Aristaenos rode up at the head of the Achaean cavalry, now almost three hundred strong.
‘Philopoemen told me to take the cavalry all the way to the left,’ he said. ‘I don’t see it. I should cover the Gortynians. Was that Nabis, riding away?’
Alexanor looked at the younger man. ‘Where did he tell you to go?’
‘Past the archers. But now I think …’
Alexanor nodded. ‘I suspect you should do what he said,’ he put in, as kindly as possible.
Aristaenos had a tendency to look for solutions when there was no problem to be found.
‘What if Nabis comes back with cavalry while the Gortynians still have all their baggage handlers in the ranks?’ he said. ‘Besides, what do you know about war, anyway? Fill my canteen, will you?’ he asked, reaching down to hand Alexanor a beautiful bronze canteen.
Alexanor shrugged. ‘If the strategos orders you to the left of the line,’ he said.
‘I’m not even sure that Philopoemen can give me orders,’ Aristaenos said. ‘After all, I’m the commander of the Achaean cavalry. I’m not even a member of the League of Crete.’
‘This seems an odd moment to refuse his orders.’
Aristaenos shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know everything. He was ordered to stay in the reserve at Sellasia and look what he did! I was there. Everyone praised him for it.’
And that’s what you crave, don’t you? Alexanor thought.
‘Telemnastos was afraid of being outflanked,’ Alexanor said.
‘He was, was he?’ Aristaenos shook his head. ‘No, from this hill I can see everything.’
He turned and ordered the Achaeans to dismount. They were a curious mix of men, some young idealists and adventurers, proud to serve the Achaean League, excited to be ‘overseas’ on Crete instead of home in Arkadia, but for every one of these men, there were two less willing – farmers and labourers for whom ‘service with the League’ was preferable to arrest for debt, or other crimes. Many were expert horsemen, but a few were very poor; the unit had been sent as peltastoi and thorakatoi, or armoured spearmen, and only mounted on Crete itself.
Opposite them, a phalanx was forming. A squadron of cavalrymen passed behind the new phalanx – hundreds of men, their horses moving quickly, raising dust punctuated only by their spear points glittering in the now hot sun.
Alexanor thought his horse was better. He nodded to Aristaenos.
‘I’m off to find my hospital,’ he said. ‘I think you’d be better off where the strategos posted you.’
Aristaenos smiled. ‘So you keep saying,’ he agreed.
Alexanor walked up the slope to the farm road near the crest. The Gortynians were all in their ranks, although not yet closed; the Polyrrhenian phalanx was forming from left to right. Three thousand men in a dozen ranks would only take up three or four hundred paces of frontage, but it took time. The enemy phalanx opposite had started later, but manoeuvring on the flat plain, coming out of a camp with interior lines, the enemy was forming twice as fast.
Alexanor mounted and rode back, past the last of the Polyrrhenians. Behind them were Periander and his Boeotians, and in among them the victorious psiloi, hundreds of them, far outnumbering the Attic mercenaries. And there was Philopoemen, giving orders. Leon and the priests and assistants from the sanctuary at Lentas were just coming by, along with Arkas and Philopoemen’s household, leading a dozen sheep.
‘There’s a spring of fresh water about halfway up the hill,’ Alexanor said, pointing to the green trees around the spring.
‘I see it,’ Leon said.
Indeed, the little stand of bright green, oaks and even grass, amid the golden brown of late summer on Crete, made the spring tolerably obvious.
‘Let’s put the hospital there,’ Alexanor said.
Leon smiled at him, the look of a man who didn’t really need to be told the obvious.
He nodded at the sheep. ‘He must be the last man in the Hellenic world who actually plans to sacrifice to the gods before battle.’
‘That’s Philopoemen,’ Alexanor agreed. ‘I’ll be with you …’
Leon shook his head. ‘If he falls dead, we’re done,’ he said, looking at the Achaean. ‘You stay with him. I’ll run the aid station.’
Alexanor wanted to protest, but he also wanted to stay with Philopoemen.
Leon shook his head. ‘I’m afraid even to look at him. His face is almost grey.’
‘His wound is leaking,’ Alexanor confessed.
