The prospects for our phalanxes appeared grim. And this is before their 200,000-strong infantry has even entered the fray, I realized grimly.
The only prong of Dareios’s attack that didn’t go quite according to plan was the chariot attack up the middle of the field. After being channeled into the gap between the phalanxes, the teams of tethered horses continued to bolt forward, spooked by the noise and spurred on by the missiles hitting them from both sides. The few chariots that had managed to clear the last of our infantry soldiers continued to race straight ahead, instead of pivoting and hitting our line from behind. And the Persian cavalry continued to charge right behind them, ignoring the Companion Cavalry stationed a short distance to their left, immediately behind the infantry phalanxes. Perhaps they didn’t see us, sitting there on our steeds, waiting to attack, or perhaps they preferred to gallop where there was no enemy for them to engage, having just survived the gauntlet of our phalanxes. In the event, the entire thrust of the remaining chariots and attendant Persian cavalry continued unabated until they reached our baggage train, left among the hills several miles behind us. At that point they stopped, killed the few guards, and looted our possessions.
But the baggage train was well beyond my line of sight and far below my level of conscious concern. As I sat at the head of my squadron and next to all the other squadrons of the Companion Cavalry, I was barely aware of chariots and enemy cavalry roaring by. I was trying to follow the battlefield action but it was becoming more and more difficult. The sounds of fighting, and dying, reached deafening levels. Clouds of dust plunged the midday scene into an eerie twilight. It was impossible to tell who was holding which shield, who was attacking whom, which man was wielding a pike and which one absorbing a blow. It was all just a huge, swirling mass of tens of thousands of screaming, fighting, and dying men. Except, I had stopped hearing all the noise.
As my eyes flitted from one sanguinary tableau to the next, they alighted on the still, serene, singular figure of Alexandros. He sat aboard Boukephalas, in a little pocket of space, utterly relaxed, while his stallion munched contentedly on a stray tuft of grass. If it hadn’t been for the slight movements of his head and the steady chomping of his steed, I might’ve thought I was watching an equestrian sculpture. There was even a shaft of light which, through some trick of entropy, rent through the haze of dust and illuminated his gleaming, white-crested helmet. Maybe he is a demigod after all. I broke into laughter.
Fortunately, no one noticed my misplaced mirth amid the bedlam. Even though I was beginning to doubt my own sanity, I didn’t want my comrades to think I was becoming deranged. A strange contentment, even happiness, washed over me, almost like a warm, cleansing rain. I’d regained my sense of certainty, at least with respect to the timing and manner of my demise, which was clearly imminent. And I no longer cared about any inadvertent violations of the Prime Directive. In fact, I was looking forward to killing as many of the enemy as I could before they managed to kill me.
I looked more closely at the men around me. These are the fellows with whom I’m going to die. There was a certain sense of camaraderie in that. Hey, all I had to do to stop being an outsider was to get killed alongside these guys. It was all I could do to keep from slapping my forehead with my palm. Luckily, I resisted the impulse because I was holding, at that moment, a javelin in one hand and a sword in the other.
It was at this juncture, with the hoofbeats of the Persian cavalry receding toward the hills and with the infantry and allied cavalry on our flanks resisting, at least for the moment, the ever-increasing pressure of the combined forces of the Persian knights and the savage scrappers of the steppes, that Alexandros raised his sword, let out an unearthly yell, and heeled Boukephalas into action. The transformation from serene stillness to precipitate plunge was instantaneous. But we’d all seen this particular trick before. Our fearless leader wouldn’t be leaving us in the dust this time.
Moving as one, the entire Companion Cavalry charged through the gap recently vacated by the enemy cavalry and headed for the center of the Persian line, the unmistakable figure of Dareios standing in his oversized chariot serving as our beacon. Several thousand elite Persian knights were still stationed in front of the emperor’s chariot but not as many as there’d been at the start of the battle because squadron after squadron had been drawn off to support what were supposed to have been easy flanking maneuvers against the outlying prongs of our formation.
