If we prevail on the field today, the cities of the Aegean seaboard will topple to us like tiles. But we cannot permit chaos in this postvictory world. Liberty, order, and justice are what we must bring if we expect to secure our rear and our lines of supply and communication, and to achieve that, we must establish men in power who can be counted upon not to abuse their newly acquired stature, to run amok, or to prosecute personal vendettas. I will seek in these early campaigns to found this principle and adhere to it absolutely. Those states that take me as their friend, I shall make my friends; those that resist will be crushed without mercy.
I don’t want the cities; I want Darius.
I don’t care about the Aegean. I’m here for Persia.
Our spies come spurring back now. Here are my generals too. “Go now?” asks Philotas, indicating the late sun. If we’re going to fight this day, he means, it must be soon or we’ll lose the light.
“Is that wise?” inquires Parmenio. He is thinking that the army has marched nearly ten miles this day and that the whole mob had been blind sock-eyed the night before. It’s too late in the day, he says. Why assault across a river into the teeth of the foe? He wants to flank-march by night, cross upstream or down, then fight in the morning, when the enemy has been forced to re-form and no longer has the river protecting his front.
I don’t like it.
“It’s good fighting weather,” insists Craterus.
Perdiccas seconds this. “The men’s blood is up. Let’s make some widows!”
“Where’s Memnon?” I want to know.
An aide spurs up, ready to ride.
“No,” says Hephaestion, “I’ll find him myself.” And he’s off at the gallop to scout the enemy lines.
Memnon is Darius’s foremost general. He’s a Greek from Rhodes, a mercenary. The enemy’s hired Greek infantry belongs to him.
I need to know Memnon’s place in the Persian line. That will influence everything.
Parmenio remarks that the foe’s deployment makes no sense. “Why is his infantry back? Why is his cavalry up front?” A trick?
It’s no trick; it’s pride. “Persian nobles are horsemen. They want the glory of throwing us back.”
It is not a field that requires long study. Just tell me where Memnon is.
I know Memnon. When I was a boy, he lived in exile for a season at my father’s court at Pella. He befriended me. I learned as much of war from him as from Philip.
Memnon had fought for the Crown of Persia. His forces reconquered Ionia for Artaxerxes when I was a child. His brother Mentor restored Egypt to the Throne. The brothers stood then on a par with kings. They could coin money and found cities. Their wives were Persian nobility, their children educated at Susa and Persepolis. (In fact, they were married to the same woman, the princess Barsine—Mentor first, then Memnon, after his brother was killed.) Revolution forced Memnon to flee. He took refuge at my father’s court.
Memnon was not the first year-round professional general, but he was the first other than Philip and Mentor to elevate warcraft to the status of a science. Memnon had begun as a marine. He had held commands at sea; he understood naval warfare as well as fighting on land. He thought in campaigns, not in battles. From his lips I first heard the expression “seeing the whole field,” by which he meant the political and strategic context. Memnon understood politics: He could negotiate; he knew how to cultivate men and how to motivate them. He could parley in chambers; he could address an assembly. His mastery of war was total. He could attack and he could defend; he could train men and he could command them. He fed and equipped his troops and he paid them on time. His men loved him. And he had mastered his own emotions. Anger was unknown to him; pride was, in his view, a vice. If delay would win, he would stall all season. You could not provoke him. He would use gold before force, and lies and false undertakings before either. Yet when the situation called for attack, he did not hesitate. He was fearless in action and relentless in pursuit. At the same time he was not above an accommodation. He advanced his best men and served his masters with honor. If he had a weakness, it was a legitimate one: He wished to be recognized, not so much for his brilliance or even his industry as for the radicalness of his conception and his accomplishment.
Memnon was the first field commander to use maps. In those days no one had heard of such a thing. To survey the ground was considered a debasement of the art of war. A general was supposed to know the field from his own reconnaissance or from reports of trusted officers, guides, or locals. To map it was cheating.
