Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  Another third of a league was covered and the Athenian fleet had begun to deploy for action, their oars spreading like wings as they turned and heaved out into the channel from Abydus. From this distance, Krateros could not tell how many lines they had but what he did know was that the Athenian navy had been the best in the world a century ago and he prayed to Poseidon, the real one, that despite the Macedonian superiority in numbers, it was not still the case.

  With no more than half a league separating the two fleets, the Athenians had fully deployed into lines; again their oars spread and dipped as they began the toil of picking up speed against the wind.

  Sails raised and full, many blazoned with the sixteen-point sun of Macedon, the Macedonians came on; the rowers resting and drinking from skins of fresh water in preparation for the lung-bursting exertion that lay ahead. Deck crew tightened sheets and hauled on lanyards to harvest every last morsel of power from the gods-given wind as they surged towards the enemy with a naked, trident-wielding imitation of Poseidon, strewn with seaweed, at their head.

  Kleitos’ physique was as sculpted as Poseidon himself as he strutted and posed with his trident in the prow of the ship, roaring his defiance at the oncoming fleet and promising to send each and every one of them to the bottom of his dark and wet realm. Behind him the marines and archers made their final checks to their equipment and gave entreaties to their favoured gods.

  With less than a third of a league now separating the opposing forces, Kleitos turned and ordered the sail furled and oars to be dipped. Sailors scrambled up the mast and along the yard to release the sail from its bindings; down the great sheet came with many hands pulling on it to prevent it from flapping in the wind. As soon as the rest of the first line of the fleet saw Kleitos’ move they followed in a ripple out to either side from the centre. Sails tumbled and ships sprang wings; the pipes of the stroke-masters shrilled, taking their timing from the leading vessel. The oars dipped as one and a huge groan of masculine exertion emanated from each ship; without losing speed, the fleet surged on.

  Using his trident to set the pace, pumping it in the air in a slow, deliberate rhythm, Kleitos judged the closing distance between the fleets. Now Krateros could make out individuals on the decks of the Athenian ships: deckhands, marines with bronze helms, their cheek and nasal guards almost completely obscuring the faces and plumes standing tall as, with muscle-bulging arms, they hefted javelins and held their round shields up. Archers, standing to either side of the marines, nocked arrows and, with wetted fingers held up, gauged the windage. This is where we have the slight advantage with the wind being in our favour, Krateros told himself with the detached interest of an observer. Having only seen small actions with a pirate ship or two and never partaken in a full-scale naval encounter he had become fascinated by the imminent prospect. You never know, but even at this stage of your life you could learn something new.

  At four hundred paces, Kleitos increased the rhythm of his trident and the ship leapt forward, to the shrill of the pipe, into attack speed. All along the line the others did the same as triarchoi now began to single out enemy ships as their targets.

  It had become apparent to Krateros that Kleitos had no real plan other than ‘up and at them’ and it would be every ship for itself as the two fleets crashed together.

  Before them was a trireme with its hull painted red and with two dark eyes to either side of its prow; its ram, visible intermittently, was crowned in bronze and its prow was adorned with a wooden image of Athena, tall and proud, holding a spear and shield. Kleitos roared with pleasure and, pointing at the vessel, turned to shout at the triarchos, Paris, a weather-beaten old veteran, quite the antithesis to his mythological namesake: ‘That’s ours, Paris! Take her as best you can. Poseidon will fuck Athena!’ Leaving the details of the attack to Paris, Kleitos turned back to the oncoming enemy and increased the beat so that the ship, followed by the rest of the fleet, surged into ramming-speed.

  And the arrows flew, rising from the decks of both fleets like flocks of sparrows taking to the air; up they rose to their apex before falling to bring fear and death to the enemy. But the wind played its part and the first Athenian volley fell short, perhaps killing a few enemy fish at most; the Macedonian archers, however, had more success as their volley was blown into the oncoming ships and the first cries of pain floated across the water. Again the bowstrings hummed and the hiss of many shafts passed up into the sky. Volley after volley the archers loosed as the Athenians found their range and an iron-headed hail began to thud down onto the Macedonian decks.

