Macedonians struggled grimly to gain a foothold along the bank. In the center, along the ford itself, where the Roman palisades were strongest, the fighting was worst. The Macedonian line, already thinned and made ragged by the unavoidable pits, stood in the knee-deep water, thrusting up at the well-sheltered legionaries. Twice, three times, the sarissas opened a gap large enough for three men to spring up under the walls; three times the Romans drove them back again, battalion commanders ordering the retreat to keep from breaking the line. Bodies began to fill the shallows, their armor holding them below the surface to add another hazard to the crossing.

  Further downstream, where the water ran deeper, Meleager’s and Craterus’s brigades fought their way onto the banks at last. That success opened a gap between Meleager’s and Perdiccas’s men, a gap that the Romans were quick to exploit. The third legion, made up, in part, of the survivors of Cassius’s legion, and commanded by Cassius himself, surged forward. Meleager turned his battalion quickly, the men dropping back into the water to meet the new threat; the fighting, awkward and doubly dangerous in the rapid current, floundered back and forth along the channel. Hephaestion, already hard-pressed to hold off the Roman right-wing cavalry and at the same time provide some protection against the rear-rankers’ being swept downstream, saw the flurry of attack and managed to detach three squads to support Meleager. The Macedonian line stretched dangerously, then held firm, but Meleager’s red-plumed helmet had disappeared from view. Hephaestion cursed, glancing rapidly along the river, but could spare no time for a fuller search.

  The king’s party reached the riverbank at the point Tyrimmas had chosen for the crossing just as Ptolemy raised the war cry. Alexander grinned at his officers, then rose slowly along the bank for a few paces, judging current and depth. There was no sign that the Romans had spotted their maneuver, which was just as well: the river itself looked to be a formidable enemy. The dark waters swirled past at a dangerous speed, their true depth unguessable. Thoughtfully, the king pulled loose a piece of grass that had become entangled with his saddlecloth and tossed it into the water. It was swept instantly away, but at least the current flowed straight and true. With a shout, he spurred his horse forward, urging it over the shallow bank.

  The water was barely knee-deep at first, but grew rapidly deeper. The king’s horse whinnied its unease and fought the reins as the water rose higher, tugging hard at Alexander’s legs. The king took a tighter grip on his lance and wrapped his left hand in the horse’s mane, letting the reins lie loose along the animal’s neck, urging it forward with knees and voice alone.

  Abruptly, the horse was swimming, striking out desperately for the opposite bank. The current carried it rapidly downstream, so that by the time the horse felt bottom under its hooves again and scrambled ashore, snorting, they had come nearly a stadion further down the river. Alexander shook himself—he was soaked to the skin, and already shivering despite the winter sunlight—and turned to watch the others across.

  The Companions had followed without hesitation. Their horses fought the current together, swimming strongly for the far bank. The riders clung to the horses’ backs, trying to keep control of animals and weapons alike. Abruptly, there was a shriek from one of the riders, instantly cut off as Adaeus lost his grip on his horse and was swept away. Alexander tensed, urging his own horse back into the water, but the trooper riding next to the boy was quicker. Before the boy could sink too far, dragged under by the weight of his armor, he had leaned from his own horse and caught Adaeus by the skirt of the tunic, pulling him across his own thighs like a drowning calf. The page’s horse, relieved of its burden, reached the shore easily, and was seized by one of the Companions.

  Adaeus and his rescuer were the last to come ashore and willing hands reached to help the boy slide from the trooper’s lap. The page had lost his helmet and his face already showed the beginnings of a massive bruise, where the trooper had accidentally kicked him. Nevertheless, he professed himself ready and willing to go on. Alexander nodded, listening to the distant sounds of battle, and waved for them to move on.

  The king’s party moved up the river at a steady trot, the shouting and noise growing gradually louder. At last the Roman flank came into view, an indistinct mob of horses milling around on the river bank. Alexander lifted his sarissa, and urged his own horse to greater speed, the Companions copying him. For a long moment, the Roman horsemen did not turn. Then the unexpected sound of hoofbeats penetrated to an Ardean trooper, who turned without haste, expecting reinforcements from his own city. The sight of the Macedonian king’s double-plumed helmet struck him dumb for a moment. Recovering, he shrieked a warning, wheeling his own horse to face this new threat. All around him, the Roman cavalry turned in panic, abandoning their defense of the banks.

  Alexander shouted his own war cry and spurred forward recklessly. The Companion squadrons struck the mass of the Roman cavalry before it had time to form up to meet the attack, driving deep among the enemy horses and pushing the rearmost squadrons back into their own infantry. Hephaestion, seeing the familiar double-plumed helmet leading the attack, waved his own squadrons forward.

  “One more time, men,” he cried, “once more.” His men obeyed him, driving their tired horses into the central channel again, and this time they gained the bank.

