Alexander's Legacy: To The Strongest

by Robert Fabbri

  Up the tempo of the stroke-masters’ pipes went as Kleitos signalled, trident pumping hard, for all ships to accelerate to ramming speed for the last fifty paces. And it was with a sound that dwarfed the most violent thunder-crack as a storm broke at the height of Zeus’ anger, that they hit the Athenians. But it was not just one thunder-crack, it was many in a staccato beat of destruction as rams shattered, splintered and split Athens’ wooden walls. Down Krateros tumbled as the ram forced its way into the trireme’s stern at an angle so that it would not slide off. In it thrust and with it came a huge explosion of water that surged through the captain’s small cabin, washing the thin walls away and exposing the length of the oar-deck.

  ‘Reverse stroke, reverse stroke!’ Kleitos bellowed over to Paris. ‘She’s done for. It’s pointless losing lives boarding her.’

  And so it was that many of the Macedonians found themselves in a similar position, reversing their oars and withdrawing their rams from gaping wounds flooding with water.

  Krateros pulled himself to his feet as the trireme backed away from its victim now spewing seamen as they abandoned a fast-sinking ship. The archers, for the fun of it, carried on their strafing, sending many twisting into the waves, blood arcing from unnecessary wounds. And, as more of the Macedonian ships backed water, a hole began to appear through which the Macedonian reserve line started to flood as they extracted themselves from their duels moments before the second Athenian fleet hit them. Some were caught, suffering the same fate as their opponents, holed in the stern or raked from behind but many more burst through to the comparative safety beyond as floating wrecks and wallowing vessels hampered the navigation of the newly arriving Athenian support. Back Kleitos’ galley and many others went, facing the new arrivals as the Macedonian reserve rallied on them and turned to face their pursuers forming a long and formidable battle line unhampered by wreckage.

  A silence fell as the two fleets faced each other with just the wind thrumming stays and flapping loose material to be heard as all drew exhausted breath.

  It was the Athenians who blinked first.

  ‘They’ve had enough, the soft Greek bastards,’ Kleitos cried as the first ships began to back away. ‘But hold fast, lads, we’ll let them slink off for today.’

  As the last Athenian spun about and rowed away to the west, Kleitos turned his fleet about and headed into the Abydos, passing many a ruined vessel on the way in.

  ‘I would reckon we sank over fifty of them if I can believe this report from the triachoi,’ Kleitos told Krateros, waving a scroll, as they sat, an hour later, on some steps, leading down from the quayside, with their feet in the water, ‘and captured a couple of dozen more. Compare that with our losses of twenty-six ships sunk and eight more in a bad way, then I would say that was a good day’s work.’

  Krateros was too tired to do anything but yawn.

  ‘Krateros?’ a voice said from the top of the steps.

  He turned around to see Polyperchon astride his horse.

  ‘Polyperchon? Is the army here?’

  ‘It’ll arrive in two days; I rode ahead because I heard that the Athenians had blockaded the port and I wanted to see the situation for myself.’

  ‘Good man, quite right.’

  ‘Well, I can see the situation and I’d say it was reasonably favourable.’

  Krateros smiled at the understatement; he turned to Kleitos. ‘Get going as soon as you can and catch the rest of the Athenian navy; leave me the transport ships and I’ll get the army over to the other side as soon as it arrives. We’ll meet up at Aenus on the Thracian coast in four or five days and then move west in tandem and, with Antipatros, crush the Greek rebellion in the west.’

  PHILO,

  THE HOMELESS

  AND AT THAT time the Greek rebellion in the east faced its greatest challenge as Philo led his men towards the narrow pass, just to the south of the Caspian Sea, through which all armies must pass unless they wish to endure the baking heat of the waterless desert to the south. For ten days they had travelled, knowing that Peithon held the pass against them. Messengers had been sent to the satrap of Media offering gold in exchange for him allowing their passage but the answer had been negative.

