A Captain of Thebes

by Mark G McLaughlin

  “You mean like a phalanx, with those 18-foot-long pikes of theirs…”

  “Yes, Ari, or anything else the light troops can’t handle…”

  “Well, Dimitrios, I suppose it had to come to this eventually. But even if Alexander is alive, and even if he has brought the whole of his father’s army, what will it avail him?” chortled Aristophanes confidently. “All Greece is with us! I hear Athens is on the march!”

  Captain Dimitrios only sighed more deeply. Rising from his stool, he put a big-brotherly like hand on Aristophanes’shoulder, looked his much younger comrade in arms straight in the eye, and dissuaded him of his illusions.

  “Athens is not coming.”

  “What! But Demosthenes promised…”

  “Well, promises are easy, and cheap. A few wagon loads of spears and helmets, some money too – that is all that Athens has sent. But what else could we expect? No love lost between our two cities. But of course those wagons were accompanied by yet more stirring words of glory and praise, exhortations about us standing up for ‘liberty’, and 'autonomy’, and ‘democracy’, and all other manner of tripe from that silver-tongued-liar Demosthenes.”

  “But surely the other cities…”

  “No,” said the captain, shaking his head. “No other cities are coming to our aid. Even our neighbors have failed us – and worse, the Plateans and Phoceans have joined up with Alexander. Seems they want to settle some very old scores, back from the days of the Persian wars, when our ancestors took money from the Medes, stood with the Great King and burned Plateai to the ground. You would think that after a century and a half they would forget...”

  “I guess not,” interrupted Aristophanes. “It appears that there are many in Greece who have not forgotten – or forgiven us – for the folly of our forefathers.”

  “Sadly, so it seems.”

  “Then we are truly alone?” gulped Aristophanes.

  “Well, no” laughed the Theban captain, “not quite alone. We’ve got plenty of company coming – unfortunately they’re coming with Alexander.”

  4

  The Enclosure of Iolaos

  On the Road to Thebes

  The Theban cavalry came upon the Macedonian scouts at a place known to locals as the Enclosure of Iolaos, not far from Onchestos on the shores of Lake Copais.

  Men of Thrace, these scouts or prodromoi as they were called for their posting at the head or rather in advance of the army as it marched, were little better than freebooters. Wild men of the frontiers, they were led by equally wild Macedonian officers drawn from stake holdings on the border of those untamed lands. To these hard men, loot and pillage were things done not just for sport or spite, but also to supplement their pay. Living off the land, they roamed like a wild, angry herd, half-men, half-beasts, the centaurs of Alexander's army. They ranged far, and wide, and fast, untethered and independent of command – or of conscience.

  It was while in the process of doing what came naturally to these scouts that the Theban horse came crashing down upon them – scattering the Thracians as if they were wooden toys kicked about by some angered toddler. Little did the Thebans know that scattering came natural for the prodromoi – for these men were bred to scout, and raid, and run away, not fight. For that job, especially in Alexander's army, there were many, many others whose training, skill, and demeanor made them better suited for drawing blood.

  The Theban horsemen, however, saw this overhasty flight of the Thracian scouts as something quite different. They cheered their own temerity and jeered at the fleeing Thracians, seeing in their hasty retreat a reaffirmation of the puffery propaganda circulating the markets and taverns as to the cowardice of the Macedonians. It was well known, they told themselves, of how under the boy king these men of the north had lost that courage and taste for battle that Philip had so drilled into them.

  Thus it came to pass that as the Theban horse were celebrating their easy success, they too in turn were hit unawares – and hit hard.

  First to slam into the Thebans was an ilai, or squadron, of Pharsalians. This force of some 150 veteran horsemen from Thessaly oft served as personal bodyguard to Parmenion, the oldest, wisest, most cautious yet also most combatively stubborn of Philip’s old generals. The Pharsalians cut through the Thebans and came through the other side. As they reigned up, reformed, and made ready for a second pass, two other squadrons hit the Theban horse, one from their right, the other from their left.

