Killing Pythagoras (Mediterranean Prize Winner 2015) (49 page)

Branco had been pacing the open corridor between the cavalry and the infantry for two minutes. He narrowed his eyes and momentarily imagined his name on everyone’s lips in Sparta, all over the Greek world, as the man who had defeated the legendary Milo of Croton and his powerful army. He half smiled and focused on the infantry positioned to his right. The men had dark circles under their eyes, but they were also afraid, and that kept them on their toes.

They’ll last a few hours yet before their lack of sleep catches up to them.

In any case, he was certain the best thing was to launch the battle as soon as possible.

Branco also recognized with grudging admiration General Milo’s ability to deploy his entire army at lightning speed. The previous day, they had appeared at the far end of the plain quite a while before he expected to see them. Nevertheless, he would never have planned the battle as Milo was doing. What he would have done was station his troops along the narrow pass that lay a few miles further south. With a smaller but more disciplined army the best thing was to avoid direct confrontation.

Maybe he’s banking on the advantage of better discipline
. He shook his head.
It won’t be any use to them today
.

That battle was going to be different from any Branco had ever heard of. Cavalry had never been used as a fighting front, only to flank and harass. In spite of that, it was logical to attack with the cavalry in the current situation, given its unrivalled strength and his infantry’s dangerous lack of experience. On the other hand, in Milo’s case the reasonable thing to do would have been to avoid Branco’s attack and use his disciplined forces to launch sudden advances and retreats, which might have routed the Sybarite troops in the end.

You may have won many wrestling championships, Milo, but you’re going to lose this battle
.

When Branco reached the end of the troops he found Tellus. The Sybarite leader was watching his men’s final moves from a slightly elevated position, twenty yards away from the troops. He rode a magnificent horse, wore full armor, and had a good sword. In spite of all that, Branco noticed his reticent expression, the same one he had seen on many men before their first battle.

Chasing after a few fat rich men isn’t the same as facing an army
, he thought with a twinge of contempt. Nonetheless, he tried to encourage him.

“Everything is ready, Tellus. It’ll be a quick and easy victory.”

He positioned his mount beside the Sybarite’s. They both faced the troops. At the front was the powerful cavalry. Four ranks deep, their best men were mounted on two thousand horses, fed and trained with loving care in the stables of the Sybarite aristocrats. The plain was a mile wide where they stood, but narrowed as it continued toward the south, where the hills crowded closer to the sea. This gave the plain a funnel shape that tapered as it approached the Crotonian position. For this reason, Branco had made the Sybarite front just over half a mile wide, the same as the Crotonian one. Otherwise, the troops would have had to squeeze together as they advanced, completely breaking their formation.

“Are you sure they won’t attack?” Tellus asked, his voice less firm than he would have liked.

“They won’t do it. They’ll be looking to fight in the narrow stretch to try and compensate for their smaller numbers.”

“In that case, why don’t they retreat further?”

“I suspect Milo considers that to be the ideal width for the number of troops he has. With less space he wouldn’t be able to make good use of his disciplined troops’ agility.”

Reference to the Crotonian army’s points of superiority made Tellus uneasy, so Branco was quick to remind him of the tactics they had decided on.

“In any case, we won’t give them time to deploy any strategy. We’ll advance in a block toward them, with the cavalry up front and infantry just behind, and when we’re a hundred yards away, all the troops will charge at once.” He winked at Tellus. “And then we’ll surprise them by showing that we can maneuver in battle too.”

Branco was referring to the encirclement tactic with which they hoped to surprise the Crotonians. Their scouts had reconnoitered the area and concluded it wasn’t possible to surround the headland on one side, so they had come up with something different. They would wait for the first rank of cavalry to clash with the enemy. At that point, a hundred horses from each end of the third and fourth ranks would move laterally to overpower the Crotonian flanks. These troops would be busy defending themselves against the cavalry charge, and wouldn’t have time to react. Both on the hillside and on the beach, they would be overtaken by a flood of horses that would surround them and attack from behind. Their lines would be thrown into disarray and, even better, they wouldn’t be able to retreat.

More than a victory, it would be an extermination.

“Very well, then, by Zeus, let’s get going,” exclaimed Tellus suddenly.

Branco let Tellus ride ahead. The Sybarite would position himself in the middle of the fourth rank of cavalry, the safest place in the whole formation. Besides, the Spartan mercenary and several of his men would protect him.

