The Corn King and the Spring Queen (50 page)

On the Macedonian side there were constant councils of generals. They met in Antigonos' tent. He stayed in bed as much as possible, with a light blanket, even in this weather, keeping up his strength. The doctors burnt all sorts of spices round his head, but still he coughed and coughed. When he spoke in that hoarse, whispering tone that they all knew, every one else was silent at once, to catch the low words. His commander-in-chief, Alexander, always saw to that anyhow. He was a Macedonian of the old type. If the young man from Megalopolis wished to go on discussing that surely laboured point about the cavalry, let him do it outside! The King was speaking. The voice of Macedon. So Philopoemen, desperately afraid of his point being missed—and, after all, look at the plan of the ground: is it so stupid, considering the bend of the river?—went outside the tent for ten minutes to discuss it with his friend Kerkidas and two of Alexander's cavalry officers.

Philopoemen had been given the command of the Achaean cavalry by Aratos, who admired him and realised that at this stage, at any rate, he need not be jealous of him. There were only a thousand of them, but they were as good as
Alexander's cavalry, and perhaps understood this kind of ground better. Kerkidas, a writer and politician, rather a fine and generous-natured man, led the exiles from Megalopolis. Only a thousand of them too. He asked young Philopoemen if he would come and speak to them before the battle, cheer them up a little if he could and hold out all the hopes there were—like a flag.

Philopoemen said he would come over that night. Oh yes, he would speak for them! But if only he could get directly at King Antigonos! Or was the King too ill to be interested in such a small matter? Small for the whole battle. Thirty thousand men in one army! Yet that point of his might mean the lives of a good many Achaeans and a good many of the Megalopolis exiles who were down with the cavalry on the centre. But Alexander, the commander-in-chief, did not think it was suitable that Philopoemen of Megalopolis, a mere boy, should trouble the King. Alexander had a quite intelligible contempt for these much-burnt little towns of Hellas, towns too smashed up and plundered to give their citizens decent helmets—what! Did it, after all, signify if a few more or less were killed? He would take care of each individual life of his own Macedonians, most of all the Bronze Shields, the main body of the infantry; that was a different business. But this Achaean League!—talking as though it mattered!

There were two or three reports to be put together from spies who had been sent out the night before to see what they could discover of Kleomenes ‘position. Now it had all been drawn out for King Antigonos to see. He studied it silently, propped up on many pillows. Aratos sat beside him on the edge of the bed studying it too. He twisted his fingers in and out of his grey, thinning beard. At last he tapped Antigonos on the shoulder and said: ‘This seems to me to be the typical Spartan formation, with the striking force on the right as usual. We can, I think, be certain that the Spartiate phalanx is there, on little Olympos. This is the way the Spartan army has been taught to go into battle for the last several hundred years.'

‘What conclusion do you draw from that, Aratos?' said King Antigonos, looking round at him.

‘It might—I do not yet say that it does—lead one to suppose that King Kleomenes is too much afraid of us to
dare to take chances. He and his army may be—I do not say yet that they are—in no state to do anything except the standard Spartan thing.'

‘That is possible, but, as you say, Aratos, not certain. Given the nature of the ground it seems to me to be an exceedingly good position; in fact—yes, I think I may say the best conceivable one.'

‘It is a formation that is usually extremely effective against an ordinary attack. Even with our strength, it would, I think, be most unwise to attempt anything direct. That is what he hopes we shall do. He hopes we shall be proud enough to try the direct method.'

Alexander said: ‘I take it you mean to suggest a flank movement—by me and the Macedonian army. I warn you: it will certainly be necessary to use the whole of our forces, all along the line. You Greeks can't leave all the fighting to us, even if you do all the crowing yourselves!' He was not going to let this miserable little Achaean talk about
our
forces—
our
strength!—when there were only four or five thousand of them in the whole army, rottenly equipped too, and mostly in reserve because they'd got so panicked about this Kleomenes! But before he could think of the really crushing thing to say, his King had leant forward from the cushions and held up his hand for silence.