  Krateros, his shield held before him, affected to ignore the danger thumping in from above as fire pots were brought up from below and placed amongst the archers, who, for the moment, continued with high, arching shots.

  The stroke-master’s pipes were now at the fastest beat possible for the huge-hearted rowers, powering the ship on and on; with less than fifty paces until impact. The archers switched to fire arrows as in the short flight they were less likely to extinguish. Multiple strands of smoke now streaked across the sky joining the two fleets together as if they were ropes hauling the enemy in. Flames caught and buckets were deployed as all on board each ship now kept a close eye on the nearing foe. With but thirty paces to go all thought of fighting fire or loosing arrows disappeared as each man, with firm handholds, braced for impact.

  With the Athenian trireme now less than twenty-five paces away, head on, Krateros involuntarily closed his eyes as he held fast to the rail and Paris shouted: ‘Now!’

  The steersmen slammed their steering-oars to larboard; the huge trireme responded immediately, slewing to starboard, crossing the path of the oncoming Athenian, now aflame amidships.

  ‘Again!’ the triarchos cried and the steersmen now slammed their oars the opposite way so that the trireme regained its original course but now heading straight at the Athenian’s larboard oar-bank. ‘Ship larboard oars!’ Paris roared down to the rowers.

  The reaction was instant as all knew the fate of an oarsman who failed to withdraw his sweep in time. But the Athenian triarchos did not react with such alacrity and, with Kleitos roaring a victory hymn to himself, the bow raked down the enemy’s oars, cracking them back into the chests and faces of the rowers, breaking ribs and pulverising features as they snapped like dry twigs broken up for kindling. The screams of the injured rose from the belly of the ship as archers and marines pumped their missiles onto the crowded deck; arrows and javelins flew back in reply, punching men back to fall twisted to the ground.

  Oblivious to shafts hissing all around him, Kleitos grabbed a grappling hook and, whirring it about his head, hurled it across the gap to latch onto the enemy gunwale; with fleet hands, he tied the end of the rope to a cleat as the oars continued to shatter below and smoke from the burning deck engulfed both triremes. With a sudden jerk the rope tautened, belaying the ship’s progress and pulling the two warring vessels together with a grinding of wood on wood. Marines hurled themselves over the rail, shields up and spears thrusting overarm as the archers kept a constant hail of barbs streaming into the foe, feathering their shields until the proximity of their comrades forced them to seek other targets.

  It was with a cacophony of battle-cries that the two sets of marines clashed, shield slamming into shield as spears thrust down in explosive overarm jabs; the screaming began; the wounded and dying fell. Krateros considered joining the melee, out of interest, as Kleitos, still naked but now protected by a shield, jumped onto the Athenian ship and, barging through the fighting, took the triarchos in the throat with his trident. As the Macedonians pushed the Athenians back in a flurry of overarm strokes, Krateros decided against joining; I’ll just get in the way. It’s a younger man’s occupation and, besides, they seem to be doing well enough without me.

  He looked about as smoke wafted across the deck; not twenty paces to starboard another two ships entered into a deadly duel. And then more and more, to either side, collided, raked or rammed with sudden reports
of the cracking of shattered timber and resounding hollow thumps, magnified by the drum-like interiors of the stricken vessels, in quick staccato succession. Clash upon clash ensued as the front lines of the two great fleets collided and entwined, some ablaze, belching fumes, each conflict existing within its own private world.

  But not all the Athenian ships had engaged; indeed, it had never been their commander’s intention for all to do so, for, having been apprised by scouts of the previously unheard-of fleet making its way to the north, he had determined to trap and destroy it despite it being of far greater size. Thus it was that, as he looked back to the second line, Krateros saw beyond it the rest of the Athenian fleet speeding, under full-sail, around the point to complete the trap.

  Where possible, the Athenians forced their way through the first line of the Macedonian fleet to face the reserves coming up fast behind so that they would have to fight in two directions.

