Dark Prince (66 page)

The
strategos
had allowed emotion to mask intellect, had even dulled his reason with wine. How many times had he warned his junior officers of just such stupidity? But now he was forced to face, head-on, the fear he had lived with for so long.

The chaos spirit had returned.

BATTLE AT THE ISSUS, 333
B.C.

The morning was chilly as Parmenion, in full battle armor, rode the gray Paxus toward the north, and steam billowed from the stallion’s nostrils. The sky was the color of iron, and a sea mist had crept in from the west, seeping across the campsite, dulling the sounds as the Macedonian infantry moved into formation. Parmenion tied the chin straps on his helm and swung to watch the gathering men.

For five days the Macedonians had marched south, apparently fleeing before Darius’ vast army, but now—as the dawn light bathed the Mediterranean—the Greeks swung back to the north, marching through a narrow rock-strewn pass.

With the Persian camp less than four miles distant, Parmenion rode warily at the head of the Macedonian infantry with Alexander alongside him. Throughout the night the Spartan had listened to reports from the scouts concerning the Persian positions. Believing Alexander to be fleeing from him, Darius, as Parmenion had hoped, had become careless. His vast forces numbering more than two hundred thousand were camped by a river south of the town of Issus, and it was there that Parmenion intended to force the battle, for the flatlands south of the town extended for only a mile and a half, and it would be difficult for the Persians to use their numerical advantage to envelop the Macedonian flanks.

Alexander was unnaturally quiet as they rode, and none of the officers felt inclined to break the silence.

This was the moment of truth, and every man, marching or
riding, peasant or noble, knew it. It was not even the question of victory or defeat save in the minds of the generals and captains. This day would see each man face the prospect of death or mutilation. News had spread of the size of the force opposing them, and Alexander had toured the camp, talking to the men, exhorting them, lifting them. But even such charismatic encouragement seemed thin and as wispy as the mist on this cold morning.

The land ahead widened, the hills to the east flattening and the mountains receding behind them, and Alexander ordered the infantry to fan out onto the plain. Led by the silver-bearded Theoparlis, the shield bearers—elite foot soldiers trained by Parmenion—moved out to the right, leaving the Macedonian infantry under Perdiccas in the center. Allied soldiers and mercenaries remained on the left, and the advance continued on a wide front, the men marching now in ranks eight deep.

Alexander and his officers rode along the line to the west, where the allied cavalry and Thessalians fanned out from the center like the wings of an eagle.

At last Alexander spoke, guiding Bucephalus alongside Parmenion’s mount. “Well, my general, the day is finally here.” He grinned and reached out to clasp Parmenion’s hand in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. “We will meet again in victory—or in the Elysian Fields.”

“Victory would be preferable,” answered Parmenion with a wry smile.

“Then let it be so!” agreed the king, tugging on the reins and galloping to the far right, his companion cavalry and lancers streaming behind him.

Parmenion rode back to the column of lightly armored archers, marching behind the phalanxes. The men were Agrianians from western Thrace, tall and wolflike, mountain men carrying short, curved hunting bows of bonded wood. The archers were fine fighters, calm, unflappable, and deadly in battle. Calling their officer to him, Parmenion ordered the bowmen to angle their march to the right into the mist-clad foothills.

“Darius will almost certainly send cavalry to outflank us. Harry them. Turn them back if you can. If you cannot, then make sure they suffer great losses.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the man. “We’ll send them running.” He gave a gap-toothed grin and loped off toward the east, his men filing out behind him.

The Spartan rode back to the cavalry on the left, his eyes scanning the long line of flat beach to the west. He swung to Berin, the hawk-faced Thessalian prince who had fought beside him at the Crocus Field so many years before. Berin was gray-bearded now but still lean and strong, his face tanned to the color of old leather. The Thessalian smiled. “They may try to attack on the flat by the sea,” he said. “You want us to ride out there?”

“No. Take your men behind the infantry and dismount. I do not want you seen until the enemy are committed to a flank attack.”

Berin gave a casual salute and led his men back along the line. Dust was rising now behind the marching men, and the Thessalians dismounted and hung back, protecting the delicate nostrils of their mounts. Some even spilled precious water onto dry cloths, wiping dust from the mouths of their horses.

The army moved on. In the distance the Persian defenses came into sight across a narrow ribbon of a river where earthworks had been hastily thrown up, pitted with stakes.

Brightly garbed Persian cavalry could be seen moving through the foothills on the right, but Parmenion forced himself to ignore them, trusting to the skills of the Agrianian archers to contain them. Slowly the advance continued, Parmenion angling the two thousand allied cavalry farther to the left and ordering the men to spread out.

As he had hoped, a large force of Persian horsemen forded the river, heading west toward the beach. His trained eye watched them streaming out from the enemy right, three thousand, four, five, six …

Ptolemy moved alongside Parmenion. “Can we hold them?” asked the young man nervously. The Spartan nodded.

“Order Berin and his Thessalians to mount.”

Parmenion swung his gaze back to the center, where the Macedonian infantry was almost at the river. Now was the testing time, for there was no way the men could cross the water and maintain formation. And they faced a solid mass of well-armed armored Persian guards and at least five thousand renegade Greek mercenaries, many from Boeotia and Thebes, men with deep hatred for the Macedonian conquerors.

