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But as Perdikkas walked away he was quite certain that he heard Eumenes mutter: ‘You really do need my help and you will get it, like it or not.’

  ANTIGONOS,

  THE ONE-EYED

  GODS, how I hate the cavalry. Antigonos, the Macedonian governor of Phrygia, muttered a series of profanities under his breath as he watched the lance-armed, shieldless, heavy-cavalry on his left wing attempt to form up on rough ground, far further from the left flank of his phalanx than he had ordered. The error left too much space for his peltasts to cover once they had finished driving off the skirmishers from the scrubland protecting the enemy’s opposite flank; it also pushed his javelin-armed, mercenary Thracian light-horse too far away for them to be able to respond with alacrity to any signal he might send. However, he hoped to finish the day’s work with one mighty blow from his twelve-thousand-eight-hundred-strong phalanx. All his adult life Antigonos had been an infantry commander, leading his men from the front rank, looking no different to them, wielding a sarissa whilst shouting orders to the signaller six ranks behind; at fifty-nine he was still taking joy in the power of the war-machine that his old friend, King Philip, had introduced. And, as such, he knew the value of cavalry to protect the cumbersome flanks of the phalanx from enemy horse; but that was why he disliked them so much as they were constantly boasting that the infantry would be dead without them. Annoyingly, that was the truth.

  ‘Go up there,’ Antigonos bellowed at a young, mounted aide, ‘and tell that idiot son of mine that when I say fifty paces I don’t mean a hundred and fifty. I may only have one eye but it is not totally useless. And tell him to hurry up; there’s no more than an hour of daylight left.’ He scratched at his grey beard, grown full and long, and then took a bite from the onion that passed for his dinner. Despite his youth, his son, Demetrios, showed promise, Antigonos conceded, even if he did favour the cavalry as it far better suited his flamboyant behaviour; he just wished that he would take more heed of orders and reflect more upon the implications of doing as he pleased. A lesson in discipline was what the boy needed, Antigonos reflected, but he was constantly thwarted by his wife, Stratonice, who doted on him to the extent that he could do no wrong in her eyes; it was to drag Demetrios away from her skirts that he had brought his fifteen-year-old son on his first campaign and given him command of his companion cavalry.

  Chewing, Antigonos examined the rest of his disposition from his command post on a knoll behind the centre of his army. He swallowed and then washed down the mouthful with strong, resonated wine; emitting a loud burp, he handed the wineskin to a waiting slave and took a deep breath of warm, late-afternoon air. He liked this country with its ragged hills and fast-flowing rivers; rock and scrub, hard land, land that reminded him of his home in the Macedonian uplands; land that chiselled a man rather than moulding him with gentle hands. But however good the land might be for the forming of a man’s character, it was a liability to the conduct of smooth military operations. And it was with both those considerations in mind that he studied the Kappadokian satrap’s army facing him, formed up with a river, a hundred paces wide, spanned by a three-arched stone bridge to its rear. He scanned the ranks of brightly robed clansmen, whose colours were enhanced by the sinking sun, clustered around a centre of a couple of thousand Persian regular infantry, in front of the bridge, stringing their bows behind their propped-up wicker pavises. In embroidered trousers and long bright-orange and deep-blue tunics and sporting dark-yellow tiaras, they were the original satrapy garrison that had helped Ariarathes, Darius’ appointment, to hold out against Macedonian conquest for the ten years since Alexander, after a brief foray as far as Gordion, bypassed central Anatolia, taking his army south by the coastal route.

  But now Antigonos had cornered this warlord of the interior who had preyed upon his supply lines and left a trail of his men writhing on stakes throughout the country; or at least cornered his army for he had no doubt that whatever the result of the coming conflict, Ariarathes would escape. It was a shame after the effort of having force-marched from Ancyra along the King’s Road, the mighty construction that linked the great cities of the Persian Empire with the Middle Sea. The speed of his move had caught Ariarathes’ army as it attempted to cross the narrow bridge over the River Halys back into Kappadokia after their latest raid. Caught in a bottleneck, Ariarathes had no choice but to turn and fight as he tried to extract as many of his troops as possible from the precarious position; only the setting of the sun could save him. As he watched, Antigonos saw many scores of the rebels streaming over the bridge and he had no doubt in his mind that Ariarathes would have been the first across. But I’ll trim his wings today, whether he survives or not. He looked behind towards the westering sun. Provided I do it now and quickly. A glance up to his left told him that Demetrios had finally formed up in the correct position; satisfied that all was in order, Antigonos stuffed the rest of the onion into his mouth, jogged down the knoll and then, rubbing his hands together and chuckling in anticipation of a good fight, made his way through the phalanx to his position in the front rank.