  Krateros saw the move and immediately understood the plan. Hold our first line whilst destroying the reserve, then the odds will become more even; this Athenian commander is definitely worthy of his predecessors.

  And so, through the first line many of the Athenian ships went, but at the expense of others manoeuvred into combat by the Macedonians. The sea now swirled with blood and churned with men thrashing their limbs in desperation, trying to stay afloat. Through the smoke and confusion, a second wave of Athenian ships hove into view before them as Krateros’ trireme and the Athenian, still coupled in a deadly embrace, began to rotate.

  ‘Paris!’ Krateros shouted, pointing at an oncoming bireme bearing down on them as they drifted side on to it.

  ‘Starboard oars!’ the triarchos shouted down to the rowing deck, recognising immediately the danger Krateros foresaw. Within a few heartbeats the stroke-master’s pipe shrilled and the sixty double-banked oars of the starboard side pulled as one; the upper oars, longer and worked by two men and the shorter single-man oars of the lower level strained back through the water, the oarsmen putting all the strength into the pull for they could see through the oar-ports the approaching threat. On the bireme came, bearing down on what, its triarchos could well see, was a helpless victim. At ramming speed it shot through the waves; the Macedonian rowers lost courage as the deadly ram foamed the sea, heading inexorably towards them. Oars clattered down as they were abandoned and men scrambled for the companionways up to the main deck and daylight.

  Krateros watched, in morbid fascination, the Athenian close at a speed he felt was impossible for a sea-borne craft to achieve. At the last moment he crouched; the ship jumped back, crunching into the entwined Athenian trireme, as the ram forced its way through its timbers into its belly with the multiple mighty reports of splintering wood. On the bireme came as its ram cleaved through the innards of the Macedonian, showering wicked shards that killed and maimed, until the prow smacked into its beam and the ship juddered to a halt. All three vessels were now conjoined and rocked together so that none aboard could keep his footing. Krateros rolled along the deck, back and forth, with the violent swell of the impact and its aftermath. It took a few heartbeats for the motion to steady; Krateros stumbled to his feet as rowers flooded up from below, their wet tunics and many bleeding wounds telling of the destruction wreaked by the ram.

  ‘She won’t last!’ Paris shouted.

  ‘On to the trireme!’ Krateros ordered the surrounding crew as they recovered their senses and realised their peril; the bireme began to back oars to extricate itself from its unnatural union.

  Knowing that, to survive, leadership was paramount, Krateros rushed to the larboard rail and, drawing his sword, jumped the gap onto the Athenian. The deck, shrouded in smoke, was slick with blood; men, felled by the recent collision, rolled about, clutching at one another in to-the-death struggles. With a sharp downward thrust, Krateros skewered an Athenian marine as he tried to gouge out the eyes of a Macedonian; behind him, rowers and deck crew streamed across from the stricken ship. ‘Take over the oar deck!’ Krateros screamed at the first oarsmen to make the crossing. Understanding the importance of the task they scrambled around for discarded weapons – knives, swords or javelins – and charged down the companionway to do battle with the opposite numbers already much depleted by the raking.

  Through the carnage, Krateros found Kleitos by the mainmast, slitting the throat of an archer, his trident now lost. ‘We need this ship,’ Krateros shouted in his ear, ‘ours is going down.’

  Kleitos looked round, his eyes unfocused. ‘What did you say?’

  Krateros repeated his assertion and drew Kleitos back from the blood-frenzy of the fight; he looked around. ‘Macedonians, to me!’

  The surviving marines and archers formed up on their leader, ready for one last effort as more crew, along with the triarchos, fled the sinking ship, now visibly lower than the Athenian. A small band of Athenians grouped together in the bow, bloodstained and weary; from below came curdling screams as the Athenian rowers were put to the sword, outnumbered now by their Macedonian counterparts streaming down into the gloom of the oar-deck.

  It took a couple of heartbeats for the Athenians to realise the gravity of their predicament and, almost as one, they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.