Parmenion was confident that his wild Thessalians could turn the Persian cavalry on the beach, protecting the left, and had great faith in the skills of the Agrianian archers guarding the foothills on the right. But everything now depended on the Macedonian cavalry breaching the enemy center. For if the Persians were allowed to sweep forward, sheer weight of numbers would cleave like a spear through the eight-deep ranks of the infantry.

The Spartan cleared his throat but could not raise enough saliva to spit. All rested now on the courage and strength of Alexander.

Alexander tightened the straps on the iron buckler at his left forearm, then knotted Bucephalus’ reins. From here on he would control the war-horse only with his knees. Philotas called out, and Alexander turned to see Persian cavalry on the right moving into the foothills. Glancing back, he saw the bowmen moving out to intercept them. He hawked and spit, clearing the dust from his mouth; then, drawing his sword, he raised it high above his head and kicked Bucephalus into a run for the river. The companion cavalry, led by Philotas, Cleitus, and Hephaistion, raced after him. Arrows and stones flashed by the king’s head as he charged, but none of the missiles touched him as Bucephalus splashed into the water, sending up great arches of spray.

Thousands of Persian horsemen rode to meet the Macedonian attack, and Alexander was the first to come into contact. With a wild cut he hammered his blade into the shoulder of a silk-clad rider, and the man fell screaming into the mud-churned water.

The Persians wore little armor save brocaded breastplates, and the Macedonians surged through them to the far bank.

“Kill! Kill! Kill!” roared Alexander, his voice carrying above the ringing clash of battle. As the king pushed on, a lance clanged from his breastplate, tearing loose a gold-embossed shoulder guard. Alexander ducked under a slashing saber and disemboweled the attacker.

At the top of the slope the king reined in his mount and cast a swift glance to his left. Darius’ renegade Greek mercenaries had countercharged against the Macedonian infantry, and the two forces were battling at the center of the shallow river, all formations lost. Behind the Greeks stood the Persian royal guards, poised to follow the mercenaries into the attack. Instantly Alexander realized that were they to enter the fray now, the Macedonian center would be sundered.

Swinging Bucephalus, Alexander charged at the guards, the companion cavalry desperately trying to support him. It was a move of dazzling courage, and the Macedonians struggling in the water saw their king, single-handedly it seemed, cleaving his way toward the Persian center.

A great cry went up, and the phalanxes surged forward.

Alexander, wounded on both arms, continued his advance, for he had caught sight of his enemy, Darius, standing in a golden chariot drawn by four white horses. The Persian king was tall and fair, his golden beard long and tightly curled. Upon his head was a conical crown of gold set on a silver helmet. A white silk scarf was bound about his face and neck, flowing down over a cloak of silver thread.

“I see you, usurper!” bellowed Alexander. Hephaistion and the companion cavalry came alongside the king, protecting his flanks, but once more Alexander urged Bucephalus forward. The Persian guards fell back before the ferocity of the charge, a great heaving mass of men jostling before the chariot of their king.

On the far side of the field Berin and his Thessalians had broken through the Persian ranks and were sweeping to the right in a bid to reach Alexander.

Dismayed by the onslaught, the Persians struggled to form
a fighting square around Darius. Alexander saw the Persian monarch snatch up a spear and try to turn his chariot to face the invader, but the white horses—alarmed by the noise and the smell of blood and death—panicked and bolted, drawing the golden chariot clear of the field. Darius fought to control the maddened beasts, but it was beyond his powers and the chariot sped toward the north.

Seeing their king apparently fleeing the battle, many of the Persians fled with him, opening huge gaps in the ranks. Thessalian riders burst through them to link with Alexander.

Within moments the battle became a rout, Persian foot soldiers running for the hills, throwing away swords and shields as they went. Whole regiments that had not yet come into the battle retreated back toward the relative safety of the town of Issus.

As the sun reached noon only the last of Darius’ royal guards offered any resistance, but those few were swiftly overcome and slain. Just under three thousand renegade Greek mercenaries laid down their weapons and offered to surrender to Alexander. But the king refused.

“You have betrayed your nation,” he told their messenger. “You have fought on the side of the usurper against the avenging army of Greece.”

“But we are mercenaries, sir,” the messenger replied, his face pale under his tan. “It is our way. Darius offered to hire our services, and we served him loyally. How can you call us traitors when we are only following our calling?”

“He paid you to fight,” answered Alexander coldly. “So fight. Pick up your weapons and earn your pay.”

“This is madness!” cried the messenger, turning to seek support from Alexander’s generals.

“No,” hissed the king, “
this
is madness.” And stepping forward, he rammed his dagger into the man’s neck, forcing the blade up under the chin and into the brain. “Now kill them all!” he screamed.

Before the mercenaries could gather up their weapons, the Thracians and Macedonians surrounding them rushed in, hacking and cutting. Drawing his sword, Alexander ran in
among them, his blade plunging into the back of the nearest renegade. With a wild roar the entire army descended on the mercenaries, cutting and stabbing until not one enemy soldier was left standing.

One by one the Macedonians fell back from the slaughter until only Alexander, blood-drenched and screaming, ran among the dead, seeking fresh victims.

A terrible silence settled on the army as they watched the king’s frenzied dance of death among the slain. Hephaistion, who had taken no part in the slaughter, walked forward to speak softly to Alexander, who sagged into his friend’s arms and was helped from the field.

LINDOS, RHODES, 330
B.C.