A grateful man is always more generous
, Branco reflected.

As he took his place among the troops, the Spartan looked behind him. The thirty thousand Sybarites who made up the infantry occupied a strip of land fifty yards wide. They weren’t in strict formation like a professional army, but they were as alert and silent. Branco peered over his horse, trying to make out some of the men in the last row. He gestured firmly to them. The previous day he had spread the word, explaining clearly the role of that last row of infantry: they were to execute everyone who tried to retreat.

He looked forward. Tellus was watching him, as if he were the leader of those men.

Right now, I am
, Branco thought, enjoying the intoxicating feeling of power.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the sun was about to rise. He raised his right hand and held it high. They didn’t have instruments to broadcast orders, nor troops capable of following them during battle. For that reason, he would give just two instructions. The first would be to begin the advance. The second, when they were within a hundred yards, would be to launch the attack.

He lowered his arm.

The plain began to vibrate.

Seated on his horse, Milo frowned when he saw the Sybarite tide start to move. A moment later, the sound of their advance reached him.

He was at the center of the front line of his army, among the cavalry, three of his generals on each side. Behind them, the infantry was so silent it might not have been there at all. No one in the cavalry spoke either. Viewing the enemy, Milo had the disquieting sensation of being alone in the middle of the plain.

Five minutes earlier, he had received the latest report. The scout was barely twenty years old and clearly nervous.

“They’re ready to advance, sir. They’ve arranged themselves into four rows of cavalry. Right behind them is their infantry in phalanx formation.”

Milo nodded thoughtfully and then gestured to the soldier to take his position. The Sybarites were doing what he would do in their situation. They had a tremendous advantage thanks to their cavalry, but no military training. The best thing was to launch a devastating attack as soon as possible, using no strategy, just brute force.

But even organizing that isn’t easy, and less so with civilians
. He moved his head uneasily from one side to the other. That was another sign the Sybarites were getting military advice.

He craned his neck on his horse to get a look at the farthest sections of his army. To his left, in tight formation, his troops covered the first few yards of the hillside. To his right there was a beach thirty yards wide. His troops had spread out on the pale sand until the last men were standing in the sea, up to their knees in water.

It would be disastrous if they overpowered the flanks
.

He looked ahead of him again. The imposing Sybarite horses were half a mile away. They approached slowly, as if out for a stroll. There was no battle flag in sight, nor any visible leader. Milo, on the other hand, was unmistakable among his men. Not just because of his eye-catching brawn, but because of the two crowns he wore on his head. The laurel wreath represented his seven victories in the Pythian Games, and the olive wreath his six wins at the Olympic Games. He was proud to wear them, but they also served to increase discipline and morale among the troops. It reminded them that their commander-in-chief was the greatest hero in the history of Croton, covered in glory like no other man.

Despite Milo’s pride and prestige, at that moment most of his soldiers and officers feared he was leading them to their deaths. The enemy was less than half a mile away, and it was obvious the Sybarites planned to simply crush them with their numbers. They had all had nightmares about the two thousand Sybarite horses that grew larger with every conversation whispered around a campfire. The Crotonians looked at their own cavalry and regretted having just one row compared to the enemy army’s four. They saw the gaps between their horses and imagined the Sybarite beasts breaking through those spaces. Besides, why had Milo positioned so many men with trumpets and flutes instead of swords? Did he think issuing orders would lead to anything while the enemy rolled over them like a giant wave?

The Sybarite army advanced inexorably as they watched in desperation. They couldn’t understand why their general had spread them out so much. Neither did they think a frontal assault made sense. If they had known Milo was going to plan the battle this way they would have mutinied.

Their only option now was to try and survive.

When the Sybarites were three hundred yards away, the sun’s first rays fell on them. Their front line came into sharper focus, like a vague fear that suddenly takes form. The Crotonians shuddered, fearing it was a sign that the gods were backing their enemies.

They’re afraid
, thought Milo, watching his generals from the corner of his eye. He returned his attention to the Sybarite army. Two hundred yards separated them, and now it was plain their horses were unusually large. They advanced slowly, to maintain formation and conserve the strength of their infantry.

The image of master Pythagoras came to Milo’s mind, calming him.
We’re doing the right thing
. That was what mattered most, even though thousands of men would die that morning. Perhaps he would be among them.