‘Apollo, now?’ Leon closed his eyes, and then opened them. ‘I’ll pray. Stay with him.’
‘I’ll pray, too,’ Alexanor said. ‘I don’t think there’s a human, medical solution.’
‘Your line isn’t straight,’ Alexanor hoped his forced cheerfulness wasn’t too apparent.
Philopoemen turned and looked back past the priest.
The Allied line was indeed angled. On the right, the Boeotian mercenaries under Periander were quite far from the enemy line, tucked well back in the little valley between the big ridge and the lower hill to the west.
When Alexanor looked back over his shoulder, he could just see the federal archers, well advanced, the Lyttians stepped back on the eastern flanks of the low hill, the Gortynians and Polyrrhenians stepped back further still.
‘It’s an echelon,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Alexander did it. So did Epaminondas.’
He looked back at the huddle of Boeotians and psiloi on their right. Beyond them, back on the big ridge, was Dinaeos with the mercenary cavalry, and a long tail of dust behind them indicating the baggage.
‘Aristaenos is between the Gortynians and the Polyrrhenians,’ Alexanor said.
‘What?’ Philopoemen shook his head. ‘Where?’
‘On the hillside. There. Where the two grain fields come together.’ Alexanor looked around. ‘I think he has some notion of having an effect on the battle and being a hero.’
‘Aristaenos is unlikely …’ Philopoemen shook his head. ‘He wants to be independent. He’s just not ready.’ He grinned. ‘I may not be ready myself. Look, there’s Nabis.’
A little below them, on the plain of Gortyna, Nabis had almost formed his army. It was formed perpendicular to his camp.
On his right, which was Alexanor’s left, he had a body of cavalrymen with brightly polished bronze helmets and breastplates that flashed gold in the sun. Next to them was the phalanx, and it was not broken into different regional blocks. Instead, it stood in a single block of five hundred files, all in the Macedonian style, with small, rimless shields the size of a man’s straw hat, and sarissae, long pikes.
Next in line was another huge phalanx, although this one was neither so deep nor so well-armed.
‘Who are they?’ Alexanor asked. The phalanx in question seemed to ebb and flow.
‘That’s the phalanx of Knossos,’ Philopoemen said with some satisfaction. ‘They aren’t even sure they want to be here. After all, the Presbyteroi have taken away their citizen rights. How well would you fight?’
Next, almost directly across from Alexanor’s position, was a loose line of men who also glittered with armour.
‘Illyrians,’ Philopoemen said. ‘And next to them, Thracians. Very slow to form, which is good for us, because Nabis has half as many men again as we have.’
He watched for a little while.
‘He’s putting all the cavalry at the right of his line,’ he said. ‘A big, strong, Spartan alignment, just as he demonstrated yesterday.’ Philopoemen began riding towards Aristaenos. ‘All his best troops on the right – Aetolian cavalry and his mercenary phalanx. But he’s moved the Thracians. Yesterday they were also on the right.’
He turned and looked under his hand.
‘When will you attack?’ Alexanor asked.
Philopoemen wasn’t watching the enemy. He was watching Periander’s men. His file leaders were pushing the psiloi into ranks behind the well-armoured Attic mercenaries, but the whole was still a confused mess. Opposite them, the Illyrians were
pounding their shields with their spears and chanting. But here, the enemy was curiously far away. As Nabis had formed straight across the side of his camp, along a road that might have been laid out by a craftsman’s ruler, his right was much closer to Philopoemen’s left than his own left, which was several stades from Philopoemen’s angled line.
‘I think Lykortas’ story about a traitor in the Thracians has indeed rattled his cage,’ Philopoemen concluded. ‘Or the Thracians would still be in the position of trust, on the right.’ He turned his horse and began to trot.
‘You put Periander in the position of trust,’ Alexanor called, rising into the trot.
‘I put my best on the left, facing his best.’ Philopoemen looked back at Periander. ‘As to attacking, it’s Nabis who will attack.’
‘Up this hill?’ Alexanor shook his head, his thighs burning. ‘Why would he do that?’
Philopoemen rode over to Aristaenos. ‘Good morning,’ he called out.