But Memnon went beyond surveying fields. He charted specific battlegrounds, not only those upon which armies had clashed in the past but also sites unknown to war, which might prove hospitable at some subsequent time. He kept books of roads and streams, passes and heights and defiles; he plotted the length and breadth of Asia Minor down to footpaths and mountain tracks known only to goatherds. He surveyed sites suitable for camps, then studied the ways by which each might be approached, supplied, or turned. Nor did he anticipate only victory. For each camp he discovered how many columns could withdraw how quickly over which road or track; he even charted sites for ambuscades to cover the retreat he planned for, from the camp he planned for, in case he lost the battle he planned for. He recorded dates for the turning of the seasons and the risings and settings of the sun and moon. He knew the day’s and night’s length at any field across all Asia west of the Halys. He knew day and date of the barley harvest in Phrygia, Lydia, Cilicia, and the site of every garner, with the names of the brokers who held them. Which rivers were in spate at what season? Could they be forded? Where? When he had completed a battle exercise from his own point of view, he ran it from the foe’s. How could his brilliant dispositions be countered? What weaknesses had he left exposed?
I used to visit Memnon when I was eleven. I tormented him for hours with my interrogation. I wished to know the highways of Asia. The great general sat down and taught me. Who were Persia’s princes? What kind of men were they? Memnon told me of Arsites and Rheomithres, Spithridates and Niphates and Megadates. He described them in such detail that I felt I would recognize them on sight. He was in love with Persia. The scale of the empire, the grandeur, the courtliness. And the women. I caught it from him. One might suppose, reckoning my relentless aggression against her, that I abhor Persia. On the contrary. I am captivated by it. I made Memnon’s man Dorus teach me the language. I can read it still, and need no interpreter to understand it aloud. I loved the names of the places: Babylon, Susa, Persepolis. Memnon was something of an amateur chef. He made a type of hummus with thyme and sesame and baked his own bread, grinding the barley in a soldier’s hand mill. I brought him hares and thrushes. We went over Xenophon’s Anabasis line by line. How narrow are the Cilician Gates? How fast may an army cross the Pillar of Jonah? Is the Euphrates defensible? How can the Persian Gates be turned? I sounded Memnon for his philosophy of war. How would he attack a fixed position? How conduct a reconnaissance? Is defense harder than offense?
Now Hephaestion returns. He has located Memnon.
“There, where the river bends. His sons are with him. Their tails are up. He’s looking to knock us stiff.”
Most fords are at bends. The river is shallowest where it turns. I can see the surface absent dazzle (the late sun favors us) as it spills over the boulder-strewn bed.
To Telamon: “Get Red up here.”
I mean Socrates Redbeard, who commands the squadron of Companions first in today’s rotation. I will hurl him at Memnon. I dispatch a rider to Amyntas Arrhibaeus, whom I will place in command of the units supporting Redbeard, and to Black Cleitus, on the wing, commanding him to bring the Royal Squadron to me in the center.
Redbeard and Amyntas arrive at the gallop. I lay out the scheme in phrases curt as code. “It’ll be raining iron, Red.”
He laughs. “I’m not afraid to get wet.”
To my commanders, I detail the design of attack. But my mates must know not just what and how but w
hy. I address Parmenio, speaking for the hearing of all.
“If we delay, my friend, the foe may slip away in the night. Surely Memnon is urging this course with all his vigor. It’s the smart thing to do; he knows time works for him and against us. If the enemy makes off, we shall be forced to chase him from city to fortified city, while he bleeds us of money and supplies. Only win here today and these same cities fall to us without a fight.” I gesture across to the river. “Look there, where the foe awaits us. Have we not prayed for such a sight? Now the Maker of Earth and Sky has given it to us. Thank Him and take what is ours!”
I turn to Telamon. “Get them up.”
He signs to the corps’s sergeant major. Trumpets blare. Across two thousand yards, grooms boost riders onto chargers’ backs. At once the field alters. The hair rises all over my body. A cheer ascends. To my rear, the forest of pikes springs alive as men rise from one knee; on both flanks, squadrons take their wedges. The waiting is over. Generals scatter to their divisions.