He tightened his left fist, clenching the straps of his round shield. He turned it and examined the thick metal point on its face. It not only defended him, it was a weapon in its own right. Next he glanced at the edge of his sword, which he had unsheathed a while ago. Before combat, he always performed the ritual of checking his weapons. Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the infantry, first to the left, then to the right. Hundreds of eyes were fixed on him, awaiting his orders so they could convey them instantly to the entire army. He raised the arm holding the sword. Thousands of soldiers gripped the hilts of their weapons.

At that moment, with one hundred yards between them, the Sybarite cavalry charged.

It was like the rumble of an earthquake.

The ground shook forcefully under the Crotonians’ feet. The metal plates covering their linen or leather armor clattered against each other, as did their teeth. The ringing sound accelerated in time with the thundering hoof beats of the enemy’s charge. Fifteen thousand Crotonians entrusted their souls to Heracles, Zeus, Apollo, and Ares as they remained motionless, clenching their jaws under their bronze helmets.

Milo waited with his arm held high. His men watched him and the two thousand horses hurtling toward them. They were just seventy yards away…and Milo still hadn’t given the order to attack.

Sixty yards. Hundreds of trumpets pointed at the sky. The men carrying them could barely hold the breath filling their cheeks. Why didn’t Milo lower his sword? They hadn’t laid pikes or dug trenches that might mitigate the enemy’s charge.

Fifty yards. The terrifying Sybarite cavalry surged toward the Crotonian army like a hurricane. Behind the two thousand horses, thirty thousand frenzied men ran, ready to finish the massacre.

Milo pointed his sword at the enemy and let out a roar. With piercing urgency, the trumpets blared the order to attack. Galloping ahead of his men, the hero of Croton charged toward the Sybarite cavalry.

CHAPTER 108

July 23
rd
, 510 B.C.

The armies were about to clash right in front of the masked man.

Oh, gods, what a beautiful sight.

From his hill, the spectacle was impressive, a promise of magnificent annihilation illuminated by the crimson hues of the rising sun.

When the Sybarite cavalry charged, the masked man held his breath, overwhelmed by what was about to happen, what he had achieved with his intrigues.

Fifty thousand men slaughtering each other just because I willed it.

He opened his eyes greedily. In the first minute he would see thousands of men die. That knowledge produced an intense euphoria in him, and he knew it was just a taste of his future glory.

I’ll decide who lives and who dies.

With scarcely fifty yards remaining for the Sybarites to fall on the thin line of Crotonian cavalry, Milo still sat with his sword raised, holding back his men. They were motionless and silent as the enemy cavalry and infantry rushed toward them, shouting war cries.
Why aren’t they attacking?
the masked man wondered, surprised. They didn’t stand a chance anyway, but staying still, without having planned a defense strategy, was absurd and suicidal.

Just then, Milo lowered his sword and lunged at the enemy with a roar. He did it with such impetus he gained a few yards on his men. On the verge of being swallowed by the Sybarite avalanche, he looked like a solitary mouse running into a herd of charging bulls.

Milo is one of Pythagoras’ henchmen, and his son-in-law, besides.

His imminent death filled the masked man with particular delight.

Sybaris’ cavalry converged on Milo like a huge storm cloud.

Behind the general, the trumpets blared their hysterical message of war and death across the plain. As one, the Crotonians charged. They yelled as they ran, converting their fear into hatred and anger. Accompanying their cries of fury was the shrill sound of hundreds of double flutes and panpipes, cymbals and wooden whistles. Surrounded by the din, the hero of Croton galloped into the horses in front of him. He glimpsed a gap between two of them and corrected his course to go through it. Like a centaur, he was one with his horse, his legs wrapped tightly around the animal’s body. He raised his shield to protect himself from the predictable blow that would come from his adversary on the left, while simultaneously pulling back the arm that clasped the sword. His mind was blank, his actions guided by his natural intuition for combat.

He threw a last glance at the rider to his left and repositioned his shield to deflect the enemy sword, then instantly focused his attention on the man to his right. An adversary’s eyes always indicated his next move. This one was looking at Milo’s head, his sword raised, protecting his side with his shield. The expression on his face showed fury, with no hint of fear. Clearly, he was an experienced mercenary. Milo would have to focus on deflecting his blow.

