The winding streets of the city fascinated the Greeks. It was old and romantic, with flowers growing everywhere, and bright cloth hanging from windows as women dried their washing.
We bought a new rug for the tent. We already had one, but in Taxila I fell in love with the bright colours of India. I wanted a beautiful rug to take the place of the exquisite one Paul had destroyed.
I found one made of silk. It had deep red, turquoise, yellow, gold, and all the colours of the sunset and sunrise woven into a huge, intricate pattern. It cost a fortune but I traded some jewellery Alexander had given me.
I had the rug taken to the tent as a surprise. I also bought some toys for Chiron: a rattle made of a gaily painted gourd, a ball made of soft suede, and yards and yards of soft, airy cotton to dress him.
I bought the exact same things for Roxanne’s baby, all the while knowing the poor child would probably never receive them. Our mistrust was mutual.
For Plexis, I bought an erotic painting. For each of Alexander’s generals, I bought a light cotton robe. Cotton was not well known in Greece, the only cotton that came that far was often rough and poor quality. The Egyptians had yet to start cultivating it. This cotton was a big hit, especially in the wonderful colours the Indians dyed it, bright scarlet, deep jade, buttery yellow and hot, peppery orange.
The whole army had changed its ‘look’ by the time we moved off towards the kingdom of Porus. We were bright and gay. Instead of white, everyone now wore vivid splashes of colour. I decked my mare with necklaces of marigolds, wore a fuchsia robe, wrapped Chiron in royal blue, and tied sunny yellow ribbons in my hair.
King Taxiles rode with us. He was coming to fight his enemy with five thousand of his own soldiers. He and the generals came into our tent every night, sat on the marvellous silk rug, and plotted and planned until the wee hours.
‘Porus,’ said Taxiles, ‘is a cunning leader, an excellent tactician, and has an invincible army. He has nearly fifteen hundred war chariots pulled by fast horses. He has five hundred elephants, and cavalry fifteen thousand strong. He has thirty thousand infantrymen, and thirty thousand archers. His men are known for their bravery and skill. It will be a very close battle.’
Alexander listened to everything Taxiles and Meroes, another Indian rajah who had joined him, had to tell him. As before, he had detailed maps drawn up. They showed the river, the land on either side, and the sort of soil and vegetation. He was searching for things like deep sand, slick mud, or soft, crumbling dirt. He wanted to know everything. All day he would talk to the Indians, and during the night he drew up plans.
We marched across the plains towards rolling hills. We were heading more or less south, through Taxiles’s lands. Behind us, Coenus had gone to fetch all the boats Alexander had used to cross the Indus, and he was busily dismantling them and hurrying them towards our meeting place on the banks of the Jhelum River – in Alexander’s time it was called the Hydaspes.
We marched quickly. Alexander wanted to see exactly where he was going to have to fight, and he would need time to observe the enemy. He was all nerves during the march, barely sleeping, eating only when we begged him, and then hardly tasting anything. He would chew a few mouthfuls then spring to his feet again and start pacing.
By day he rode or walked. He didn’t ride Bucephalus. The stallion was resting in the herd of army horses. He used his new stallion, the one Plexis had picked out for him. He liked this horse well enough, but between Bucephalus and Alexander there existed a deep affection. The old warhorse would act like a colt whenever his master approached. He would trot over to Alexander, lay his great head on his shoulder, and nibble at his hair.
Bucephalus was a stocky horse. He wasn’t a lean, pure thoroughbred-type. Those horses wouldn’t exist for another two thousand years. The horses of Alexander’s time were more like ponies. Some had Arab traits. Most had big heads, strong legs, round rumps, and high withers. Bucephalus had a wide, deep chest and a huge head. His eyes were canny. His coat was a warm bay, with a black mane and tail. A white mark on his forehead, shaped like a bull, gave him his name. When he was ridden, his neck arched and his eyes blazed like a tiger’s. He would flare his black, velvet nostrils, showing their blood-red interior, and he would whinny piercingly.