The following is the order of battle of the satraps of Darius on the plain of the Granicus River.
The enemy’s front is all cavalry. His left is two thousand under Arsames, provincial governor of Cilicia, with Memnon in support with five hundred Greek mercenary horse, Ionians mostly, paid from Memnon’s purse. Right of these are stationed Arsites, governor of Hellespontine Phrygia, defending his home turf and in overall command, with about a thousand Phrygian and three thousand Paphlagonian cavalry, and two thousand Hyrcanians under Spithridates, satrap of Lydia and Ionia, Arsites’ cousin and son-in-law of Darius. These fight under the colors of Arsites, whose pennant is a golden crane on a field of scarlet. The Persians call these standards “serpents” for their long snaky shape and the way they writhe upon the wind. Right of Spithridates stands his brother Rhoesaces, commanding a thousand mailed cataphracts of Media, in coats of iron, formed like fish scales. We hoist one after the battle: It weighs ninety pounds. The mounts that bear this armor are Parthian chargers, massive as draft horses. The Persian center is four thousand heavy cavalry, commanded by the satraps Atizyes and Mithrobarzanes of Greater Phrygia and Cappadocia, as well as Mithridates, Darius’s son-in-law, with a thousand Light Horse under his own pay, himself mounted on a sorrel stallion whose worth, men said, is twenty talents. To Mithridates’ right with two thousand Bactrian cavalry is Arbupales, son of Darius and grandson of Artaxerxes, the handsomest man in Persia save his father. These Bactrians (and their comrades in arms of Parthia, Hyrcania, and Media) have not trekked from their home provinces a thousand miles east; they are local estate holders, heirs of champions who conquered under Cyrus the Great and are obligated to serve in the field whenever their king calls. The enemy right is commanded by Pharnaces, brother of Darius’s wife Lysaea, with divisions of Pamphylian, Armenian, and Median mounted levy commanded by Niphates, Petenes, and Rheomithres, all adherents of the royal house, and Omares, commanding the Lydian Light Horse on the Persian far right.
Three hundred yards rearward, is marshaled, on rising ground, the Greek mercenary infantry in the pay of Darius—Memnon’s men, sixty-seven hundred, in three regiments, commanded by Memnon’s sons Agathon and Xenocrates, and Mentor’s son Thymondas. Behind the foe’s mercenary infantry awaits a motley stew of local irregulars, between sixty and seventy thousand, worthless against even an army of hares.
The Royal Squadron has reached me in the center now. My groom Evagoras trots forth from the rear, leading Bucephalus. (I have ridden my parade mount, Eos, in the approach march.) My Page Andron boosts me; I mount. The corps thunders in acclamation.
“Zeus Savior and Victory!”
Forty thousand throats echo the cry. I sign to Black Cleitus and turn Bucephalus with my knees toward the right. At the canter, the Royal Squadron transits the front.
When I was a boy, Memnon taught me two principles. Cover and uncover. Direct and misdirect.
I am misdirecting now. How soon till Memnon knows? Soon I will direct. Will he grasp it? If he does, will his Persian masters pay him heed?
I sign to Telamon: “Bang the bone.”
The bone is a short beam of rowan, beaten snub at one end. This is pounded with a mallet to set the cadence. The sound booms, cutting through the wind sharper than a trumpet.
Unit sergeants bawl the cadence. The line steps off. I am crossing rightward before our front, with the colors of the Royal Squadron flying. The enemy watches. Will he let me go without responding? Memnon sees me. My move right means I’m coming after him. Will the foe watch and do nothing?
The Granicus is swift but fordable. It will strike our horses at above the knee and our infantry at about the thigh.
Massed enemy cavalry lines the bluffs on the far side. They are armed not with thrusting lances as we are, but with javelins. When we enter the river, they will unload on us. The first shock will be terrible; the second will be worse.
I keep at the canter, crossing the front, two hundred yards from the stream and parallel to it. I’m still half a mile from our far right.