As we galloped across no-man’s land between the opposing lines, the entire Companion Cavalry spread out into one gigantic flying wedge, with Alexandros spearheading the point. During the few moments required to close with the enemy, there was very little sound. Neither side had time to yell or sing or boast or even pray. Each of us was single-mindedly focused on the figure of the first man we were going to kill.
And then the silence was shattered by a thunderbolt of clashing arms, of javelins hitting shields, of swords cleaving helmets, of horses screaming in terror, of men expelling their last, gurgling gasps. Dareios watched with almost disinterested fascination as Alexandros sliced through his elite Persian troops. He found it simply impossible to credit the evidence of his own eyes. No mortal could do what Alexandros was doing. It was almost like watching the dorsal fin of a shark parting the waves, except in this case he could also see all the vicious churning and chomping below the surface.
The rest of us had a tougher time of it. If Alexandros was a shark, we were more like a bloom of jellyfish, tossed back and forth by the ebb and flow of battle. We could only hope that our swords, as we slashed madly at the Persians’ armor, carried enough of a sting to keep the enemy from engulfing our leader.
Kleitos, as usual, seemed to be having the most fun. His face was positively glowing as he dealt deathblow after jubilant deathblow, oblivious to the ferocious strokes whistling by his ears. The rest of his squadron, following their commander’s example, plowed right in, absorbing almost as many blows as they meted out, but continuing their relentless forward progress.
Philotas, by contrast, spent more time directing traffic than actually engaging the enemy, making sure each squadron kept its shape and contributed to the overall thrust of our wedge. It didn’t matter how many men were rendered hors de combat, whether ours or theirs, how many horses went down, how much dust, destruction, and disarray descended on the battlefield. Each of our squadrons had its segment of the sharply echeloned line to defend as part of the overall advance and Philotas saw to it that each squadron did its part. Alexandros may have served as the point of the wedge but Philotas made sure there continued to be a wedge behind him.
Seleukos, while fighting as ferociously as the rest of us, was still the first to notice when a dangerous fissure opened up between Kleitos’s and Kleandros’s squadrons and rushed in his own men to plug the hole before the enemy even noticed it was there.
I fought as I always did, on autopilot. An adversary would float into view in front of me; I could tell, before he even thought of it, which mode of attack he would employ first; I would parry it, slide and counter, then parry again, and finally, almost gently, push the point of my sword through the small gap above his chainmail breastplate and below the cheekpiece of his helmet, making sure I kept pushing until I heard the crunch of vertebrae being rendered asunder. Then the next adversary would appear in front of me and the process would repeat. And all the while I felt as if I were hovering above the fray, watching myself disposing of one adversary after the next. I wonder whether this means I’m already dead.
The Companion Cavalry, to every last man, performed spectacularly. However, this didn’t change the fact that, even after Dareios had foolishly thinned the ranks of his own cavalry in the middle of his line in pursuit of the elusive victory on the flanks, there were still more than enough Persian knights left between us and the emperor’s chariot to repel our reckless charge. We were killing a lot of them but we were also losing men and it was obvious to me we would run out of fighters before they did.
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Dareios finally snapped out of his trance and willed his eyes to look away from the progress of Alexandros’s white plume. All around him, the magnificent mounted Persian warriors were laying down their lives to save his. They were bending under the weight of our attack but they weren’t breaking. He was a good enough soldier to realize that his cavalry, diminished as it was in its numbers, was still strong enough to withstand our charge. And in any event, they wouldn’t have to resist much longer because surely the overwhelming forces under Bessos’s and Mazaios’s command would wipe out the inferior units opposed to them and then wheel about to take the Companion Cavalry from the rear. He was beginning to savor the sweet taste of victory when, in his anticipatory delight, he permitted himself a quick peek at Alexandros’s plume.