  ‘Thank you, Philotas,’ he said, taking his sarissa from a man of similar age. ‘Time to drown as many of these rats as possible,’ he added with a grin. Taking his round shield that had been slung over his shoulder, he threaded his left hand through the sling so that he could grip his pike with both hands and still rely on a degree of protection from the shield even though he could not wield it as a hoplite would his larger hoplon. Without looking behind, he shouted back to the horn-blower. ‘Phalanx to advance, attack pace.’

  Three long notes sounded and were repeated all along the half-mile frontage of the phalanx. As the last call rang out in the distance the first horn-blower took a deep breath and blew a long shrill note. Almost as one, the men of the front ranks stepped forward to be followed by the file behind them; with rank after rank rolling forward, giving a ripple effect like breakers surging to the shore, the army of Antigonos closed with the foe.

  It was with the same pride that he always felt when advancing at the heart of a phalanx that Antigonos tramped forward, his great pike held upright so that he could keep his shield covering as much of his body as possible as they neared the enemy. Gods, I could never tire of this. He had fought in the phalanx ever since its inception, firstly in Philip’s wars against the city state of Byzantion and the Thracian tribes to secure his eastern and northern borders; there the tribesmen had skewered themselves on the hedge of iron that protruded from the formation so that very few managed to close into the individualistic hand to hand combat they favoured. But it was in Greece that the new, deeper formation had really been tested; Philip gradually expanded his power south until it was to Macedon that the Greek cities deferred and the days when Macedonians were publicly derided as being no more than barely civilized provincials of questionable Hellenic blood were gone – those thoughts were now shared only in private. The heavier phalanx had crushed the hoplite formations and the lance-armed Macedonian cavalry swept their javelin-wielding opponents from the field. Antigonos had loved every moment, never happier than when he was in the heart of a battle.

  However, he had been left behind by Alexander soon after he had crossed into Asia and defeated the first army that Darius had sent against him at Gaugamela; but it had not been a dishonourable dismissal: Alexander had chosen Antigonos to be his satrap in Phrygia precisely because of his joy of war. The young king had trusted him to conclude the siege of the Phrygia’s capital, Celaenae, and then to complete the conquest of the interior of Anatolia whilst he went south and east to steal an empire. Ariarathes was the last Persian satrap to still resist in Anatolia and Antigonos thanked the gods for him for without him he would have nothing more to do other than collect taxes and hear appeals; in fact, sometimes he wondered to himself whether he had allowed Ariarathes to hold out on purpose just so that he would always have a good excuse to go campaigning. But now that news had reached him that Alexander had returned out of the east and had recently arrived in Babyl
on, Antigonos had decided that a very real attempt should be made to rid this part of the empire of the last rebel satrap; he did not want to face the young king, for the first time in almost ten years, without completing the task he had been entrusted with.

  With the thunder of twelve thousand footsteps crunching down on hard ground in unison, the phalanx pressed on and Antigonos’ heart was full. To his left he could make out the peltasts, named after their crescent, hide-covered-wicker pelte shields, drive the archers threatening that flank from the scrubland in which they had taken cover; blood had been spilt and life was good. With a final volley of javelins, aimed at the backs of the retreating skirmishers, the peltasts rallied and withdrew to their position between the phalanx and the covering cavalry that advanced, as ordered, at the same pace as the infantry. Gods, I do so love this. Antigonos’ beard twitched as he smiled behind it; his one good eye gleamed with excitement and the puckered scar in his left socket, which gave him a fearsome countenance, wept bloody tears. One hundred paces to go; gods this will be good.