  ‘Tie them up,’ Kleitos ordered, picking up a sword and striding over to the grappling hook; with one blow he severed the rope and the two ships parted, the Macedonian stern now heavy in the water.

  ‘I’ll get the oar-deck in hand,’ Krateros shouted as Paris barked orders at his crew to quench the flames and to clear the bodies and debris away.

  Corpses littered the floor down in the shadows of the oar-deck. ‘Get the dead over-board and see how many oars you can salvage from the larboard side,’ Krateros ordered the stroke-master.

  ‘And the wounded, general,’ the stroke-master indicated the many oarsmen with crushed chests and pulverised faces, lying moaning beneath the benches.

  Most were beyond help, Krateros could see. ‘Slit their throats and dump them through the oar-ports as well; do it now!’

  The stroke-master did not need to be told that they were helpless until they could manoeuvre; he turned and barked orders at his men. Throats were cut, bodies were slithered into the sea and oars were redistributed.

  Krateros ran back onto the deck to see their erstwhile ship’s bows rise from the surface as, with the whistle of expelled air, the ship slipped, stern-first, under the waves leaving a foaming, bubbling sea to mark its passing.

  The fires were now under control and Kleitos, his trident recovered, strode around encouraging the men and placing them in stations as Paris and the steersmen awaited news from below. Krateros drew breath as he looked around. All he could see were ships: fighting, burning, sinking, fleeing or just drifting through the smoke and debris. Looking back west, he could see many of the Athenian vessels, having broken through the Macedonian first line, head straight at the reserve line as the second half of the Athenian fleet closed in on it from behind.

  Comprehending the magnitude of the engagement and the consequences should the Athenians take the day, Krateros ran over to Kleitos. ‘We have to link up with the reserves and then hold position here so that I can get the army across to Europe.’

  Kleitos nodded and looked around, counting ships that were still serviceable in the now-fractured leading line. Many were still involved in boarding or repelling boarders; one group, at least a dozen vessels in all, were all joined, ragtag, creating a small island upon which an imitation land-battle was being played out, but through the fumes its outcome was unclear.

  ‘All’s ready below,’ the stroke-master called up the companionway.

  ‘Not before time,’ Kleitos said, almost to himself; he pointed his trident west towards the reserves as the first of the Athenians crashed in amongst them. ‘Paris, get us underway and signal to all who can to follow us.’

  Against the wind and with depleted oars, the huge trireme struggled to accelerate as the groans of exertion rose from the
rowers with each slow-pulled stroke.

  Leaving the battle-locked vessels behind, the captured trireme slowly got under way, taking those Macedonian ships unengaged with it; three to four dozen in all. But will that be enough? Krateros judged it to be four to five hundred paces to where the reserves were being set upon by the Athenians who had broken through; how far behind the second half of the Athenian fleet was, he could not tell.

  On the trireme powered, with Kleitos back in the bow, as it gained momentum through debris-strewn waves, the stroke-master’s pipes almost drowned out by the roars of the rowers as they strained their last, knowing that the fate of their comrades rested on the speed with which they could come to their aid.

  With fists, white-knuckled, gripping the rail and Kleitos now singing the Hymn to Poseidon again next to him, Krateros watched the distance between the two lines lessen. If we lose this and I can’t get my army across this year then we will lose Greece; and if we lose Greece, then what will be next? The east for sure. And then we’ll start fighting each other. Krateros shook his head at the previously unthinkable that was becoming more of a possibility with every ship they lost.

  Four hundred, three hundred, down the distance came; now Krateros could hear the screams and shouts from the fighting blown with the wind across the surface. Closing with the enemy ships, he realised that there was a fundamental difference this time: they would attack them in the rear as they were already engaged to their front or side and were unable to turn to face the new threat.

  Aiming the ram at a slight angle between the steering oars of the Athenian before him, Paris kept the steersmen on a true course as the archers began to release volleys, alerting the Athenians to the danger grinding in from their rear.

  But there was nothing that they could do as they were already engaged, leaving their sterns – or beams if they had drifted around – as they struggled with their foe.