‘Naturally,' said Antigonos, ‘there is no question in any of our minds of striking except with our whole forces. Kleomenes of Sparta at bay is the kind of proposition it is better to over-estimate. Aratos, you tell me this is the traditional Spartan army formation. Yet it has from time to time been beaten in the past. How was that?'

Aratos paused for a minute, then said: ‘The other side has won when it has done something against the rules, something they didn't expect.'

‘Instead of being bolted into a straight attack by the way they glared,' said Kerkidas, who had come back with Philopoemen; but no one answered, though Aratos nodded.

The King bent over the map. He had another fit of coughing that left him exhausted and shut-eyed for a few minutes. His doctors glanced at the bloodstained bowl into which he had spat, but the others looked away. It was more tactful not
even to whisper; his ears were amazingly sharp still! All at once he sat up, with a heave which sent a queer flush racing over his thin, exquisitely shaved cheeks. He tapped with a finger-nail on the map. ‘We've got to take him on the left flank, round Euas.'

‘An impossible march!' said Alexander. ‘They know that. It would have to be at night—you cannot expect the Bronze Shields—'

‘Impossible is not a word I like to hear,' said the King. ‘Now look at the map, my dear Alexander. So—you see?—out of sight behind the ridge—and so—then up from behind. That's King Eukleidas with the light-armed troops and allies—I'm right, Aratos, yes?—we shall give him something to keep him busy in front, and you will smash in from the back.
Then
the whole line can engage. I will take on King Kleomenes myself. It will need careful timing. You will have to flash a signal to me from Euas when you are on the top. The Bronze Shields may consider themselves honoured. Do you approve, Aratos?'

‘You think it sufficiently certain that the feint attack can be made at the same moment as the real one? It would be—exceedingly awkward—if the turning column were delayed. Eukleidas is not a fool. Both jaws of your trap must close before he's caught. They are likely to have outposts all down the further side of Euas, let alone that the country people would let them know immediately what was happening. It is quite possible that this is just the move Kleomenes anticipates.'

Antigonos smiled at him with mocking friendliness and said: ‘But yet, this is perhaps the last time that anyone will be afraid of Kleomenes!' He went on: ‘Kleomenes may have thought this would be our move a few days ago. But I think our last few raiding parties will have confused him fairly completely. I've an idea, though, that the men for this turning movement will be the Illyrians. What do you say to that, Demetrios?'

Demetrios of Pharos looked at the map in his turn. He was glad not to be opposite the Spartan phalanx itself. Yes, that frightened him! He had learnt war first among creeks and harbours and steep limestone islands under Teuta, the pirate Queen, before he had turned against her and gone over, just in time, to the Romans, who, much impressed
by his courage and ability, had made him an ally, a ruler by permission of Rome—not that this last thing hindered him much when the Romans were so busy with Gaul in the north and likely to be busy in the south—if all one heard about Carthage was true. Demetrios believed in luck. He was much more comfortably prepared to take on the flank movement against Eukleidas, who was, after all, no one special, only the second king, and that not by birth, but by his brother's doubtful gift, than to have anything to do with Kleomenes of Sparta himself, who undoubtedly used to have, and perhaps still had, an amazing amount of luck. Kings, of course, have their own luck. They are nearer the Gods. The Gods see who it is that makes the sacrifices. Demetrios said: ‘I can take this on. My men consider themselves not inexpert at surprises. If there are any outposts we shall be able to deal with them. I will arrange communications with Alexander. He will be doing the front attack on Euas, I suppose? As soon as it is dawn we shall be able to flash with shields; at least one can be certain of the sun!'

In a little silence one of the mercenary captains said: ‘Then there does seem to be a chance that Kleomenes and the Spartans will be done in at last! And by God—by us!'

And Aratos said: ‘Kleomenes and the army of the revolution. Yes—if They are with us—at last.'

