At the centre and on the left, up on a range of hills that dominated the plain, the Athenian forces were all lined up, with the Thebans immediately behind them. Their shields glinted as they reflected the light of the rising sun on its way up into the spring sky, partially filled with large white clouds. Out on the Thebans’ far right was the crimson splash of the Sacred Band.
To his right Philip had deployed two divisions of ‘shieldsmen’, the assault troops who three days previously had eliminated Chares’ army, directly under the King’s command. They took their name from their shields which were adorned with Argead stars in copper and silver.
At the centre, under the command of Parmenion and the Black, the twelve battalions of the phalanx were lined up in five rows forming a barrier of lances, an impenetrable wood of iron spearheads, staggered along an oblique line. On the left flank was the entire force of the Companion cavalry which terminated with the Vanguard, Alexander’s squadron.
‘I’ll attack first,’ said Philip, ‘and I will engage the Athenians. Then I’ll start moving back and if they follow me then you, Parmenion, will bring up a battalion of the phalanx into the breach, splitting the enemy forces into two, and then you’ll let the other six battalions loose. The Black will follow you with the rest of the army.
‘Then it’ll be your moment, Alexander: you will thrust the cavalry into the Theban right flank and your Vanguard will attack the Sacred Band. If you manage to break through, you know what has to be done.’
‘I know perfectly, Father: the phalanx is the anvil and the cavalry is the hammer.’
Philip held him to his breast for a moment and suddenly there came a vision of himself standing upright in the half-shadow of the Queen’s room in Pella as he held a newborn baby. ‘Be careful, my son,’ he said. ‘In battle the blows come from all directions.’
‘I’ll be careful, Father,’ replied Alexander. Then he jumped up onto Bucephalas and galloped past the massed battalions which were already arranged in battle formation until he reached his division. Philip followed him with his gaze for a while, then he turned to his field adjutant: ‘My shield,’ he said.
‘But, Sire . . .’
‘My shield,’ he repeated, peremptorily.
The field adjutant helped him slip his arm through the straps of the shield, the only one to carry the Argead star in pure gold.
From the top of the hills there came the sharp sound of trumpets and immediately afterwards the continuous music of the whistles, taking its rhythm from the roll of the drums, and all of this accompanied the soldiers on their march. The movement of the front line as it came down reflected the sun in a thousand flashes of fire and the heavy strides of the infantry clad in their iron armour sent a sinister rumble through the valley.
On the plain the phalanx stood still and silent. The horses out on the extreme left snorted and shook their heads, their bronze bits clattering.
The Vanguard was already lined up in a wedge and Alexander took position as first horseman before all the others, keeping his eyes fixed on the right flank of the enemy lines, the invincible Sacred Band. Bucephalas was unsettled now – raking the ground with his front hooves, snorting loudly through his nostrils, lashing his flanks with his tail.
A cavalryman reached Philip just as he was about to give the signal to attack. ‘Sire,’ he shouted as he jumped to the ground from his mount, ‘Demosthenes has taken up position in the Athenian infantry lines.’
‘I don’t want him killed,’ the King said. ‘Pass this order to all my soldiers.’
He turned round to look at his shieldsmen: faces dripping with sweat under the visors of their helmets, eyes staring fixedly at the glinting of the enemy’s weapons, limbs tight in the muscle-clenched wait for the attack. This was the moment when they each contemplated death, the moment in which the desire to live was stronger than any other thing. It was the moment in which they had to free themselves from anxiety’s grip and throw themselves into the assault.
Philip raised his sword, gave his war cry and his men followed him, shouting like a horde of wild beasts, driving all fears from their chests, anxious only to throw themselves into the turmoil, into the reel of battle, forgetting everything, even themselves.
They advanced at a run while the officers shouted at them to keep in step, to maintain order in the lines so as to meet the clash compact and steadfast.
They were very close now and the Athenians continued to march in time, shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, their spears extended forwards, pushed on by the continuous, sharp sound of the whistles, by the obsessive roll of the drums, shouting, at each stride:
Alalalài!