With only a few yards separating them, his adversary’s face suddenly became a mask of surprise. A few seconds earlier, he had spurred his mount to a gallop, but now the horse stopped abruptly, propelling his rider forward into a momentarily vulnerable position. Milo dug his sword under the enemy’s shield, penetrated his protective leather as if it were silk, and sliced the mercenary’s liver, as his horse continued to advance. The lesions multiplied as he pulled his sword from his enemy’s body. At the same moment, Milo thrust his shield forward and felt a strong blow. He heard a cry of pain and felt the rider to his left fall to the ground. He slowed his horse as he continued to push through the enemy lines, which had come almost to a halt. He leaned to the left, keeping his pointed shield close to his body. The force of his advance crushed another enemy soldier. Now he was surrounded by the Sybarite cavalry. His mount stopped dead as it crashed into an enormous horse that was standing still. He felt a brief burst of panic as he began to slide, but he managed to stay in the saddle. The horse to his right reared on its hind legs, knocking the rider off. One man lunged his horse at Milo, but the animal insisted on stepping sideways, offering Milo his enemy’s left side. He turned, plunged his sword under the man’s armpit, and pulled it out swiftly.

By now, Milo had penetrated the enemy’s third rank. He quickly glanced around him to choose another adversary, and discovered the Sybarite cavalry was in complete disarray. All the horses had stopped and were pivoting, hopping on their hind legs, or walking sideways in very elegant ways, though useless for combat. The Sybarites pulled desperately at the reins and dug their heels frantically into their horses that refused to obey. The two hundred who had intended to disrupt the flanks
couldn’t even begin their encirclement maneuver. Taking advantage of the chaos, the Crotonian horsemen advanced deep into the Sybarite cavalry, lunging and slashing at will.

The Sybarite horses had been trained to delight their aristocratic owners. Since birth, they had been taught to dance when they heard music. Knowing this, Milo had placed hundreds of musical instruments in the front lines of his army. Then he had waited to give the order to attack until the enemy horses were close enough to hear his musicians clearly. Now, the musicians continued to play with all their might as they marched toward the battle front.

It’s working!
thought an exultant Milo.

A few yards from him, in the fourth row of the cavalry, Tellus was terrified. He looked from one side to the other, unable to understand what was happening. His army’s charge had seemed unstoppable, yet when the thunderous music had begun to play from the Crotonian lines, their horses had stopped unexpectedly and started dancing. His own mount was pivoting, making full circles as it shook its mane rhythmically.

Tellus had seen Milo riding toward them an instant before the music started. The colossus from Croton, adorned with his laurel and olive crowns, was leading his paltry cavalry’s assault. Tellus had been convinced they would crush him. It was then that the horses had started behaving in such an odd way, and Milo had taken advantage of that to spear one man and knock another out with his shield. He continued penetrating the ranks, attacking a third soldier with his shield. Fortunately for Tellus, who could see the Crotonian heading straight for him, an enormous steed intercepted his path and blocked him. At that moment, Branco, on his right, yelled and spurred his horse toward Milo. The mount moved forward, heading for the Crotonian general, but immediately turned and started prancing sideways, throwing Branco’s attack posture off balance. Even though the Spartan recovered quickly, Milo, surprisingly agile for his girth, sank his sword into Branco’s side.

Seeing his most valuable officer fall, Tellus felt the icy clutch of panic.

Suddenly, Milo fixed his eyes on him. The hero of Croton had no way of knowing who Tellus was—they had never seen each other—but he was his next target and he charged at him like Zeus’ lightning bolt. He swerved expertly around Branco’s horse and reached Tellus. The Sybarite tried desperately to meet Milo head on, but his mount continued to pivot. He twisted in his saddle, raising his sword arm toward the commander-in-chief of the Crotonians.
Maybe I can slow him down long enough for someone to come to my rescue
, he thought in anguish. Milo struck a forceful blow, and Tellus felt a tug. There was no pain. He looked at his arm and saw, to his horror, that his hand and forearm had disappeared. There was nothing from the elbow down. The stump spouted a jet of blood over his horse’s mane, and he knew he was about to die. One second later, he felt Milo’s sword shattering his ribs and piercing his lungs. He looked at Milo incredulously, but saw no hatred in the Crotonian’s eyes, only determination.

His enemy pulled the blade from his chest, causing a lacerating pain.

“Gods,” murmured Tellus.

He collapsed on his horse. As the accursed animal continued to pivot, Tellus slid slowly off its back and fell to the ground, where he lay on his side, his face against the earth. As his vision dimmed, he contemplated the strange forest of equine legs, between which, like ripe fruit, the bodies of his comrades dropped.