On the Spartan side too there was constant co-ordination of spies' reports to be made. One or two deserters were brought straight to headquarters to be questioned. The King's tent was set up there on a spur of little Olympos, facing left and front, with a clear view across either towards the Macedonians or to the centre in the valley and the opposite slopes of Euas. From time to time the all-well signals were flashed across by highly polished silver shields, or at night by flares. Eukleidas had his own headquarters, and Panteus his. In the intervals of waiting, when everything that could be prepared had been, they did routine things which kept them from thinking. They made lists of provisions and equipment and filled in amounts of what they had taken or needed, one for themselves and a duplicate for the magistrate in charge of the State treasuries. These were good things to worry about. When there was so much evil stuff for dreams in their heads, it was better to dream fantastically of this. The King's compliments, and will Panteus kindly send him a list
of helmet straps supplied to his division since the third day of the last month? Dream on who can.

An hour before dawn one of the sentries was relieved and another went on duty for that perilous time. Panteus went the rounds and then knelt in the half dark by a blessedly chilly pool and washed and combed his hair—carefully, carefully… a fine corpse… all wounds in front. Why think that! The army of the revolution was to live, not to die. Kleomenes, my dearest, if I never see you again…. Oh, keep quiet, bit of me, bit of me that I hate!

In that same cool hour Philopoemen had ridden over to Kerkidas and the Megalopolitan exiles. They came round him in a half-circle, closing together so that his voice could carry—oh, too easily! A thousand separate men. It sounded something, but how little the Macedonian king or his commander-in-chief cared!

He spoke with gathering force, saying that now he and they might retrieve the honour of their burnt and beaten city. Megalopolis should be rebuilt—oh, built again on the ashes of Sparta, when that proud and evil place had come to its doom; Sparta, that had brought ruin and despair and exile on them, as in the old days the ruinous Spartan Queen, the destroyer and adulteress Helen! Now, today, if the Gods were willing, flame and destruction would come at last on Sparta and the ideas, the patterns of Sparta. This was a battle for the ideas and patterns of the right-thinking city states, the cities which were now to live each in the harmony of its own laws and ethics and customs, in the peaceful shade of its own guardian mountains. This lovely pattern of cities. He himself would fight and die, if need be, for this. The world would see that this, and not Sparta, was the Gods' choice in Hellas. Before the eyes of the King of Macedonia and all his allies the thing would be made plain. Philopoemen bade them to remember this, he cried out to every man of Megalopolis to have beyond his own individual courage the special and communal courage of being the example, of having all those eyes on them for the utmost glory of their own city and in hatred of Sparta!

He stopped, at the peak of his own resolve for death or honour. Suddenly one of the Megalopolitan soldiers rose up from the hillside in his full armour and spoke: ‘Philopoemen, all this is well said, and maybe the younger of us needed
to hear it. But we—we fathers and craftsmen, we know already what we have to fight for! You need not show us how or where to hate. We know. Philopoemen, I will say what my hate and shame is, for today I shall have my chance to end it. That King took my daughter, my lovely lamb—from the steps of the altar—my little maid—' And in a great passion of anger, of choked-down hatred, the father of Archiroë threw down his shield and spear and flung up his arms for Philopoemen and Kerkidas and the Gods to witness the undying war between Megalopolis and Sparta.

T
WO HOURS AFTER
midnight Demetrios of Pharos marched off very quietly along the bed of the ravine to the right, with no lights and no singing. Just after dawn Alexander gave the signal for the first attack on Euas, the frontal one which was to engage Eukleidas until the Illyrians got him in the back. All along the line every one was ready; an attack of this sort had been expected and Eukleidas, according to plan, retreated uphill behind the palisades, letting the enemy come on; then, when they were on the steep, hot slope of Euas, Panteus in the centre called in his mercenaries and sent them to catch the attacking column in the flank and rear. At the same time Kleomenes and the Spartiate phalanx lowered their spears and charged downhill, down the grass slopes and screes of little Olympos, straight into Antigonos and his Macedonian phalanx, driving them struggling back towards their tents. Here too the mercenaries of both sides engaged. Kleomenes had got the initiative of the battle. If he could keep it….

