THE ROUT OF THE SATRAPS
Again and yet again Amyntas was thrust back from the other shore,
slippery with mud and clay, while deadly gusts of arrows and javelins
beat upon him. Jealous of glory, the young Persian nobles crowded with
reckless daring to the brink and overwhelmed him by the weight of their
numbers. But they could not drive him off. He clung to the attack
with the stubborn tenacity that knows not defeat, refusing to abandon
the stream, although his lines were broken and his men were falling
around him.
Alexander, watching the battle like a hawk, saw the desperate situation
into which he had thrown Amyntas. "Enyalius!" he shouted, calling upon
the God of War by the name that the Homeric heroes had used before
Ilium; "Enyalius! Follow me, Macedonians!"
The Agema swept down the slope behind the waving plumes of white and
struck the river into foam. The disordered ranks of Amyntas raised a
breathless cheer as it passed, heading straight for the thickest of the
fight. There was a splintering of shafts, a crash of steel upon steel,
and from the fierce vortex of the battle rose cries of rage and agony.
Clearchus fastened his eyes upon the double white plume which fluttered
before them. He heard the cry "Alexander! Alexander!" run from lip to
lip through the Persian host and saw its squadrons rushing down to meet
the onset.
A lean, swarthy man, wearing a head-dress that glittered with jewels,
aimed a blow at him with his curved sword. The Athenian threw himself
back upon his horse to avoid the stroke and thrust the man through the
side with his lance.
Alexander was fighting in the foremost rank amid a flashing circle of
steel. The Persian courtiers threw themselves upon the Macedonian
spears in their eagerness to reach the king and win the honors which
they knew would be bestowed upon the fortunate man who should slay him.
The young leader seemed heedless of his danger. Twice he spurred his
horse up the treacherous bank and twice he was hurled back. The river,
from shore to shore, was filled with soldiers fending off as best they
might the merciless rain of darts and arrows. The moment was critical.
Unless the Agema could gain footing on the Persian side, the day was
lost.
"We must end this," roared Chares above the turmoil. "Down with them!
Alexander!"
He drove his bloody spur deep into the flank of his powerful steed.
The tortured animal leaped at the bank and staggered upward against the
living wall that barred the way. A score of swords struck at him, and
the polished shield that the Theban held above his head rang beneath
the blows that were showered upon it. The great roan gained the top of
the bank, but a spearman buried a javelin in his broad chest and his
knees gave way. As he fell, Chares leaped from his back and stood firm.
"Alexander!" he cried again, in a mighty voice that rose above the din
of conflict like the roar of a lion at bay. His long sword, so heavy
that a man of ordinary strength could hardly wield it, though he used
both hands, swept on this side and on that in whistling circles. Down
went horse and rider before it like grain within the compass of a
sickle. For a moment a space was cleared, and in the next the double
plume of white flaunted before his eyes as Alexander passed him, and
the Theban knew that the shore had been won. The Agema, like a wedge,
struck far into the Persian ranks and held there, driven home by the
weight of troops behind it.
Mithridates, son-in-law of Darius, infuriated by this success, ordered
a charge which should sweep the Macedonians back into the river.
Followed by Rhoisakes, his brother, and by a throng of nobles he hurled
himself upon the stubborn mountaineers, aiming straight for Alexander.
Chares, who was in the path of the avalanche, was swept aside. His
shield was shattered upon his arm by the blow of a mace which also
broke the fastenings of his helmet. A shout of warning rose from the
Agema as it wheeled to face the attack. With sword upraised,
Mithridates rushed upon Alexander; but the king's tough lance pierced
the scales of his armor before he could deliver his stroke. The prince
fell from his horse and rolled beneath the flying hoofs. Rhoisakes,
thundering behind him, aimed a blow with his keen battle-axe which
shore away the king's crest and half the double plume. At the same
moment the satrap Spithridates attacked Alexander from behind, but
before his arm could fall, dark Clitus, with an upward stroke, severed
his wrist so that his hand, still grasping his hilt, leaped into the
air. Rhoisakes met his brother's fate upon Alexander's spear. Dismay
filled the Persian ranks. The charge was broken. "Enyalius!"
Alexander shouted, and the Agema thundered up the slope against the
disordered barbarians.
Clearchus and Leonidas fought close behind Alexander. The Athenian was
never afterward able to recall the details of that desperate struggle.
His remembrance was a confused blur of thrust and parry, of shouting
and confusion. Suddenly, out of the shifting throng, the proud,
flushed face of Phradates appeared to him as in a dream. The young
man's gaze was fixed and he seemed to be striving to extricate his
horse from the press that hemmed him in. Struck by the expression of
rage and hate that convulsed his features, Clearchus followed the
direction of his glance and saw Chares, with bare head and on foot,
holding two adversaries in check with his sword. Blood flowed from a
wound upon his cheek, reddening his shoulder and dimming the lustre of
his armor. He had been left behind by the cavalry, and the space
around him was clear except for the two riders, who had thought to find
him an easy victim.
Clearchus read the thought in the dark face of the Ph[oe]nician.
Phradates had recognized his rival and was bent upon taking him at a
disadvantage. The Athenian turned to warn Chares of his peril, but
Phradates shot out of the crowd in advance of him and spurred down upon
his enemy, bending low upon the neck of his fleet Arabian horse.
"Ho, Chares! Guard thyself!" Clearchus shouted, realizing that he
would be too late.
The cry reached the ears of the Theban, who turned his head for an
instant and saw Phradates rushing upon him. He leaped forward and
hewed one of his adversaries from the back of his horse. The other
closed in, aiming a blow with his sword that Chares had barely time to
catch upon his own blade. The shoulder of the leaping horse hurtled
against him, causing him to stagger and drop his point.