  The fourth and final squadron of the Thessalian regiment dealt the killing blow, banging head-on into the disorganized mass of Thebans. As the Thebans had scattered the Thracian scouts, so now were the Thebans themselves broken apart. But while the Thracians had gathered themselves back together, the Thebans could not. Their confidence as shattered as their formation, gripped by fear, and with enemy horsemen all around them, the Theban cavalry did not merely cease to be an effective fighting force – they simply ceased to be at all.

  The erasure of their cavalry screen left the Theban javelinmen, and the slingers and archers who had come up at a run behind them, in a difficult situation. Some of the more enterprising and more eager of these skirmishers had run past the Macedonian horse to pick away at the thick columns of enemy infantry clogging the roads. Others had wandered even a bit farther afield, to snipe at the drovers and drivers of the Macedonian supply train. Their cavalry shield gone, however, these plucky young fellows had little choice other than to fall back. Unlike their mounted comrades they kept together. Like the Thracian centaurs, the Theban light infantry knew how to scatter with purpose. These farmboys, goatherds, and street rats knew how to use cover to their benefit so they could live to fight another day.

  It was while scurrying back across the fields and through the woods toward home that the lightly armed troops descended upon, swarmed about, and eventually trotted past two companies of hoplites, the second of which fell under the command of Captain Dimitrios.

  “What do you suppose spooked the javelinmen so?” Aristophanes asked of his captain. “Surely they’re not running away from a few scouts?”

  “Well, friend,” jibed a ranker, “maybe we had better catch one of those boys and ask him, although you’ll not outrun him encased in armor as we are. Best try and trip one up with your spear, or knock one down as he runs by!”

  Aristophanes, taking the suggestion to heart, did just that, and down tumbled a slinger, the hoplites’ spear tangled up in his legs.

  “What the hell did you do that for, you damned idiot!” shouted the fallen skirmisher, rubbing his leg where he’d hit the spear shaft hardest. “We’re on the same side, or did you think I was some Macedonian pig-farmer!”

  “Sorry, friend,” Aristophanes said apologetically, a difficult thing to do with a straight face considering the laughter and jeering of the file of spearmen behind him. “My captain just wanted to get one of you fellows to stop, and to tell him why you’re running away – and from whom?”

  “From the damned Macedonians, that’s who!” the youngster spat back testily as he rose up and dusted himself off. “Hundreds of them, and that’s just the cavalry. There’s thousands more behind them, down the road just a piece by the enclosure. The whole damn Macedonian army, pikes and all!”

  “What?” interrupted Dimitrios, coming over to examine the scuffle. “What do you mean? Where’s our cavalry? They’re supposed to be out here protecting you!”

  “Well, damn poor job they did of that, thank you very much,” quipped the skirmisher, standing up and managing to walk off a limp. “They got chased off pretty quick by the Macedonians. Hardly put up a fight at all, if you ask me, least not from where I was standing. No sir, damn rich boys on their fancy horses – they took off at the first charge!”

  As if on cue, the sound of hoofbeats – scores of them – drowned out their conversation. A cloud of panicked Theban cavalry came streaming by. They were followed close at heel by the Thessalians, many hurling insults and javelins or screaming war cries and slashing out at the fri
ghtened and defenseless Theban horsemen.

  “Form phalanx! Form phalanx!” shouted Dimitrios, hurrying to put his men into order. “Prepare to receive cavalry!”

  Unfortunately for the company ahead of them on the road, their captain was not as quick to react as Dimitrios. Caught in column of march, gear wrapped about or dangling from their shouldered spears, their shields still in the carts that followed them, the first company fell to pieces. The luckier of its members raced off to follow the retiring skirmishers and fleeing cavalry. Others were skewered or trampled as they broke ranks before the enemy horsemen, whose merciless laughter grew louder with every poor soul they stabbed, lassoed, trampled or decapitated.

  Some few of the first company managed to form up and fall in behind Dimitrios and his men. Like the soldiers of the second company, those that had kept their weapons in turn firmly planted the iron butts of their spears in the ground, the sharp points angled forward, and set a booted foot on the base. Even the most rash and excited of the pursuing Thessalians caught themselves up short of that bristling porcupine – or rather, their horses did it for them. Smarter and less prone to excitement than their riders, the warhorses of Thessaly knew better than to impale themselves on a hedge of iron spearpoints.