  ‘He said that he will only negotiate with us if we return to our posts and then it will be for a pardon not safe passage,’ Letodorus informed Philo upon his return from Peithon’s camp on the farther side of the pass. They were standing looking at its wide entrance silhouetted by the westering sun; hills rose sharply to either side of it and then constricted it as the pass climbed before opening out onto the fertile uplands of Media, four leagues hence. ‘I tried everything: flattery, threats, bribery, even appealing to his sense of justice, which is, of course, very Macedonian and therefore has no room for Greek complaints.’

  Philo considered his options; they were limited. ‘So we either return to the east or we use the southern route and see how many of us survive.’

  ‘Very few of the women or children, that is for certain.’

  ‘And when we do emerge from the desert, weak and depleted, who’s to say that there won’t be an army waiting to finish us off?’ If I were Peithon I’d be wanting us to take the southern route; he’ll lose fewer men defeating us.

  Letodorus shook his head, his face grim. ‘That’s how I see it too; so really it’s just a choice between fighting or going back.’

  ‘If I order the men to turn back then I might as well slit my own throat.’

  ‘And mine.’

  ‘Yes, and yours, my friend. Did you manage to get an idea of his numbers?’

  ‘Difficult, but I would say that he has less than us, fifteen thousand foot at the most.’

  ‘That’s heartening, but he can choose his ground as we emerge from the pass and, if he’s militarily competent, which he is, then our superior numbers won’t count for anything.’

  ‘That’s how I see it.’

  There’s nothing I can do to change anything; I must concentrate on the facts and not wish for things that I haven’t got and cannot have. ‘Then that’s how it will be.’

  ‘So we fight, Philo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I told Peithon we would.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he regretted that it was to be the case and said that he hated to waste good men. He then asked if we would be willing to join with him.’

  ‘Join with him? Against whom?’

  ‘Against anyone he feels like fighting. It seems that, being so cut off since Alexander’s death, we’ve missed a lot of what is going on and, judging by what Peithon was saying, the empire is not going to hold together much longer.’

  ‘And he’s thinking that he might be able to carve a little bit of the east off it?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I said that the men want to go home to the sea and not swap one master for another; there’s no appetite for staying out here. Then he offered more silver but I told him that silver was not the issue, the sea was the issue.’

  ‘Did he understand?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So he’s expecting us.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we mustn’t disappoint him. Muster the men before dawn; we’ll be through with a couple of hours of daylight left if we hurry; more than enough time to crush Peithon.’

  There was an eeriness about the pass as it climbed through an otherwise impenetrable landscape of ridges, ravines and sheer cliffs. Perhaps it’s the thought of all the dozens of armies that have passed through over the centuries, Philo considered as he felt wonder that the very name, The Caspian Gates, should have such a resonance to it; and that, once again, it was proving to be pivotal in yet another passage of history. Ten abreast they marched along its length, the width of the pass at its narrowest so that there would be no slowing at bottlenecks. The metallic jangle of the men’s equipment rang through the rocks and echoed back off tall, jagged cliffs, unceasing as
if an endless herd of bell-carrying goats was being driven through the pass. Few spoke as the eeriness grew and a sure sense of being spied upon entered their minds; men looked up with nervous eyes, afraid that at any moment a volley of arrows or a fall of rock would come from above, the work of the unseen enemy who, all were soon convinced, lay in hiding awaiting their opportunity to strike. Such was the ruggedness of the terrain that very little in the way of scouting could be achieved.

  The sun rose and soon beat directly down upon the column; with no breeze, the air grew stifling within the pass and sweat dripped down men’s backs and glistened on tanned brows. The stench of unwashed tunics rose from the column, thickening the already close atmosphere and adding to the sense of oppression that all now felt.

  Philo took a long swig of water from his skin and looked to the burning sky as the sun passed its zenith; carrion birds circled with a lack of urgency, seemingly certain that such a great passing of the living would leave in its trail plenty of the dead to feast upon.