The warhorses screamed when they charged, and it made a heart-stopping, blood-curdling sound. Bucephalus, with his thick neck and heavy head, made a sound that was more like a lion’s roar.
Alexander counted on his cavalry to win most of his battles, and this battle was to be no different.
We crossed undulating hills and low mountains before coming to the top of the Nandana Pass. From here, the whole of the river plain was visible. The sun glinting off the narrow ribbon of water, made it look like a flame. There were flat plains leading to the water’s edge as far as the eye could see in either direction. And directly in front of us, across the river, Porus’s army camped, determined not to let Alexander pass.
We set up camp, and Alexander gave orders as to the placement of everything. We were supposed to make it look as if we had decided to settle there all summer.
The river had effectively started its annual flood, and very soon would be impossible to cross. The snows from the Himalayas were melting, and the icy waters would swell the river to four times its normal size. Already the river was no longer a sluggish caramel-coloured flow, but swirled and eddied with the force of new waters coming from the mighty mountain streams. It frothed white in some places, small waves curling and breaking over floating branches and underwater boulders. The banks on our side sloped gently downwards. The water lapped at them invitingly. In contrast, on the opposite shore, steep banks leapt ten feet into the air, and they offered a crumbly and unsure footing. The horses could swim across, but could they clamber out? Perhaps, but surely not with the weight of Porus’s army facing them down.
And the weight of his army was the elephants. Horses are frightened of elephants. All Porus had to do was line his elephants up along the bank and Alexander was stymied.
Alexander sent scouts up and down the river to search for passageways.
For nearly three weeks, we played an elaborate game with Porus.
First, Alexander made it seem as if we were settling down for the summer. He made sure Porus saw the enormous shipments of grain arriving for the army’s sustenance. Then he started the feints.
Like the boy who cried wolf, he lined his army up in attacking formation and pretended to attack two or three times a day. The men would scream their battle cries, the horses would gallop madly back and forth, and the catapults and javelins would be deployed.
Porus rushed to the defence each time. His elephants lumbered over, the artillery fanned out, the archers knelt, readying themselves.
Alexander watched all this with great interest. Each time, Alexander subtly changed his method of attack. Each time, Porus saw the change and adjusted his defence accordingly.
Alexander was euphoric. The harder the problem the more he loved it. This was a great puzzle, and he’d already figured out all the pieces. At night he would toss and turn, getting up four or five times to pace and mutter. During the day he galloped back and forth, a huge grin on his face. He was manic, excited, exhilarated. He would often leap off his horse after a false attack and rush into the tent, grab me, and throw me onto the bed to ravish me. Everyone would scatter, and I would find myself in the arms of my husband, joyous and incandescent.
I watched him with an indulgent smile. I was his greatest admirer. What else could I be? What else could I do? I loved him, my heart sang when he was near me, when I saw him I was just as euphoric because his elation was contagious. Everyone in the camp believed in him. Everyone bathed in his glow. The grand adventure had swept them up and was carrying them along as easily as twigs in the flooded river.
Then word came that Coenus was approaching with the boats, and the plan moved to stage two. The false alerts doubled. Porus had not a minute’s respite. He was unable to watch the
whole river at once, or choose one place as the most likely to defend. He was obliged to split up his army, giving the chariots to his son, and deploying his infantry and cavalry in two or three places.
Meanwhile, Alexander disguised one of his generals in his own clothes, put him on Bucephalus, and bade him to continue the false alarms. He himself had to organize his real attack. One that Porus hadn’t even begun to suspect because of its sheer audacity.
Twenty-five miles away was a high cliff, where the hills of the Great Salt Ridge came right down to the water’s edge and formed a strong promontory. Behind it, a deep valley cut into the mountain’s flank, easily big enough to hide half of Alexander’s army. Now came the tricky part.
Under cover of night, over several nights, parts of the army crept away. They hid in the valley and their places were taken up by the civilians following the army. Everyone was involved in the deception. Women dressed as soldiers and held shields. Doctors and scientists rode horses and carried bows. Everyone spread out, tents were left behind, and dummies were stuffed and placed in strategic positions. To the watching army on the other side of the river, it was impossible to tell that fully twenty thousand men and horses had gradually disappeared.