  But the Thessalians did not run away – they merely pulled back, began to reorganize and to move about the flanks and rear, looking for that tender spot to charge home.

  “Orb! Form orb!” shouted Dimitrios, giving the order for all-around defense. Within minutes, the arrow-straight line of spearmen transformed into a hollow circle, spears pointing out in every direction, safe and protected from attack from any quarter – but also now completely incapable of movement in any direction. If the company of hoplites felt invulnerable to attack by cavalry, it was also now entirely immobilized – trapped as surely as if it had fallen into a pit.

  “What do we do now, Dimitrios,” asked Aristophanes a bit nervously. “We can’t go forward, we can’t go back – they’ve got us surrounded.”

  “Aye,” added another soldier. “They’ve got us penned in. Only a matter of time before they bring up their slingers and archers, then the javelin-throwers. Whittle us down, pick us off – and then they’ll bring in the pikemen to finish us off.”

  “Quiet!” barked Dimitrios. “Quiet in the ranks! There’ll be time enough for talk later on in the barracks, or the tavern. Hold your tongue and save your breath!” shouted the captain, who then mumbled “you’ll need it all, and soon.”

  For hours, or what seemed like hours, the stalemate persisted. The Theban band, its farmers and tradesmen wearing the battered armor of their fathers or of their own earlier campaigns, were hardly a frightening or uniform sight. Their spears varied greatly in length and thickness. Some wore bronze greaves on their shins and sturdy hob-nailed boots on their feet. Others wore only sandals, and while some had fitted bronze or leather armor, others had but thickly padded linen vests, if that about their chests. Officers like Dimitrios had bright, tall plumes adorning solid bronze helmets that protected the head, nose, neck, and cheeks, while others had what appeared to be nothing more than beaten metal chamberpots pushed down about their ears.

  All but those who escaped the decimation of the first company, however, had shields – the great, round, wood, and leather, and bronze hoplons from which their hoplites ancestors had drawn their name. Others carried the older, infinity-shaped version of that shield, preferring its cut-out sides and length to the more modern form. Many bore the symbol of the club that the demi-god Hercules had wielded, for it was Hercules who had married the Theban princess Megara and so blessed their city (before he was made mad by the gods and slaughtered Megara and their children, but that was another story). Others had the heads of animals, the likeness of laughing men or some symbol of their profession, guild or family painted on their shields. The only thing that was uniform about them was that each man held his shield to protect the man to his right – and would give their own life before putting their shieldmate at risk.

  The Thessalian horse knew what these men could do, and were in no hurry to put the Thebans to the test. The cavalry formed into wedges, formations pioneered by Alexander to break into enemy lines, but kept back. Ever watchful, ever threatening, they kept silent watch over their prey. Even their horses refrained from neighing overmuch. Content to hold the Theban band where it stood, the Thessalians waited for their support troops to come up. In the meantime, a few Thracian horsemen trotted about to hurl the odd javelin or two at the Theban infantry. They took turns to prick, and whittle, and taunt, and snipe away at the hedgehog formation, just as Aristophanes’ comrade had predicted.

  As mid-day dragged to late afternoon, the Macedonian skirmishers made their appearance. Among them were the corps of archers, the toxotes, their long bows normally of little note to a solid shield wall, but the Thebans were not arrayed to face archers, but cavalry. Shields facing out all around, many men had their backs and heads exposed to plunging fire from the bowmen. Some men in the center raised their shields above their heads, but others in front dared not, lest the cavalry charge in upon them.

  Under steady, constant fire from all directions, the company could not help but take losses. A man down with an arrow in his neck here, a javelin in his back there, or struck by a bullet from a slinger as he tried to cover a fallen comrade with his own body, the orb closed in upon itself, ever shrinking. After a few hours of this, fully half of the company were down, while many of those still standing did so only with great difficulty, holding their spot in the ranks despite their wounds. Aristophanes was among those walking wounded, a strip torn from his cloak now a makeshift tourniquet to stop the flow of blood from where his leg had been pierced by an arrow.