This short, sidelong glance proved to be a fatal mistake. The white fin of the shark was still slicing through wave after wave of his elite knights. The brief glimpse became a fixed stare. This time, he was unable to avert his eyes. He realized that, relatively soon, Alexandros would reach his chariot, no matter how many brave men died trying to stop him. Dareios was presented with a dilemma. Should he stand and fight, even if this meant almost certain personal extinction, or should he run away in order to fight again another day?
Dareios chose discretion above valor. He signaled for his horse and abandoned the field. The knights closest to him joined in his flight, if only to provide their emperor with a protective shield. Their comrades, farther forward and therefore closer to the actual hand-to-hand combat decided to follow suit. In an instant, all opposition to our charge melted away.
We – those of us still alive – let out a joyful whoop. Alexandros paused just long enough to organize a pursuit party, led by him, of course. This time the Persian coward wouldn’t get away.
We were on the verge of taking off after Dareios, whose progress we could easily follow by the column of dust his troop was raising, when a messenger from Parmenion reached Alexandros. The old general’s message was stark: Unless relief arrived immediately, his forces would be wiped out in the next few minutes.
Alexandros didn’t hesitate. The pursuit party became a relief regiment. We all turned and rode as fast as our tired mounts would carry us toward the end of the pan-Hellenic line under Parmenion’s command, taking Mazaios’s forces from the back. Suddenly, the savvy Babylonian satrap found himself beleaguered from all sides. What’s more, he quickly ascertained the cause of this unexpected shift of fortune, receiving word that Dareios had once again withdrawn from the field of battle. Mazaios made the only rational choice. Extricating his forces as best he could, he hurriedly departed from the zone of combat and led his cavalry back home to Babylon.
In the meantime, on the opposite end of the line, Bessos watched in disbelief as both Dareios and Mazaios made their escapes. With one shrill whistle he stopped his savage steppe fighters in their tracks. They, too, turned and departed in the direction of their homeland.
Our infantry, finding all opposition abruptly disappearing, roared ahead and engulfed the hapless conscript infantry units, left behind without orders, leaders, or the ability to defend themselves. Some of these poorly-trained and poorly-armed wretched farm boys managed to run away. Most of them were slaughtered on Dareios’s carefully polished battlefield.
In the meantime, having routed Mazaios’s forces, we were once again preparing to resume our chase after the fleeing Dareios. However, before we could execute our pivot, we were unexpectedly hit in the side by the elements of the Persian cavalry that had finished looting our baggage train and had decided to return to the fray. They, and their animals, were relatively fresh after their uneventful jaunt to the hills and back and they were spoiling for a fight. We, on the other hand, were physically exhausted and mentally drained, not only by the vicious combat but also by the repeated emotional swings between the certainty of defeat and the euphoria of unexpected survival.
It was a silly and pointless encounter, fought after the outcome of the battle had been determined. Nevertheless, my squadron lost more men during this senseless skirmish than we had in all the fighting that had preceded it. Eventually, we defeated these last remnants of the vaunted Persian cavalry and staggered back to our staging point, where Alexandros was waiting, ready to resume his quest to chase down and extirpate the Persian coward.
******
The erstwhile ruler of the Persian Empire, in the meantime, was galloping toward Arbela. His plan, upon reaching this commercial hub, was to utilize the well-trodden caravan route that led out of the city to flee eastward, toward Ekbatana and the remote provinces beyond. He was certain Alexandros wouldn’t follow him, not only because an incursion into the eastern provinces by a foreign army would be necessarily suicidal but also because Babylon lay, supine and defenseless, a mere 350 miles to the southwest, down the Tigris. How could any primitive, crude Macedonian invader resist the temptation to ravish the glittering queen city of the Persian Empire, which now lay open to his onslaught?
Dareios and his abject crew of unnerved bodyguards, aboard their half-dead, lathered, steaming steeds, reached Arbela just before midnight. They paused at the market square only long enough to commandeer new mounts and expropriate provisions before heading out of town. But, even during this brief hiatus, they found themselves gradually enveloped by swarms of wretched survivors of the battle, who were starting to stream into the city.