Aristaenos had dismounted. ‘I’m here because it’s the best place,’ he said without preamble. ‘From here, I can—’
‘I need you to go and face the Aetolians,’ Philopoemen said. ‘Only you can do it. Your men have won a dozen skirmishes with them. I need you to cover the eastern flank of the Lyttians. If the enemy phalanx pushes them back too far, our whole line will crack.’
Aristaenos shook his head. ‘No, what I think we need to do is get into the seam between his two phalanxes right there with the cavalry.’
Philopoemen nodded. He looked where Aristaenos was indicating for a long moment.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Please go off and cover the left.’
Aristaenos’ face worked, his cheeks moving like land in an earthquake.
‘Please,’ Philopoemen said.
Aristaenos shrugged. ‘I think you’re wrong,’ he said.
Philopoemen nodded. ‘Well, friend, I think you are wrong, too.’ He grinned. ‘But if I’m wrong about the left, I’m probably wrong about everything else.’
‘We should attack,’ Aristaenos said. ‘Now, while Nabis is still disorganised.’
Philopoemen shook his head. ‘Let him attack us.’
‘He won’t attack us! We have two hills – a better position. Even with his numbers—’
‘Nabis is arrogant,’ Philopoemen said. ‘He has staked everything on a major battle. Now he will be arrogant. He assumes his mercenaries are better men than our Gortynians.’
‘Well, I think you are wrong,’ Aristaenos said. ‘I think we could have won right here.’
‘Noted.’ Philopoemen’s humour seemed unaffected.
Aristaenos made a great show of mounting in disgust. He didn’t hurry to his men, and when he got there, they heard him tell the Achaeans that they ‘had to move, because Philopoemen said so’.
‘You are not tempted to eviscerate him on the spot?’ Alexanor said.
Philopoemen ignored him, watching Nabis. The Spartan commander was apparently giving an oration to the mercenary phalanx.
‘Why do you believe he’ll attack you?’ Alexanor asked.
Philopoemen pointed at the two hills, or rather, the high ridge on his right and the low hill round him that held his centre and part of his left.
‘Doesn’t it look like the Spartan position at Sellasia? I’m trying to get inside his head and give him the chance to change the past.’ Philopoemen smiled. ‘And anyway, you see that spring?’
‘See it?’ Alexanor joked. ‘I drank from it. Here, have some.’
‘It is the best water on this part of the plain,’ Philopoemen said. ‘We’re on the flank of his camp, and we have his main water supply.’ He smiled grimly. ‘He has three choices – attack us, storm the city, or retire to the east.’
‘Who did you leave in the city?’ Alexanor asked.
Even from the low hill, he could see the glitter of steel on the gates of the city, but looking at the Allied array, the only troops missing were the Illyrians, away somewhere in the north on a raid.
‘The city is empty,’ Philopoemen said. ‘There are women on the walls in all our spare armour – even trophies from the temples, polished and newly strapped.’
‘Oh, gods,’ Alexanor breathed.
‘Relax. The risk was this morning, before we were formed. I told you that I intended to take every advantage I could. We have most of his water. Every minute he waits, his men are thirstier. That’s not even my last trick.’
‘And Aristaenos?’
‘He’ll fight well enough,’ Philopoemen said. But he didn’t sound so sure of himself.
Another hour passed. Nabis rode up and down his line, and then did so again.
‘He knows perfectly well I’ve outmanoeuvred him,’ Philopoemen said. ‘That’s a taunt, too.’
‘Can he still march away to the east?’ Alexanor asked.
‘I guess he might. But if he does, the campaign is over, and he might as well march back to Knossos. His mercenaries might defect today.’
‘Really?’
‘Lykortas claims that he killed the Illyrian commander last night – executed him in his tent. We can only hope.’ Philopoemen watched.
Nabis rode along the front again. He rode all the way from west to east, and then he placed himself with the Aetolian cavalry.
‘And now we fight,’ Philopoemen said.
Only then did he ride down the last of the slope to the front of the Gortynians. Their ranks were closed, and despite a large gap between their left and the Lyttians’ right, they were well formed, on good ground, with a gentle slope in front of them, the ground falling away. The mercenary phalanx would have a long climb to reach them, in the full heat of the noonday sun.