  Fabius, watching the fresh attack from his place in the center of his line, cursed sharply and ordered his last cavalry units, held in reserve in hopes of victory and pursuit, to his right wing to shore up the allied cavalry. The fresh troops forced their way into the melee, driving the Companions back momentarily, but they were driven back themselves by the sheer ferocity of Alexander’s attack.

  In his narrow beachhead, Craterus recognized the moment for a final effort. Shouting, he and his men pressed forward a final time, the left-most battalion curving around to attack the Romans already disordered by their own cavalry. The rest of the phalanx commanders saw the
king’s attack and pressed forward. Perdiccas’s men at last closed the gap between their brigade and Meleager’s, then, with a titanic effort, forced their way past the Roman palisade. More slowly, the other brigades followed, their lines reforming to take full advantage of their longer sarissas as they finally broke past the Roman defenses. On the Macedonian right, the Thessalians smashed through the last allied squadron, and the Roman line began to crumble.

  Alexander forced his way past a last enemy cavalryman, stabbing almost blindly with his lance, then turned to survey the battle. The Romans were crumbling, some of the battalions on the wings disintegrating into a mob of fleeing men, others fighting now only to disengage and draw off in good order. He took a deep breath to signal the pursuit, and a Roman soldier broke suddenly from cover, dashing under his horse’s hooves to slash at legs and belly. Alexander wrenched the terrified animal away from the danger, stabbing awkwardly with the too-long lance, and hastily shortened his grip. His second blow slid harmlessly along the Roman’s corselet. Then the page Theodatus was at his side, crowding the Roman away as he hacked ungracefully with his sword. Alexander had one glimpse of the boy’s white face, terrified and exhilarated, before boy and horse and Roman went down together in a kicking heap. Then the horse was up and running, bleeding from a long slash along its withers. A second later, the boy rolled free, and the nearest Companion planted his lance in the Roman’s body.

  “Machatus!” Alexander shouted. Theodatus was holding his right arm in his left hand, face white now with pain. “See to the boy. The rest of you, follow me!”

  The king ended his pursuit a third of the way to Rome, leaving the rest of it to the Thessalians. Now that the excitement of the battle was gone, the strange weakness he had felt in his tent that morning returned. He shivered painfully. His tunic was still damp beneath his corselet, but he could not tell for certain if that was blood or river water. He lifted his right arm experimentally. There was a new, sharper pain, cutting through the steady ache, but he did not think the wound had opened again.

  Hephaestion, returning with his own squadron of Companions, overtook the king well behind the former Roman position, riding slowly back toward the battlefield. Alexander sat his horse badly, slumped forward, body slack. The declining sun threw a humpbacked shadow across the grass. Seeing that, one of the troopers muttered a charm to avert the evil omen. Hephaestion, urging his tired horse up the slight incline to join his king, bit his lip to keep from echoing the man. The king was mercifully unaware of his shadow, and Hephaestion was careful to approach from the sunward side.

  “The Thessalians chased a few hundred of them to the very gates of Rome,” the cavalry commander said without preamble, “but Fabius brought off a good part of the rest in decent order. There was a great slaughter.”

  Alexander looked up and nodded, his face very pale. Hephaestion looked instinctively for a fresh wound. There was a long scratch along Alexander’s left arm, deep enough to draw blood, but nothing more serious. Hephaestion sighed, urging his horse closer, and reached for the wineskin slung at his knees. Alexander shook his head, and Hephaestion said, “It’s wine, not water. You need it.”

  The king made a face, but took the preferred wineskin. He took a cautious swallow, then another, and handed the skin back to Hephaestion. The cavalry commander took a long drink. The drink lay warm in his stomach, blurring the ache and fatigue of the fighting.

  The women were already moving on the battlefield when they returned. Some were looking for their men—though very few could have heard of a death so soon after the fighting ended—but more had come to strip at least the foreign dead. Too many Macedonian bodies littered the plain and both commanders exchanged a quick glance, wondering which of the Friends had fallen.

  “Let’s go,” Alexander said abruptly. Hephaestion looked up, startled, and the king said, “There’s nothing more to do here.”

  “To the camp, then?” Hephaestion asked.

  Alexander nodded but his attention was already elsewhere. “I sent you to the doctors an hour ago, Menestheus. Why are you still here?”

  There was a nervous shifting among the troopers of the king’s squadron, as though the horses themselves were shuffling their feet in embarrassment. A stocky figure detached himself from the rest, managing his rangy bay right-handed. His left arm, wrapped in a bloody rag, was slung across his body, bound to his corselet with a leather thong.

  “The battle wasn’t over, sire,” he protested. “I was needed.”

  Alexander shook his head but he was smiling. “What good is a half-squad leader who can’t hold a sword? You did well today, Menestheus, I don’t want to lose you. Will you go now, or must I send someone to escort you?”

  Menestheus ducked his head again. “I’ll go now, sire.” Without waiting for an answer, he wheeled his horse away, and set out at a trot for the camp.