  Weariness grew with each passing step as they reached the halfway-point; Philo dared not call a pause to the march for fear of not making it to the other side in time to confront and beat Peithon’s force. ‘Spending the night in the pass would be to expose ourselves to a night attack,’ he told a delegation sent to the front in order to plead with him to call a halt for the day and to finish the journey on the morrow. ‘To win we need to break through this evening; if we don’t then all our suffering up until now will have been for nought. Have faith, Brothers, and we will reach the sea.’

  The delegation fell back to their places in the column with promises to quell any dissension should it start to rise up in the ranks.

  Soon after the delegation left, figures on horseback appeared, shimmering in the heat-haze ahead.

  ‘Bring them straight to me, Letodorus,’ Philo ordered as the scouts galloped in. ‘I’m anxious to know the worst.’

  ‘He knows we’re on our way, and will arrive late afternoon,’ the leader of the scouts told Philo. ‘He’s drawn his army up into position and is now feeding and resting his men so that they are in peak condition when we arrive.’

  The scout’s face gave Philo no doubt that the man thought arriving that day to be the height of foolhardiness; he ignored it. ‘Did you manage to get a look at their disposition?’

  The man thought for a few moments, organising his mind. ‘His phalanx, eight to ten thousand strong, is, unsurprisingly, on the flat ground, directly opposite the mouth of the pass, with a screen of archers and slingers in front of it. The main bulk of his cavalry, the heavy lancers, are on his right flank with peltasts in support and then some local levies, to bulk up the numbers, well to the rear out of the way. The rest of his peltasts and his horse-archers are on the left flank with light javelin-armed infantry acting as a screen.’

  ‘Horse-archers? How many?’

  ‘Just under a thousand, I should guess. But the strange thing is that beyond them there is a small hill which he seems to have neglected to occupy. If we could—’

  ‘If we could seize that then we would have control of that half of the field.’ Philo felt the thrill of a burgeoning hope.

  ‘I’ll do it, sir,’ Letodorus offered. ‘I’ll take the three thousand men in my taxies and double-time them out of the pass and be on that hill before Peithon knows what’s going on. The horse archers won’t try to get in amongst us, they’ll just send in volleys from a distance and we’re used to that from the caravan escorts. The peltasts and their light infantry won’t bother us one bit. We’ll take it.’

  Philo could see it in his mind’s eye. ‘Yes, Letodorus, I think you will. That will be a sight to give courage to all the men when they see you up there. Do it and do it quick.’

  Letodorus gave an easy smile and squeezed Philo’s shoulder. ‘I will and when you come out of the pass you won’t believe your eyes.’

  The heat was fading from the sun as it fell towards the west; Philo watched the last few units of Letodorus’ command disappear to the right as they left the pass and accelerated away. He looked behind and raised his fist in the air. His men, all of whom had been doing last-moment checks to their equipment in preparation for battle, drew themselves up and took deep breaths. This, they were all aware, would hurt. Down came Philo’s fist and away he jogged with the first company racing with him. One by one the units broke into double-time, following their general out from the Caspian Gates to face an enemy far more prepared than they could hope to be.

  Sucking in lungfuls of air as he ran with full kit, Philo left the mouth of the pass to see the might of the Macedonian army arrayed before him. Its phalanx dark and brooding and bristling with thousands of pikes, sixteen feet in length and tipped with honed iron, covered most of his vision, such was its size. To his left he could see the wedge formations of the heavy cavalry, their lance points glinting gold, backlit in the westering sun. He prayed that they would not be released whilst he tried to deploy his men and the gods answered his prayer and he raced away with his men streaming behind to form up the first unit on his extreme left flank. It was not until he had reached the requisite position and the first unit’s officers took over command that Philo turned to see how Letodorus was doing. His heart leapt as he saw his second-in-command’s men had indeed taken the hill; they swarmed all over it and now controlled all that sector of the field for to succeed there Peithon would have to fight a bloody battle to evict them.