  Looking out from behind their pavises, the Persian infantry aimed their bows high; a cloud of two thousand arrows rose into the sky and Antigonos’ smile grew broader. ‘Keep it steady, lads!’ And down the arrows plunged, clattering through the swaying forest of upright pikes; their momentum broken, they did little harm; here and there a scream followed by a series of curses as the casualty’s comrades stepped over the fallen man and struggled to avoid getting their feet caught on his discarded pike. Some gaps would open, Antigonos knew, but they would soon be filled as the file-closers pushed men forward; he did not need to look round to make sure that was happening.

  Again, another shower of iron-tipped rain fell from the sky and again it was mostly soaked up by the canopy over the phalanx’s heads, the missiles falling to the ground as if twigs broken off in a tempest. Fifty paces, now. ‘Pikes!’ Another signal blared out and was repeated along the line, but this time the manoeuvre did not need to be completed in unison; from the centre, spreading left and right, pikes came down as a wave, the front five ranks to horizontal and the rear ranks to an angle over the heads of the men in front, shielding them still from the continuing arrow-storm.

  Hunching forwards, Antigonos counted his steady, even paces, impatient for each one, as the enemy neared; now the Persian aim was more direct and arrows began to slam into the front rank’s shields that rocked with the impacts as they were not held secure with a fist gripping a handle but just slung loose over the arm. Now the casualties began to mount; unprotected faces and thighs became targets; screams of pain became commonplace as, with the wet thuds of a butcher’s shop, iron-tipped missiles pierced flesh and came to a juddering halt on bone. Shaft after shaft hissed in and Antigonos smiled still; he had not been touched since one had taken his eye at Chaeronea when Philip had defeated the combined forces of Athens and Thebes. Since then he had been blessed of Ares, the god of war, and felt no fear walking into a blizzard of arrows. Now he could see the Persians’ eyes as they aimed their shafts. An instinct made him duck his head; an arrow clanged off his bronze helmet, making his ears ring; he raised his face and laughed at the enemy, for they were going to die.

  Taking up their pavises to use as more conventional shields, the Persians jammed their bows back into the cases on their hips, pulled long-thrusting spears from the ground and stood shoulder to shoulder, dark eyes staring at the oncoming phalanx, bristling with life-taking iron-points. Antigonos’ laugh turned into a roar as he trudged the final few steps, the muscles in his arms aching with the strain of holding the pike level. His men roared with him, natural fear flowing from them to be replaced by the joy of combat.

  And then he was there and now he could kill; with a power that filled him with joy, Antigonos thrust the pike forward at the hennaed-bearded face of the Persian before him, each man in the front rank judging the timing of the killing blow for himself; the Persian spun away from the pike-tip and grabbed the haft, attempting to yank it from Antigonos’ grasp, but he pushed on, along with the rest of his men, forcing their way forward, so that within two paces the second rank sarissas were coming in under those in front of them at belly height. On they pushed, pace by pace, working their weapons, still well out of reach of the enemy who now struggled, as the third rank’s points came into range, with the multitude of weapon-heads ranged against them.

  A couple of Persians, braver than the rest, charged forward, their spears over their shoulders, twisting between the wooden hafts, making for Antigonos, whose pike point was now lost to view; but still he kept stabbing forward, blind, as the Persians approached to within range of their weapons. But Antigonos did not flinch for he knew the men behind him; out of the corner of his eye he saw a pike being raised as the fourth-ranker lifted his arms and thrust his weapon forward. With a scream, a Persian doubled over the wound in his groin, fists pulling at the pike embedded in it as another comrade behind Antigonos, with a sharp jab, dealt with the second man. And still they moved forward, the pressure mounting with every step, but the weight of the phalanx was what made it so difficult to stand against and all along the line the enemy floundered as their frontage buckled. It was the Kappadokian clansmen, to either side of the Persians, tough men from the mountainous interior, who turned first; unable to face the Macedonian war-machine with only javelins and swords they ran, in their thousands, towards the river for they knew that a Macedonian phalanx could not chase its quarry with any speed.