  “Idiot,” Hephaestion said involuntarily, and Alexander nodded agreement.

  “Pantordanus, go with him, see he doesn’t kill himself on the way.”

  The trooper addressed grinned and sketched a salute, then wheeled his horse to follow the younger man. Alexander watched them out of sight, then produced a rather white-lipped smile. “Is there more wine, Hephaestion?”

  The cavalry commander offered the wineskin and the king drank deeply. A little color returned to his face, and he collected his reins with renewed assurance.

  It was not a long ride back to the campsite, but it took twice as long as usual to reach the king’s tent, pausing every half-stadion or so for Alexander to deal with various subcommanders. He stopped at the doctors’ tents as well, and stayed to speak with every wounded man still capable of speaking. The list of the dead was rising as well, as soldiers reported the deaths of friends and squadron mates. Already the Foot Companions could number two hundred dead, most of those from Meleager’s and Perdiccas’s brigades, and there would be more. Meleager himself was missing; though no one had found the body yet, his second-in-command reported grimly that he was sure the brigadier was dead. The Agrianians had brought in Pithon’s body, too, and nearly a hundred Paeonian bodies. Ariston, his good humor finally dimmed, rode with them, weeping softly. Alexander ordered the Thracians, who had suffered the least, to search along the river banks in the morning, in hopes of recovering more Macedonian bodies.

  By the time they reached the royal tent, Alexander had emptied the wineskin. He dismounted without grace and without assistance, tossing the reins to a page. Hephaestion followed him into the tent without being invited, and waved away the pages who came to take Alexander’s armor, loosening the pins himself. For a moment, Alexander didn’t seem to notice, but then he said, “Let the boys do it, I’m all right.”

  Hephaestion ignored him, pulling apart the breast and back pieces, and said to the nearest page, “Bring wine, and don’t bother mixing it.”

  “I’m all right,” Alexander said again, rather irritably.

  Hephaestion ignored him, and kept working at the fastenings of the armor. Alexander winced as the corselet was pulled away. His tunic was filthy with sweat and the river water, a few spots of dried blood showing above the wound.

  Hephaestion said, “Let me call Philip.”

  “Absolutely not,” the king said fiercely. “Gods below, he has work enough tonight. You can do it.”

  The cavalry commander shook his head, but had to admit the justice of the other’s argument. He sent the hovering page for fresh bandages, then shouted toward the inner room for someone to fetch a clean tunic. Bagoas brought one at once, and together he and Hephaestion eased away the filthy tunic.

  The wound had not bled much, was already nearly closed. When the page brought the fresh strips of linen, Hephaestion carefully rebandaged it, then poured a cup of neat wine and pressed it into his friend’s hand. Alexander accepted it without looking and drained the cup. Hephaestion refilled it, but the king shook his head.

  The three sat in silence for a long moment, and then the king shivered convulsi
vely. Bagoas vanished instantly into the inner chamber, to return a moment later with the king’s best cloak. Alexander accepted it with murmured thanks and the Persian hurried to build up the fires in the twin braziers. It was not that cold in the tent. Hephaestion eyed the king warily, but before he could say anything, the tent flap was pulled back, and one of the pages on guard duty said, “King Alexander?”

  The king looked up quickly, visibly shaking away exhaustion. “Enter.”

  The page pushed back the door flap just enough to admit his head, and said, “Beg pardon, sire, but General Ptolemy is here, with a Roman delegation.”

  Alexander grinned. “We’ve got them,” he said quietly. He drained the cup of wine, and said, “Admit them, by all means.”

  Hephaestion rose quickly, fumbling with his armor. It would be in bad taste to meet the Romans—who could only intend to acknowledge their defeat and ask for permission to collect their dead—in arms. He snapped off his greaves, then slipped loose the pins that fastened his own bell corselet. At the king’s nod, Bagoas moved to help him. With the Persian’s help, the cavalry commander wrestled awkwardly out of it at last. Bagoas bundled all the armor together and vanished into the bedchamber.

  Hephaestion reslung his swordbelt just as Ptolemy pushed through the door curtain. He was closely followed by four men muffled in heavy cloaks.

  Ptolemy said formally, “Alexander, these are the Roman consuls. They request an audience.”

  The king nodded, not moving from his chair. “Of course, consuls. Heiron!” A page appeared instantly. “Chairs for my guests.”

  The boy hastily dragged five more chairs and couches into place, forming a rough semi-circle in front of the king’s couch, then, without being told, mixed the wine.

  “Please be seated,” the king said. “What can I do for you, Fabius Caeso?”

  The consul took his time answering, methodically loosening his cloak, which had been pulled tight around his face, then carefully choosing the chair that stood directly opposite Alexander’s couch. His companions copied him, Cassius sitting cautiously at Fabius’s left, the smaller, stockier man taking the couch to the consul’s right. The fourth man took his place last of all, throwing back his torn cloak with an arrogant gesture that revealed the mail coat he still wore beneath it.