It was difficult and of the utmost importance for the Spartan army to keep up communications right along from Euas to little Olympos. They had no reserves to fill up gaps and stop a break through if Panteus lost touch with either Eukleidas or the King. Half an hour after the beginning of the battle Panteus got his division swung round, forward on the right as well as the nature of the ground permitted, so as to keep in touch with the King's phalanx; his left was in full action. It looked as if the Macedonian attack on Euas would be smashed.

But then two things happened. Philopoemen, who could get no orders from Alexander, took the thing into his own hands and charged the Spartan centre at the head of his
cavalry. Panteus made the only possible counter-move; he recalled the mercenaries to support him, and when they rushed back the Macedonian frontal attack on Euas re-formed and went on. In the river-bed now there was a desperate struggle, Panteus and his division driven back step by step by one cavalry charge after another, first Philopoemen, then Alexander with the regular Macedonian heavy armed horsemen. And whenever a cavalry charge had gone past, the Megalopolitan infantry came grimly after to finish it up. Company after company broke under the spears and horse-hoofs; and through the wounding and killing and screaming and smashing up, Panteus knew all the time that if his division was driven back much further he would lose touch at both sides, the Macedonians would get in between the hills and the pass would be lost. He had only a few hundred cavalry against Philopoemen's thousand. Again, his equipment was not good enough. Spears broke, shields broke, javelins broke, swords broke at the hilt, he hadn't fresh supplies. But the Macedonians had—cartloads. Then the second thing happened. The Illyrian column came up behind Euas and took Eukleidas in the rear.

The Spartiate phalanx re-formed for another charge on the slope of Olympos—quick, quick, before the Macedonians, worse broken up, could get together to take the charge. Now was the time for the break through! The King looked over to the centre; he saw that Panteus was having a bad time, but if he and the phalanx could only drive back Antigonos now, that would immediately relieve the centre—the whole shape of the battle would change! Then he looked right across to Euas. ‘My God, what's happening there?' No one could tell for a moment. Then they saw that Eukleidas was trapped and done for. There was no possibility of saving the left. Even while they looked they could see their own men on Euas swept down off the crest, caught on the edge of the column coming up, pressed together, getting fewer, all so tiny, so unlikely from here—not real. The King said quite quietly: ‘Oh, my dearest brother, I've lost you now.' That was it. That was the fact. Five minutes ago it had not happened. Now nothing could alter it.

The victorious Macedonians and Illyrians poured down
off Euas on to the centre in the river-bed. Panteus got his men together, retreating in knots from one rock and ravine to another, trying to keep touch. In one of those ravines some of the Illyrians found Philopoemen with a javelin right through both his thighs. They told him to lie still, he would be taken back to the rear and the surgeons, the battle was won already. But Philopoemen made them haul him up on to his feet and in a horrible bloody struggle with his own legs broke the javelin shaft; the pieces were pulled out, someone bound up both the wounds; he grabbed his sword and went on, gloriously, painfully, on to victory for Megalopolis and the end of Sparta!

Antigonos was going to charge now. Keep close, the phalanx! Keep close, hold them. Yes, there are more of them; yes, ten times more; yes, but we're Spartans, we can take it! Don't look at the spears. We've taken spears before. Keep the shield wall locked. Steady! Another two minutes. Who was that man with the cut face who said good-bye to me just now? Damn him, saying good-bye. I am going to live, I am going to live. I knew his voice—well. Who in hell's name was it? Oh, of course, Xenares. Odd. Here they come.

Most of the mercenaries were deciding that they had done quite as much as they had contracted to do. A great many of them had been killed and they had all behaved very well. Now it was time to stop. Those who were left had mostly retreated up the hill. King Kleomenes, if not dead yet, probably would be in a few minutes. He was a fine commander and a gallant man, but they would be getting no more pay from him. Someone else would want them.