Making virtue out of necessity, Dareios mounted an upturned wagon and addressed the gathering crowd. He told them that, if they followed him, they had nothing to fear because Alexandros was sure to head southwest, toward Babylon, while he intended to go southeast, to Ekbatana. Furthermore, he promised to raise another army, bigger than the one he had just lost, and to defeat the foreign invaders once and for all. He had some other things to say but no one was listening. The men were milling around, looking for their friends, for food, for a means of salvation. They were certainly not paying any attention to a disheveled madman standing atop an upside-down wagon and shouting in a language many of them didn’t understand.
More and more men kept arriving at the market square. The survivors of Dareios’s Greek mercenary unit marched in, still organized and disciplined, looking for leadership. They were followed by the Baktrian horsemen, who rode in as a unit, led by Bessos. Unlike most of the survivors, they appeared to be in good shape, antsy for more fighting, dismayed they were somehow deprived of certain victory.
Dareios was pleased to see the arrival of the Baktrians. He concluded his speech and beckoned Bessos to approach. The young satrap ignored him, throwing himself into preparations for the long trip home. Eventually, the emperor gave up, descended from the wagon, mounted his new horse, and rode over to Bessos. The two of them jointly led the troops out of Arbela. It was hard to tell which one was in charge.
*******
We rode through the night, bloodied and exhausted, from Gaugamela to Arbela. We reached the town shortly after daybreak. Dareios and his crew were long gone. Alexandros took one look at us in the dawning light of the new day and decided to call off the chase. “We’ll catch him soon enough,” he assured us. “Now, let’s go back to the troops and get some rest.”
A striking change in Alexandros’s attitude had taken place. The raging, death-dealing, irresistible daemon of battle and the eager, snorting, determined bloodhound of the chase was replaced by a serene, glowing, contented victor of Gaugamela. Dareios may have gotten away but Alexandros, unlike Dareios himself, realized that the nominal emperor of Persia would never again command his empire because he couldn’t regain the respect, or even the fear, of his subjects.
Much work remained. We had yet to conquer a single one of the empire’s four capitals. Two thirds of the satrapies and more than three quarters of the landmass remained beyond our control. The putative emperor was still out there somewhere, recruiting a new army, and, if he failed, there would be another emperor to take his place. But none of that changed the fact that, against all odds, we had def
eated the strongest army the Persian Empire could field, on the ground of its own choosing, in a pitched battle fought for all the marbles.
And in all fairness, the differences between the two commanders had something to do with the ultimate outcome. It was simply inconceivable that Alexandros would’ve ever withdrawn in order to fight another day. As far as he was concerned, running away from a fight was infinitely worse than dying in the course of battle. Like his idol Achilleus, Alexandros believed implicitly that dying gloriously in combat was a fate much to be preferred to living a long, dull, forgettable life.
Dareios, notwithstanding his superficial religiosity, believed that personal demise was the end of everything, that there was no glory in death, only oblivion. It was better to survive and keep hope alive. He thought he could always regroup and try again. In the end, it was this attitude that killed him.
It helped, in the case of Alexandros, that he’d persuaded himself of his own divine paternity. And, to give him his due, even as he descended into derangement, he never lost his military brilliance. He had great strategic vision, was a superb tactician, an inspirational leader, a cool battlefield commander, and a superlative and ruthless combatant. His belief in himself and in his destiny was infectious. On that particular day, the troops would have followed him into the gates of hell. At Gaugamela, Alexandros proved himself, once again, invincible.
*******
It was past noon of the day after, when we returned to Gaugamela – barely twenty-four hours since the battle. We knew we were getting close when we saw the birds. From a distance, they looked like a dark billowing veil in the sky. As we approached, the veil resolved into individual dots, mostly black, of circling, swooping, shrieking vultures, crows, ravens, hawks, and a few eagles. By the time I could make out the birds, I could also smell the carrion that had attracted them. And then we topped a small rise and my breath caught in my throat.
Conquest of Persia Page 18