  The Thebans were tired beyond exhaustion, their arms aching from grasping their long spears, their necks and shoulders sore from the straps of their heavy shields. Baked in their armor by the mid-day sun, choked by the dust kicked up by the circling cavalry, they badly needed rest but could take none. Whenever a man let his shield slip even a fraction, one of the circling cavalrymen would dash forward and hurl a missile into the ranks.

  The enemy horsemen and light troops, however, had no intention of closing in for the kill. Their job was to keep the Thebans penned in, softening them up for the death blow by the heavy infantry. The Thebans did not have to wait overlong for their coming. As the afternoon drew on, in the distance could be seen the gleaming speartips of the Macedonian pikemen – the true native Macedonians of an army gleamed from many other lands.

  For Dimitrios and Aristophanes, it was no longer a matter of life or death – but of how death would come.

  “Well, old friend,” asked Aristophanes, struggling to remain on his feet and barely holding back the quiver in his very dry throat, “what now? Do we form up and charge and take a few of them down with us, or do we stay here while the arrows rain down, the pikes crash into us and the cavalry ride down the rest?”

  “Quiet! Ari!” mumbled Dimitrios. “I’m thinking.”

  “Well, Captain, think quick. I don’t think you have much time to debate the question. Any minute now…”

  A trumpet blare cracked the air, loud as thunder and as unexpected. Again came a blast of music – a single brash note meant as a call to attention. Gain the attention of the hoplites it did, many turning around or looking over their shoulder to see what it was all about. From behind the ranks of Thessalian cavalry rode a single figure, two tall, black and red feathers rising high from his helmet. Despite the bright armor and obvious richness of his cloak, it was not the rider, however, that fixed the gaze of the soldiers. It was the horse he rode.

  And what a horse. It was a massive monster of a horse, larger than any mount the Thebans had ever seen. Its coat was as dark as midnight, blacker than a starless night sky. Solid and unbroken was that blackness – save for a white mark on the forehead, a mark reminiscent of a star or an oxhead. Then there were the eyes. The piercing steady eyes, and one of them – blu
e? Never had men of Thebes seen such a horse. The beast came closer and closer, all the while showing no fear, no hesitation, as it kept prancing on steadily, only to stop but a whisper’s breadth from the hedge of spears.

  “Men of Thebes!” proclaimed the rider, who only by so speaking broke the trancelike attention the hoplites had focused on the horse. “Men of Thebes! I salute your steadfastness, your courage! And for that I would spare your lives this day – and the lives of your citizens, if you would but hear me and take a message back to your leaders!”

  A grumbling arose from the Theban ranks. “Who are you, fellow, to address us in such a manner,” demanded Dimitrios.

  “I am my father’s son. King after his passing by right of succession. Hegemon of all Greece by agreement of the League of Corinth. Commander of the army by acclamation. I,” he paused briefly, drawing in a big breath before continuing, “am Alexander.”

  5

  The Enclosure of Iolaos

  Later that same day

  The appearance before them of a man they had been told was most assuredly quite dead sent a collective shiver through the otherwise steadfast ranks of Theban soldiers. This was no ghost addressing them, yet he might as well have been a hoary specter breathing frozen mist, skewering them with the icy gaze of cold, dead eyes. What a rain of arrows, a storm of javelins and a hailstorm of stones could not do, this boy king did: shook the armored men to their core.

  “I am Alexander, King of Macedonia, Hegemon of the League of Corinth, Strategos of all Greece and, by right of conquest, your sovereign lord and master,” announced the young warrior king, his voice loud, measured yet with a strong hint of chastisement to come quite evident. “All of that am I to you, Thebans,” said Alexander strongly, “yet here you stand before me, armored head to foot, bearing shield and spear, the blood of my soldiers and their commanders barely dry upon your hands. Pray, Thebans,” added Alexander quizzically, “what grievous offense have I given to cause you to abuse me so?”