The crash of the impact exploded like a bronze thunderclap throughout the valley: it rolled over the hillsides and penetrated the sky itself, pushed up on high by the shouting of twenty thousand soldiers caught up in the fury of battle.
Philip, instantly recognizable by means of his gold star, fought in the front line with indefatigable passion, striking out with his sword and his shield. He was flanked by two giant Thracians armed with double-edged axes, awe-inspiring on account of the bristly red hair on their heads, the hair all over their bodies and the tattoos covering their faces, their arms and their chests.
The Athenian front wavered under the fury of the assault, but a high-pitched, penetrating sound like the cry of a hawk pushed them onward, gave them heart: it was the voice of Demosthenes, inciting them above the music of the whistles and the drums, shouting, ‘Athenians! Be brave! Fight, men! For your freedom! For your women and for your children! Send the tyrant back where he belongs!’
The fighting became even more violent and many soldiers in the two sets of lines fell, but Philip had given orders that no one was to stop and loot the bodies until the battle was over. Everywhere the search was on for a breach to thrust and wound, to wield and swing the metal in thinning out the enemy masses.
The front-line infantrymen’s shields were covered in blood now, dripping copiously from the edges to the soil which was already slippery and littered with dying bodies – for every man who fell, a soldier from the line behind would simply move forwards to take his place and keep the battle going.
Suddenly, on a signal from Philip, the trumpeter sounded a command and the two battalions of shieldsmen started retreating, leaving their dead and their wounded where they lay in the field. They gave way slowly, keeping their shields high, exchanging blow for blow with their spears and their swords.
On seeing their enemy draw back, the Athenians, at an advantage because of their more favourable position, doubled their efforts and goaded one another on with more shouting; the foot soldiers in the second and third lines pushed their companions ahead with the aid of their shields.
Before attacking, Philip had issued his orders and when the lines of the shieldsmen, moving backwards, reached the level of the rocky outcrop which stood at some one hundred paces towards the left, they turned and started running.
At that point the Athenians, caught up in the fury of combat, drunk on the shouting, the blood and the clangour of arms, excited at the prospect of victory which now seemed to be firmly in their grasp, set off chasing their enemies with every intention of annihilating them. Their commander, Stratocles, rather than trying to have them keep ranks, shouted at the top of his voice telling them to chase their enemies all the way back to Macedon.
More trumpets sounded off to the left and an enormous drum, hung between two carriages, sent out its thunderous voice all across the vast plain. Parmenion gave the signal and the twelve battalions of the phalanx began advancing together in a slow march, staggered along an oblique line.
The Thebans too, at that sight, threw themselves into an attack in tight-knit ranks, bearing before them their heavy ash-wood spears, but soon the leading Macedonian battalion wedged itself between the Athenian front line, disorderly now because of their mad dash to catch the shieldsmen, and the extreme left flank of the Theban lines.
Philip abandoned his shi
eld, dented and dirty with blood, to his attendant before jumping onto his horse and galloping off to Parmenion. The General was staring fixedly and anxiously at the Sacred Band which was still marching in step, apparently indifferent to everything that was going on – inexorable, bristling with iron spearheads.
In the centre the first Macedonian battalion which was advancing uphill was already struggling with the incline and when a division of Theban infantry rushed to close the breach, the pezhetairoi lowered their pikes and mowed down their counterparts in the head-on clash, without any physical contact. Then they pushed on even further, their strides following in time to the thunderous rumble of the huge drum that guided them from the plain.
And behind came the others, lined up obliquely, up to the third line bearing their sarissae lowered, while the foot soldiers in the rear guard carried them upright, rising and falling in their rhythmic march like ears of grain in the wind. And the threatening clanking of metal weapons that accompanied the heavy marching made its way to the ears of the enemy as they came down on the other side, and to them it sounded like an omen, like the sound of death.