My scheme is as follows:
I have set at our right extremity a formidable assault force, the whole of the Companion Cavalry, reinforced by our Cretan archers and javelineers of Agriania. Memnon sees this clearly. It is directly across from him. And he sees me transiting toward it, bringing the Royal Squadron. This is misdirection.
What I’m hoping he doesn’t see (direction) is another force, inboard of this wing, concealed as part of the broader battle line. This force consists of Socrates Redbeard’s squadron of Companions, reinforced by two companies of light infantry under Ptolemy, son of Philip (called “Stinger” because at home he keeps bees). Stinger’s is a picked outfit of two hundred, all volunteers, receiving double pay and made up of the youngest and fastest troops of the army. They have been trained to operate on foot with cavalry, against cavalry. They wear no armor, depending for protection on speed, their light but strong pelta shields, and their array within the ranks of attacking horsemen. Their weapons are the twelve-foot lance and the long thrusting sword. I have never used this company except in the mountains against wild tribes. They can keep pace with cavalry for a short distance, as here at the Granicus, and will work tremendous execution, I believe, within the melee that is certain to develop in the riverbed and on the bluffs beyond. In addition to Redbeard’s Companions and Ptolemy Philip’s light-armed, the attack group will have the superb infantry of the Royal Brigade of Guardsmen, under Attalus, Ptolemy’s brother, the Paeonian Light Horse under Ariston, and the Royal Lancers in four squadrons under Amyntas Arrhibaeus, commanding the overall.
My design is to draw the enemy’s eye, by the extravagance of my movement, farther and farther onto the wing. I want him to gird for an attack by me. I want him to pull out from his center more and more squadrons to mirror my lateral transit. But the initial attack will not come from me. It will come from Redbeard.
Direct and misdirect is a fancy name for a feint. Will Memnon see it? Will he be able to convince his Persian masters? Give me thirty seconds of indecision and it will be too late for him.
I keep transiting. Past Redbeard. Before the Companions. Onto the wing. The foe responds now. Companies pull out of his center, tracking with us to the right.
“Send Red now.”
Telamon signs. Redbeard’s colors stand forward. They’re behind me; the Royal and I have already transited past him. Next come Red’s captains on the wing. Now Red himself on his stallion Rapacious. The line bucks forward.
A cry goes up from all the Companions.
Red’s squadron comes out into the clear. It is in four wedges. Stinger’s special infantry surge with it. Down the slope the commingled companies advance. Red seems to hold his trot forever. Every man in the line is shouting. The wedges come to a canter. The foot troops are running now. I quicken my own squadron’s pace. Right. Farther right. Almost beyond the enemy’s flank . . .
Here is the fix Memnon is in: If he breaks off the squadrons tracking me and use
s them to meet Redbeard, I will keep transiting and get round his flank. If he doesn’t break off, Redbeard may burst through. Now come the Lancers and the Royal Brigade. Now the Paeonians. Cavalry and infantry to two and a half thousand.
“There goes Red!”
With a whoop, Redbeard’s wedges charge.
What will happen? The Persians await us, massed on horseback, atop the bluffs overstanding the river. Their arms are javelins and slashing sabers. They will not meet our charge with a counterrush of their own. To do so would negate their advantage. No, they will hold their post and launch their missiles upon us from above. The first fusillade will be furious. Men and horses will fall; the foe will respond with jubilation. Exulting, he slings his second salvo, and his third. Our men struggle beneath him in the current. Their footing is unstable on the stone; their lances cannot reach the foe atop the bluffs, and they have no missile weapons.
The enemy smells blood. He cannot contain his fever. He draws sabers and charges. Down the face of the bluff, the foe’s ranks spur. In the river, his front compacts against our mixed horse and foot, throwing both into disorder. A melee ensues.
Into this I will charge.
The Royal Squadron will strike the foe in six wedges of fifty. We will hit him at the seams created by his downslope rush, wherever gaps open and breaches appear. Behind us will gallop the remaining six squadrons of Companions, twenty-four more fifties. This force will mount out of the river. We will carry the bluff top and press on, seeking to break through the Persian line.
The Virtues of War Page 10