  With pride Antigonos looked to his left and saw exactly what he had hoped to: his son, purple-edged white cloak billowing behind him, leading the charge, at the head of the wedge formation so favoured by the Macedonian Companion Cavalry, which would achieve what the phalanx could not. And it was with speed and fury that they swept into the broken Kappadokian ranks, the wedge increasing pressure the deeper it drove, crashing men aside and trampling many more beneath thrashing hoofs as lances stabbed at the backs of the routed, dealing out wounds of dishonour. It was then that the right flank cavalry hit, boxing the beaten army in; the Persians now knew they could not possibly hope to extricate themselves across the bridge to safety and they too turned in flight.

  Antigonos raised a fist in the air; a horn rang out once more. The phalanx had done its work and would halt, resting, whilst it watched the glory-boys of the cavalry do the easy part of the action: murder the vulnerable.

  All were driven before them as the heavy-cavalry swept through from both flanks. Further out, light-cavalry patrolled in swirling circles, picking off the few fortunate enough to escape; Antigonos had indicated before the action that he had no interest in prisoners unless it be Ariarathes himself as he had a particularly wide stake ready for the rebel to perch on. Only the enemy cavalry managed to escape with their mounts swimming to the far bank.

  With the phalanx precluding any flight to the west, those who could not get on to the bridge, now heaving with a stampede of the desperate, had but one choice to make: certain death on the point of a cavalry lance or the river. And so the Halys churned with drowning men, each trying to survive at the expense of others as the current washed them away, sucking them under. Some, those with the luck of their gods on their side, managed to cling to one of the two great stone supports sunk into the riverbed, although many were hauled off by others grabbing at their ankles as they swept past. A few managed the climb up to the parapet but none made it over into the crush of humanity swarming across but were, rather, thrust back down into the river by men who saw that another person on the bridge would lessen their own chances of survival.

  Antigonos laughed as he watched Demetrios and his comrades spear fleeing Persian infantrymen as they attempted to push their way onto the bridge. Their Boitian-style helmets, painted white with a golden wreath etched around them, glowed warm in the rays of the setting sun as, sitting well back on their mounts and gripping with their thighs, their feet hanging free, they controlled their beasts with a deftness born of a life in the saddle. Calf-length leather boots, a boil
ed-leather or bronze muscled-cuirass with fringed leather pteruges beneath it, protecting the groin, and tunics and cloaks of differing hues, red, white, dun or brown, they made for a fine sight Antigonos was forced to concede. And, as they slaughtered their way through to the crush attempting the bridge, few turned to oppose them for most had discarded their weapons as they fled.

  Antigonos slapped Philotas on the shoulder as Demetrios’ lance broke and he reversed it to use the butt-spike. ‘The boy’s enjoying himself; he seems to be getting a taste for Easterners’ blood. And it’s about time: Alexander was roughly the same age when he led troops in battle for the first time.’

  Philotas grinned as Demetrios’ flanker took a Persian’s hand off as he attempted to drag the young lad from the saddle. ‘Caunus is looking after him, so he shouldn’t come to any harm. You’ll just have to stress to him that it isn’t always quite so easy.’

  ‘He’ll learn that soon enough.’

  Demetrios’ unit, an ile of one hundred and twenty-eight men, was now at the bridge, the leading six hacking and stabbing their way forward as the press of the vanquished thinned out and flight became swifter; and still they killed and still men fled before them. On they drove and the smile faded from Antigonos’ face the further they went. The little fool. He turned to the signaller. ‘Sound the recall!’

  The horn blared rising notes that were repeated throughout the formation yet Demetrios led his men on until there were none left on the bridge to kill and he burst out onto the eastern bank and, in the last of the light, slew all he could find.

  ‘If a Kappadokian doesn’t kill him,’ Antigonos muttered, ‘then I will when he gets back.’

  ‘No you won’t, old friend; you’ll cuff him round the ears and then give him a hug for being a fool, but a brave one.’

  ‘My arse I will; it’s foolish behaviour like that that gets people killed unnecessarily. He’s either got to learn discipline or resign himself to a short life.’