Phoebis found his eldest son, the sixteen-year-old, dying, doubled up in the sun, clutching at his wide, slimy wound. A spear had got in under his breastplate, and, dragged out for the next kill, had pulled most of the boy's inside out with it. Phoebis tried to move his son into the shadow of a rock, but he screamed so when he was straightened out at all that Phoebis had to give it up. Failing that, Phoebis gave him water, which would have been a bad thing to do with a stomach wound if there had been any chance of recovery. There was, of course, none. The boy lay very still and looked at his father; he could not smile, but at least he was quiet. Phoebis had to go on. When he came back his eldest son was dead and there were ants on him.

Mnasippos was killed near the King in the second charge. Chrysa's man, Milon, was killed. Themisteas was badly wounded with a spear through his thigh and another through his right shoulder, just clearing the lung. Panitas was killed rather comically by an arrow going through his throat as he was jumping off a rock. Neolaidas had an arrow wound too; the thing shot out his left eye and he spent the next few days alternately getting conscious and then fainting with the pain. However, that was not enough to kill him, though it disfigured him very thoroughly for the rest of his life. Philocharidas was with the centre; he was knocked down and trampled on in the cavalry charge, and left for dead; but he was found later and recovered more or less, except that he could never use his right arm properly again. Leumas was killed. Mikon broke his leg in a narrow ravine and shammed dead when the Megalopolitans came and stripped off his helmet and breastplate. But he managed to crawl away the next night, and escaped. None of the Achaeans were taking prisoners much during this battle. Most of the wounded in the centre, at any rate, were finished off, though when the Illyrians got there anyone who could promise a sufficiently large ransom was quite likely to be able to save his life.

The Macedonian army did not pursue for two reasons. One was that their own losses, especially in the phalanx itself, were very heavy. They had to get into some sort of formation again. The doctors were very anxious that King Antigonos should rest, after the riding and shouting and danger, but it was difficult to insist. The other reason that there was no pursuit was that there was no need for it. There would be nobody, nothing, to stand between them and Sparta now. The thing was final.

A man was kneeling on the top of a rock of the far side of little Olympos, signalling back with a waved cloak. This signal was taken up from beyond Sellasia and passed on to Sparta. There were strict orders that no signals were to be sent down to the city unless for victory. Therykion stabbed the intent signaller in the back and he died at once. Therykion was ahead; the others were following him. Why was he alive after this battle?

The King pulled his horse up sharply to look south into the plain of Sparta. There was blood dripping still from a cut on his cheek. He jerked and twitched every time a fresh
drop crawled down his neck. He put out his hand, trying to check Agesipolis, who was crying out now that he must go back and hunt for his brother. But the boy was too badly hurt by a javelin wound to be able to do more than cling on to his own horse's mane; sometimes the pain of the wound stopped him speaking altogether, but more often it sent him rocketing on about young Kleomenes who might be worse wounded—killed. ‘Can none of you tell him what happened to his brother?' said the King, suddenly at the limit of endurance. ‘For God's sake stop, Agesipolis! If he's dead, he's dead, and that's that.'

Who was coming now? ‘Idaios! You've got through! Good. No news of Panteus, I suppose? No. Or young Kleomenes?' ‘Wounded and taken prisoner,' said Idaios shortly. Agesipolis cried out: ‘How wounded? Where? Who took him? What will they do to him?' But someone snatched at his bridle and held him as he tottered and sobbed and felt the stabbing of his own wound jerking deeper in with the trotting downhill. Kleomenes dropped behind to speak to Neolaidas. He could not help seeing Phoebis riding a little apart and somehow like someone blind.