And Alexander’s look-alike continued to ride up and down, shouting, waving, and giving the call to attack.
Porus finally stopped answering the false attacks and stood back warily. Watching. Now was Alexander’s chance. He seized it during a severe thunderstorm in the dead of night.
Chapter Thirteen
I stayed in the tent with Axiom, Brazza, and Chiron, pacing up and down while the rain battered the roof, and the wind and thunder deafened us. The lamp swung back and forth. Shadows reared and subsided, our eyes were deep, black pools of worry. Chiron cried angrily and slept fitfully.
Craterus had been left behind with his cavalry, the phalanx, and the Indian army with Taxiles and Meroes. His orders were simply to stand. Not to attempt any crossing until he was sure there was no way he could be pushed back by Porus’s army. If he saw that Alexander’s army needed help, and he could make it across, he was to deploy the boat-bridge. If Alexander’s army started to win, he was to cross right away, swimming the horses and crossing the men on the bridge in order to give chase to the retreating army. If he saw Alexander losing, he was to take me, Roxanne, and the rest of the civilians and retreat to Taxila. Then we were to return to our respective countries, except for me. I would be accompanied by Craterus to the Valley of Nysa.
I didn’t see Alexander’s part of the fight, but I know exactly what happened. Between his words, the storm, and the sounds of the battle there was woven a tale out of the night. The story of the Battle of Porus.
Arrian starts his story this way:
“It was a dark and stormy night …”
A bolt of lightning crashed into the valley, hitting a tall tree, electrocuting three of the cavalry horses tied beneath it. There was a brief moment of panic, but it quickly subsided as the men concentrated their efforts on setting up the floating bridge across the raging river.
The storm slashed downwards with such strength that the men could hardly see a hand’s breadth in front of them. Torches were put out instantly in the deluge and, anyway, Alexander had ordered complete darkness. Only the flaming tree offered a flickering red light. The smoke showed the driving rain. The river lit by flashes of lightning churned heavy and wild as a living thing.
The boats were recalcitrant, bucking and twisting. However, the men had lots of practice and soon the bridge was completed. The infantry walked across, with the cavalry swimming their horses in the lee of the bridge. It offered shelter, at least from logs or branches sweeping down upon them. Two hours later most of the men had made it to the shore, but Alexander, who had been among the first to cross on his valiant Bucephalus, discovered that they had been misled, and instead of arriving on the opposite shore, they had hit an island. Forty feet of swiftly flowing river stood between them and the opposite shore. Alexander went first. It was too late to bring over the bridge, they would have to wade or swim. He hoped that it wasn’t too deep.
Bucephalus plunged in, snorting and shaking his great head. Soon the water was up to his belly, swirling around his legs. Only the blue lightning flashes lit the darkness, and the thunder made all shouting impossible. Bucephalus hit deep water and for a second his head was submerged, then he surged upwards, blowing water out of his nostrils like a whale. He struggled against the current, swimming with just his nose in the air, snorting furiously. Right away though, he found a footing and hauled himself out of the water. Limbs trembling, sides heaving, he stood still for a moment, recovering his wind. Then he threw his head up and whinnied. His voice climbed over the storm and the thunder. The other horses answered. The men leaped forward.
Alexander had to hurry. The night would not hide them indefinitely. He gathered the cavalry around him. Plexis had five hundred cavalry under his command as well as the Royal Guard, Perdiccas and Demetrius each had five hundred cavalry, Coenus had his battalion and the phalanx, and there were archers and infantry.
Alexander put the Royal Guard and Plexis with the hipparchies to his right. To his left, he put Perdiccas. In front of everyone he deployed his mounted archers. Behind were the infantry, with Coenus and his battalion, the phalanx was in the middle, and the archers were on the wings. Then he set off as fast as the army could go towards Porus.