"I have thee, dog!" screamed Phradates.
So intent was the Ph[oe]nician upon his ignoble revenge that he had not
seen Clearchus, spurring desperately to overtake him. The Athenian
heard his shout of triumph and his heart failed.
"I cannot reach him in time!" he groaned.
In a few more strides, Chares would be at the mercy of his foe.
Phradates raised his arm to strike at the defenceless head. There was
one chance of stopping him and one only. Clearchus hurled his sword at
the Ph[oe]nician. The hilt of the whirling blade struck Phradates on
the arm with such force that, with a cry of pain, he let fall the sword
from his benumbed fingers.
"Not this time, Ph[oe]nician!" Chares shouted, as Phradates swooped
past him. "Go back to Tyre and await my coming; for I follow!"
Clearchus leaped down from his horse and recovered his sword with the
intention of pursuing Phradates, but he saw at a glance that the
attempt would be useless. The Ph[oe]nician, unarmed as he was, fled
toward the Persian lines too fast to be overtaken.
He looked around for the second of the two horsemen with whom Chares
had been engaged when Phradates attacked him, but the man was nowhere
to be seen. He turned to his friend and embraced him.
"You were just in time," Chares said.
"Thank the Gods!" Clearchus replied. "This is no place to die. I
think the battle is ours."
Phradates, riding at full speed, passed through the Persian lines and
galloped up the slope. Here and there a Persian horseman saw him go
and followed. Others, and still others, joined the flight until, like
a dam that goes down before the swollen current of a river in spring,
the barbarian squadrons wavered and broke, streaming up the hill
disordered and panic-stricken, with death at their heels. Their only
thought was to save themselves.
Slaughter took the place of conflict. Grim and silent the Macedonian
cavalry and the Thessalian horse rode among the fugitives with swords
that knew no mercy. In that disastrous rout the pride of Persia's
chivalry was dragged in the dust, and the courtier deemed himself
fortunate who escaped to tell of his own dishonor.
Past the camp of the despised Greek mercenaries who had been bidden to
watch the defenders of the Great King conquer or die, ran the barbarian
rabble, with the wolves of Macedon tearing at their flanks. Southward
they fled, leaving behind a broad track of the wounded and the dying,
and scattering as they went until no semblance of the Persian army
remained. Sweet in their ears at last was the music of the trumpet
notes that withdrew the pursuit and left them free to take breath.
The mercenaries stood before their camp, unmoved amid the panic,
awaiting the command to fight or flee. The order never came. Memnon
had fought beside the Persian generals and had been swept away with
them, leaving his army to its fate. Below them the Greeks saw the
Macedonian phalanx re-forming its ranks, with the cavalry, of which
they had none, upon its wings.
"Why should we die for these cowards?" they said, one to another.
"They have deserted us and we are free."
They stretched out their hands in supplication toward Alexander.
"Grant us our lives, O king!" they cried.
"They surrender," Parmenio said. "They are ready to join us. Why not
accept them? It will cost many lives to punish them."
Alexander's brow darkened. "They are traitors to Greece," he said. "I
will have none in my army who has raised his hand against his country."
The deep phalanx rolled onward to the chant of the pæan, and the
despairing mercenaries knew that they could expect no quarter.
"Let us die like Greeks, since we must die," their captains exhorted.
"There is no escape for us."
The phalanx dashed upon them with a rending shock. The long sarissas
tore through their ranks; but they stood firm, giving blow for blow,
and calling upon each other not to disgrace their name. They even
forced the veterans of Macedon to recoil, and the phalanx surged back
like a mighty wave that dashes itself against a sounding cliff and
returns with renewed strength.
Had only the foot-soldiers, with whom they could fight on equal terms,
been arrayed against them, the issue might have remained in doubt; but
the cavalry, against which they had no defence, fell upon their rear
ranks with terrible effect. Their squares were broken; their captains
fell; disordered and without guidance, they went down before lance and
sword, fighting to the last.
Alexander's horse was killed under him while he was leading the cavalry
charge upon the left, and for the second time that day he narrowly
escaped with his life.
"They fought like men," he said sadly to Ptolemy. "I wish they had
been with us instead of against us, for they were Greeks."
He gave command to stop the carnage. Where the mercenary line had
stood the dead lay in heaps, friend and foe together. A few of the
mercenaries who had been cut off from the main body by the cavalry had
succeeded in making their escape; but of the twenty thousand whom
Memnon had led, eighteen thousand never left that bloody field. At
least, they had shown the barbarians how to die.
"It will be harder for Darius to hire Greeks to fight for him after
this," Chares remarked, as he reined in his horse beside his two
friends and dismounted.
"They were of our race, after all," Clearchus said, regretfully.
"They were not cowards," Chares assented, nodding his head in approval,
"and we have lost more men than we could spare. Here is a fellow, now,
who might have amounted to something."
He pointed to the body of a young man who lay with his broken sword
beside him. His pale face was calm and his wide eyes stared upward at
the crimson evening sky. His corselet had been broken, disclosing the
end of a thin roll of papyrus. Chares drew it out and broke the seals.
"He may have been a poet," he said, handing the roll to Clearchus.
"Read it!"
The Athenian glanced at the writing and uttered a quick exclamation.
"Artemisia is in Halicarnassus!" he cried.
"What do you mean?" Chares demanded.
"This is a letter from Xanthe to me," Clearchus said, and he proceeded
to read the lines that his unhappy aunt had written with so much toil.
"Who is this Iphicrates?" Leonidas asked.
"I know not," Clearchus replied eagerly, "but if it be the will of the
Gods we shall learn. Let us seek the king at once!"