Philopoemen rode to the very centre of the Gortynian phalanx.
‘Comrades!’ he roared.
His voice carried so well that heads turned among the Lyttians, and among the Polyrrhenians.
He turned his horse and pointed at the enemy.
‘They have had neither sleep nor water,’ he called. ‘Last night we slept in our beds. Every one of you has water.’ He waited a moment, and his voice echoed off the distant hillside. ‘All you need to do to win is hold this hill. As long as you stand, men of Gortyna, your freedom is assured. No tyrant. No false laws. No one has the responsibility for your future but you yourselves. Win here, and Knossos will never face you again – at least, not in your lifetimes. Lose here, and your wives are slaves, your farms lost, and you, yourselves, will be dead.’
No one cheered.
‘You wanted a battle,’ he called. ‘I have done what I could to make that battle unfair.’
Men laughed. Across the valley, the mercenary phalanx began to come forward. Trumpets sounded, and the enemy, a thousand files wide, came forward.
‘All you have to do is hold!’ Philopoemen said. ‘And tonight, we will set up a trophy, and tomorrow, we will sacrifice for victory.’
Now they roared.
Philopoemen rode around the end of the Gortynians and dismounted where Arkas had a pair of sheep tethered and had built a rough altar of stone. He and a dozen other men had raised a big stone and set it on a base of smaller stones.
Philopoemen walked up and took a heavy knife from Arkas, a big knife shaped like a kopis. He took the rope round the whiter, cleaner sheep’s neck, pulled it to stretch the animal’s head, and then struck, his knife faster than Alexanor would have thought possible. The knife didn’t slash down, but cut up, severing the sheep’s throat and turning it so that it bled out across the altar even as its legs buckled.
Two men reached and lifted the sheep onto the stone.
Philopoemen opened its gut with a single slash. The entrails poured out, and Alexanor thought of the man he’d dissected at the spring by Petra, and about Philopoemen’s wound.
Philopoemen looked up from his sacrifice. He looked from right to left, like an eagle looking for prey, and then he motioned with one bloody hand to Arkas.
‘Bring me the other one. Unless you want to?’ he
asked Alexanor.
Alexanor shook his head. ‘This is for a priest of Zeus. If you were to ask a priest of Asklepios, he might pray that both armies ran away and no one was killed.’
Philopoemen barely smiled. He was in another place, his eyes distant. Syrmas poured water over his hands, a hasty sacred washing, and again the knife flashed out, and the rumble of hooves to the east didn’t interrupt the ritual. Even as the sheep bled out, the Thracian grasped it with Kleostratos and the two men all but threw it on the altar.
Philopoemen glanced at the sky. Off to the right, over the city, an eagle rose in lazy circles, the very best of omens.
Philopoemen raised his bloody hands and intoned the hymn to Zeus, the Cretan hymn that was sung in Sparta and Arkadia and throughout the Dorian world.
The rumble of hooves became a roar to the east.
He added the second sheep’s entrails to the first and stirred them with the tip of the kopis.
‘Victory!’ he shouted.
Every eye in both the Lyttian and Gortynian phalanxes was on him, and when he raised his bloody hands, a shout went up across the valley.
‘Victory!’ men shouted. ‘Nike! Nike for Gortyna! Nike for Lyttos!’
And then he stood calmly while Arkas poured spring water over his hands, and he wiped them clean on a white towel.
When he turned to Alexanor his eyes were bright, and there was colour in his face.
‘The gods help those who help themselves.’ He put a hand to the centre of his gut and winced. ‘I hate watching other men fight.’
‘Nonetheless, your wound … You cannot fight.’
Philopoemen closed his eyes briefly. ‘Maybe I’m not meant to survive this,’ he said quietly.
‘You wouldn’t make me look bad, would you?’ Alexanor said, with false humour.
Philopoemen shrugged. ‘I’d give my life to win this. I will, if that’s what it takes.’
He rode along the front of the hill, watching the mercenary phalanx come on. Other officers were giving orations: Cirdas, Antiphatas’ second-in-command, got roar after roar from the Gortynians; Xaris pointed down the long slope at the enemy and made the Lyttians growl with rage.
The New Achilles Page 37