It was a six-hour chase through the blackest night. The horses had better night vision than the men, but two men were killed outright when their mounts stepped in deep holes, pitching them over their heads. Another horse screamed and died not long after, perhaps bitten by a snake. By some miracle none of Alexander’s men were bitten in the rush through the fields and river-plains.
Six hours of running, then walking to get one’s breath back, then running again. The horses trotted steadily. Alexander didn’t want to get too far ahead of his foot soldiers. Only when he felt they were close to where Porus would certainly meet them, did he urge Bucephalus into a headlong gallop, the rest of the cavalry racing along after him. The ground shook with their charge. He was planning on buying time for his infantry to rest, but it meant sparing neither his horse nor himself.
Porus’s scouts saw Alexander’s army and ran to tell their leader. Even knowing he had been duped, Porus didn’t panic or think of giving up the fight. To give himself time to deploy his elephants and cavalry, he sent his son with a thousand chariots and two hipparchies of cavalry to slow Alexander’s charge.
The rainstorm acted in Alexander’s favour now, bogging down the chariots and slowing their charge. Unable to swing around in time to face the sweeping charge of Alexander’s cavalry, the chariots were cut down and the men, including Porus’s son, slaughtered.
It was still night, though a grey line was showing under the heavy belly of the clouds. Dawn was coming. The attack had begun in earnest.
Porus was caught between Alexander’s troops on his side of the river and Craterus’s troops on the far side, still in position to cross at any moment. However, Porus decided to engage Alexander fully, thinking – rightly, I’m sure – that if he managed to kill the young king, the rest of the army would be lost. Therefore, he called his troops, blowing mournfully on a huge horn.
The elephants made an impenetrable forest, while Porus’s archers, shooting from behind, kept Alexander’s army at bay. But Alexander had time to develop a strategy against this, and he set off at full gallop with his cavalry. Porus’s cavalry, lined up behind the elephant line, followed them, running parallel to all Alexander’s movements. While they dashed back and forth, the elephants swung uneasily from side to side. The infantry, arriving now, stealthily took their places behind Alexander. They had marched all night, twenty-five miles in a thunderstorm, and they were tired. Alexander gave them time to rest using his cavalry as a diversion – and then not as a diversion. As soon as Porus decided it had been a distraction and made the decision to attack, Alexander suddenly
split his cavalry in two, sending Coenus and Perdiccas to the left, taking Plexis and Demetrius to the right, flanking Porus’s army. Seleucos stayed with the phalanx and with his cavalry. The result was that the Indians were obliged to quickly split up in two groups, one facing Alexander’s cavalry, the other meeting Perdiccas. In the middle, all was confusion.
The phalanx charged and the archers rushed in, aiming at the elephants and their drivers. The beasts, wounded and driverless, started to bellow and charge, stampeding thoughtlessly over Porus’s army. Alexander’s men, being in the open, were able to retreat and dodge, but Porus’s army was caught in a trap of its own making. They were caught between the elephants and the bulk of the rest of their army, with Alexander’s cavalry on either side.
The shrill trumpeting of the wounded elephants brought me rushing to the river’s edge. I could see the top part of the battle: the elephants towered over everything else. I was too low to see anything other than the elephants. Cursing, I ran to the wooden tower Craterus had built to view the scene. He and two other generals were in it, surveying the battle. I couldn’t tell by their faces what was happening. If they were surprised to see me, they said nothing. Silently they made room for me between them.
At first all I saw was confusion. The elephants were badly wounded. Blood poured off their heads and bodies, and they had retreated into an instinctive huddle, facing their enemy. They raised their trunks and trumpeted mournfully. Shaking their massive heads, flapping their ears, they slowly backed away from the prickly thicket of spears Alexander’s phalanx presented.
Arrian describes them as looking like boats being rowed backwards as they retreated. I will always have that image of the great, sad beasts shaking their heads back and forth in an almost stately fashion, as their mournful cries mingled with the screams of the wounded and dying.
Son of the Moon Page 11