‘Now,’ the King gave the order to his General, and Parmenion used a polished shield to send a signal to Alexander – three flashes to unleash the cavalry and give free rein to the assault of the Vanguard.
The Prince held his spear firmly and shouted, ‘Three waves, men!’ And then, even louder, ‘Phobos kái Deimos!’ as he dug his heels into Bucephalas’ sides. The stallion set off at a gallop across the field which by now was full of shouting and of dead bodies, black as a fury from hell, carrying its rider encased in his shining armour, his high crest blowing in the wind.
The Vanguard, its ranks closed, kept close behind him; the chargers, excited by Bucephalas’ haste, galloped on in response to the incitement of their horsemen and the piercing cry of the trumpets.
The Sacred Band closed ranks and its men planted the shafts of their spears in the soil, directing the iron heads at the approaching charge. But as soon as it was within range, Alexander’s squadron let fly a swarm of javelins just before performing an about turn; immediately there came the second wave and then the third before the first came once more. Many of the Theban soldiers were forced to abandon their shields which were now full of enemy javelins and to fight without protection. Alexander then had the Vanguard form itself into a wedge shape once more and he took up position at its head before guiding them straight against the enemy lines, spurring Bucephalas on among the ranks of the Sacred Band, striking out left and right with his spear and then, when he had abandoned his shield, with his sword as well.
Hephaestion provided cover on the flank, lifting up his shield to protect Alexander, his own men close behind him.
For every warrior of the Sacred Band who fell, another appeared to take his place, like a body suddenly growing new limbs, closing up the wall of shields and responding, blow by blow, with inexhaustible energy, with dauntless, tenacious courage.
Alexander pulled back and called to Hephaestion: ‘Lead your men over to that side, open a breach and then attack the Theban centre from behind. Leave the Sacred Band to me!’
Hephaestion obeyed and advanced with Perdiccas, Seleucus, Philotas, Lysimachus, Craterus and Leonnatus, wedging their cavalry between the Sacred Band and the rest of the Theban troops. Then they performed a wide turn, just as they had done on the parade ground for Alexander, and they caught the enemy from behind, pushing them towards the forest of spikes of the phalanx which was still advancing relentlessly.
Before the sun reached its zenith the battle was won. Alexander came to Parmenion with his sword in hand and his armour still covered in blood. Even Bucephalas’ chest and flanks were red.
‘The Sacred Band is no more.’
‘Victory on all fronts!’ exclaimed Parmenion.
‘Where is the King?’ asked Alexander.
Parmenion turned towards the plain which was still veiled in the thick dust raised by the battle and he pointed to a lone man who despite a limp was dancing like a lunatic through a multitude of corpses.
‘There he is,’ he said.
25
TWO THOUSAND ATHENIANS fell in the battle of Chaeronaea and many others were taken prisoner. Among these was the orator Demades who was brought before the King still wearing his armour and bleeding from a wound to his arm. Demosthenes had managed to flee through the passes that led to the south towards Lebadeia and Plataea.
But the heaviest losses were inflicted on the Thebans and their Achaean allies at the centre of the battlefield. Alexander’s cavalry, after wiping out the Sacred Band, caught the central troops from behind and forced them onto the phalanx’s barrier of iron spikes, resulting in a massacre.
Philip’s rage was directed especially towards those Thebans he felt had betrayed him. He sold the prisoners as slaves and refused to hand over the bodies of their dead for burial. It was Alexander who made him see reason.
‘Father, you yourself once told me to show clemency whenever possible,’ he pointed out after the frenzy of the victory had subsided. ‘Even Achilles returned Hector’s body to the old King Priam after his tearful pleas. These men fought like lions and gave their lives for their city. They deserve respect. Tell me what possible advantage there is in treating the dead in this way.’
Philip did not reply, but it was clear that his son’s words had had some effect.
‘And there’s a prisoner, an Athenian officer out there who wants to speak to you.’
‘Not now!’ roared Philip.