  With confidence flowing through his being, Philo turned his attention back to his deployment before, with a sickening feeling surging up his gorge, he jerked his head back to look at the hill once more. He almost choked as he saw how Letodorus’ men were formed up: they were facing his troops, not Peithon’s.

  Treachery had won the day.

  The implication of Letodorus’ betrayal filtered, without pause, through the whole army; the deployment slowed to a crawl and then stopped altogether.

  ‘Comrades! Comrades!’ The shout came from the Macedonian lines; a rider on a white horse rode forward until he was midway between the two sides. ‘I am Peithon, one of Alexander’s bodyguards. Many of you know me.’ He paused to ride up and down the Greek line so that all could see that he was indeed who he claimed to be. As he approached where Philo stood, he slowed and pointed at him. ‘Philo! You know me; who am I?’

  It’s over; I’ve nothing to gain by aggression. ‘I can vouch for you, Peithon; what do you want?’

  ‘Nothing that you Greeks cannot afford: I want you and I want you alive.’

  ‘Alive to do what?’

  ‘Alive to be grateful to me for sparing you. Look around you, Philo: you can’t retreat, we would just massacre you as you tried to flee back down the pass; and you can’t go forward without a battle which, since Letodorus and his men saw sense, you have not got a hope of winning. So what’s it to be, Greeks? Life or death?’

  There was no need to debate the matter for all knew that Peithon had assessed their situation perfectly. If I am to retain any authority over my men I need to lead the way. Philo stepped forward and, with great exaggeration so that all could see, cast down his shield and spear and then pulled his sword from its sheath and dropped it at his feet.

  A mighty cheer rose from the rebel army as the men realised that they would live and that the dream of the sea was not entirely dead; they had glimpsed death but knew now they would not be dying this day. Spears and swords were discarded and they walked forward to greet the opposing army, many of whom they knew from shared campaigns. It was with a carnival atmosphere that the two sides came together, embracing and clapping one another on the shoulders whilst striking up conversations of hardships and battles and memories of comrades no longer alive.

  ‘Come with me, Philo,’ Peithon said, in a tone that brooked no refusal.

  The Macedonian camp reeled with drunkenness as night fell and the two sides celebrated their new-found friendship. The laughter and shouts filled the air, loud even in Peithon’s leather tent where Ph
ilo looked at Letodorus, disgust in his eyes, as they awaited the Macedonian general. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Letodorus shrugged. ‘The normal reasons: greed and self-preservation.’

  Philo spat. ‘I thought we were friends. I thought that you actually cared about getting home.’

  ‘I do; it’s just that when I saw Peithon’s army I realised that I wouldn’t be able to get home in such a large company; there would always be armies waiting for us even if we beat this one. Whereas a small group of half a dozen men with money would stand a far better chance; and I now have that money thanks to Peithon’s generosity.’

  ‘Thanks to your treachery, more like.’

  Letodorus looked hurt over his cup as he took a sip of wine. ‘That is not fair. I’ve saved all our lives. Most of the lads will get sent back east with Peithon as their benefactor; he’ll take over paying their wages and they will become his men.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I shall enjoy my retirement – by the sea.’

  ‘You bastard.’ Philo went for his sword only to remember that it had been taken from him after he had surrendered.

  Letodorus tutted and patted the hilt of his sword which he had been allowed to keep as a mark of Peithon’s trust. ‘Really, Philo; and what good would that do even if you were armed?’

  ‘It would make me feel a lot better.’

  ‘And Peithon would have you executed. Wouldn’t you, Peithon?’

  ‘What?’ Peithon said, emerging through the entrance, the noise of carousing coming with him.

  Letodorus repeated his assertion.

  ‘I wouldn’t think twice about it, Philo; you’re a Greek. But I’d rather that you served me.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Philo asked, not taking his eyes off Letodorus.

  The noise from the camp grew ever more raucous as the shouts and yells of drunken fighting began to impinge on the general merriment; Peithon cocked his head to listen for a moment and then ignored it. ‘I plan to take the east and with your men I could hold it.’