They came down on to the road and after a time they found that Panteus and a few others had joined them. That was at a short halt at a roadside spring, where they all drank, and Neolaidas was passed over to someone fresh and carried swaying and sobbing in front of the saddle. Panteus said: ‘I got them to let me go up Euas under a flag of truce. Demetrios of Pharos was there; his staff helped me. I brought down your brother's body, Kleomenes. There it is.' He pointed over his shoulder to a cloaked bundle tied on to a horse. Kleomenes looked once, then looked away. ‘What was it like?' he said. ‘Pretty bad,' said Panteus. Then: ‘Our people had been killed—in heaps. When the last square on the top of Euas broke. Eukleidas had a sword-cut half through his neck. He must have died at once.' ‘And the boy?' said Kleomenes, trying to think calmly, remembering very vividly how it had been the last time he had seen his brother Eukleidas, with one arm across his boy-love's shoulders. Panteus hesitated and then said: ‘He was dead over him with several very bad wounds, dead with the most awful face of pain and despair that I have ever seen. I'm sorry, Kleomenes—' He was quite unable
for the moment to say anything more. They had lost the battle.

Nearly a hundred of them got back to Sparta that day. The King and two or three others were a little way ahead. It was the hottest part of the day; the heat brought out the smells of tiredness and drying blood. The lips of all wounds cracked and itched. The flies buzzed round them, keeping up with them as they rode. It was still impossible to think. Kleomenes rode without stopping into the market-place. There were a good many men, mostly oldish; many of them, he knew, were the ephors ‘party, the enemies of his revolution. There were young boys too, and a great many women, pressing their way through. He spoke quickly, before they could begin questioning him. He said: ‘One King of Sparta is dead.' He heard the low, murmured wailing running like waves across the women. Then he said, speaking mostly to a group of half a dozen immediately in front of him—men he knew had worked against him lately, if not the whole time: ‘I advise you to do what you want to do. Receive Antigonos. Make him welcome. Show him he's master! Yes, he'll put you and your friends into power. You will be a good, little, dependent state—you Spartans!' And suddenly he spurred his horse towards them so that they parted quickly.

Another man said to him: ‘And you yourself, Kleomenes?' It was a magistrate, an old friend of his mother's.

He answered: ‘I hope to do the best for Sparta.'

‘And that will be—what?'

‘I cannot tell you yet. I do not know even if it means my life or death.'

The magistrate nodded towards the first group: ‘There are some who'd dare lay hands on you to make a present to the Macedonian and save their own skins.'

‘I know. But they won't dare: not yet. Now, friend, you should leave me. You had better not let them think you wish me well—if you do. They'll have the power.'

‘I wish you well from my heart, King Kleomenes, though you know I thought you unwise. Ah, Zeus, I don't blame you now! Do your best for us, Kleomenes, if you decide to live and hope. We'll wait for you.'

And a quite young boy, the magistrate's grandson, cried out in a cracking voice: ‘We'll wait for you years, our King, we'll work for you! We'll go on fighting—' But
the older man laid a hand quickly over his mouth. It was not safe.

Kleomenes looked round and saw that the women had come running up to the others, helping them off their horses, taking their heavy armour off and giving them drinks. Panteus was a long way behind still; the body of King Eukleidas was not yet come to Sparta. He dismounted and walked into his own house. Archiroë came to him tenderly—soft arms, soft breasts, and cool, little cool fingers. Curious that these things still existed. What did she want? To give him wine. To unbuckle his breastplate. To take his helmet off. To wash him. To give him food. To give him love. Why should he take it; why should he do what she wanted? He was too tired, too deep in what had been and what was going to be. He brushed her off. She was only a slave. She crouched and cried a little, came nearer and kissed the hand which had knocked her away as though she had been a dog. The hand did not feel the kisses. She longed bitterly to do something, to have the right to do something for him; it was terrible that he would not drink. She began to realise how complete the defeat had been. The Macedonians had won. The Macedonians would come to Sparta and carry her off! The Achaeans. The men of Megalopolis… But her man now for ever was Kleomenes.