‘He says that if you refuse to see him he will let himself bleed to death.’
‘Fine! That’ll be one less to worry about.’
‘As you wish. I’ll take care of it then.’
He went out and called for two shieldsmen: ‘Take this man to my tent and call for a surgeon.’
The soldiers carried out their orders and the Athenian was laid down on a makeshift bed before being undressed and washed.
One of the shieldsmen soon came back to the tent with bad news: ‘Sire, the surgeons are all busy with our soldiers, trying to save the most seriously wounded, but if you issue specific orders they will come.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ replied the Prince. ‘I will take care of it. Bring me a knife, a needle and thread, and heat some water and bring some clean bandages.’ The men looked at him in amazement, the patient even more so.
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to make do,’ Alexander said to him. ‘I can’t let a Macedonian soldier die to save one of the enemy.’
Callisthenes came in just then and saw the heir to the throne of Macedon with an apron tied round his waist, washing his hands.
‘But what . . .’
‘Let’s keep this to ourselves, shall we? But since you also attended Aristotle’s anatomy classes, you can help me. Wash the wound with wine and vinegar and then get the needle and thread ready . . . I can’t see for the sweat in my eyes.’
Callisthenes got to work briskly and the Prince began by inspecting the wound: ‘Pass me the scissors – it’s a ragged cut.’
‘Here you are.’
‘What’s your name?’ Alexander asked the prisoner.
‘Demades.’
Callisthenes’ eyes widened. ‘But this is the famous orator,’ he whispered into his friend’s ear. Alexander, however, did not seem the least bit startled by the revelation.
Demades could not help but grimace as the make-do surgeon cut into his flesh, and then asked for the needle and thread. Alexander held the needle in the flame of the lamp before starting to sew, while Callisthenes held the edges of the wound together.
‘Tell me about Demosthenes,’ the Prince asked in the meantime.
‘He . . . he is a patriot,’ replied Demades through clenched teeth, ‘but we see things differently.’
‘In what sense exactly? Put your finger here,’ he added, indicating the point, and Callisthenes, his assistant surgeon, obediently put his finger on the thread that now had to be kno
tted.
‘In the sense . . .’ the patient started to explain before holding his breath, ‘. . . in the sense that I was against going to war alongside the Thebans and I said so publicly.’ He let out a deep sigh of relief as Alexander finished tying the knot.
‘It’s true,’ whispered Callisthenes. ‘I have copies of his speeches.’
‘I’ve finished,’ said the Prince. ‘We can bandage it now.’ Then, turning to Callisthenes, ‘Have a real physician see him tomorrow. If the wound should swell up and become infected it’ll have to be drained and it’s best if a real surgeon takes care of that.’
‘How can I thank you?’ asked Demades, lifting himself up on the camp bed.
‘You may thank my teacher, Aristotle, for it was he who taught me these things. But as far as I understand you Athenians did not go out of your way to keep him with you.’
‘Aristotle left because of an internal problem in the Academy . . . it was nothing to do with the city itself.’
‘Listen. Can the assembled army pass a motion here and now granting you a political position?’
‘Yes . . . in theory. There are probably more people eligible to vote here than there are in Athens at the moment.’
‘Speak with them then and make sure you are the representative charged with negotiating peace terms with the King.’
‘Are you serious?’ Demades asked in amazement as he got dressed.
‘You may take clean clothes from my chest. As far as the rest is concerned, I’ll speak with my father. Callisthenes will find you somewhere to sleep.’
‘Thank you . . . I . . .’ Demades only just had time to stutter these words because Alexander had already left.
He went to his father’s tent and found Philip sitting with Parmenion, Cleitus the Black and some battalion commanders, eating his supper.
‘Hungry?’ the King asked him. ‘There’s some partridge.’
‘There are thousands of them,’ Parmenion explained, ‘they take to the air off Lake Kopais in the morning and then spend the day rooting for food along the riverbanks.’
Child of a Dream Page 17