THE CHESTNUT MARE
The phalanx swept into the shallow bed of the river. The Greek
mercenaries who confronted it on the western bank, nerved by the hope
of gaining the immense reward promised by the Great King, and knowing
that his eyes were upon them, met its shock with courage. Clearchus
heard the fierce shouts with which they closed and saw the line of the
phalanx bend and sway as it pressed upward to gain a foothold.
"Hot work," cried Chares, who was galloping beside him. "By Zeus, the
king leads!"
Alexander, surrounded by young men whose hearts were as high as his
own, struck the left of the stubborn mercenary line where the curve in
the river half exposed its flank. The Agema split its way in between
the files, tearing asunder everything before it.
"Follow the Whirlwind!" shouted Clearchus; but his voice was lost in
the wild cry of the charge.
Clearchus was conscious of being carried swiftly forward without
guidance or volition of his own. The water of the Pinarus splashed in
his face. A blaze of color spread confusedly before his eyes where the
Persians stood awaiting the charge on the terrace above. An arrow
struck his breast and rebounded from his armor. Javelins fell all
around him.
"Now!" he heard the voice of Chares shouting. "Now for it!" and his
horse began scrambling up the bank with the others.
On his right and left the Companions rushed upward like a torrent. He
grasped his lance more firmly, but he had no occasion to use it. The
Persians gave way, crumpling back upon each other in a disordered mob.
Behind them in vain their captains plied the terrible knotted whips
with which they sought to hold the men to their work.
Showers of darts and arrows continued to fall from the rear, striking
friend and foe without distinction, but the Persian troops who were
directly exposed to the Macedonian attack huddled together like sheep.
They were prevented from fleeing only by the fact that they were hemmed
in by the dense ranks of their own host. Through them the Companions
raged at will, clearing a space into which the archers and slingers
pressed with shouts of triumph.
Above the turmoil the Macedonian trumpets rang out high and clear, and,
in obedience to their command, the Companions swerved to the left,
leaving the light-armed troops to hold what they had gained. Clearchus
saw that their charge had torn away the support from the left of the
Greek mercenary cohorts, leaving them wholly unprotected. He caught
sight of the Agema and the other hypaspists, struggling hand to hand
with the mercenaries, and beyond them the phalanx, which he was
surprised to find had not yet succeeded in gaining a lodgement on the
west bank of the river.
"There's something worth fighting," Chares cried to Nathan, waving his
lance at the mercenaries. "They are Greeks," he added proudly. "Come
on, and we will show you what a real battle is like."
The Companions had partially regained the order which they had lost in
the charge. They now faced the mercenary flank at right angles to the
front of both armies. Again the trumpet notes launched them forward.
Again the wild cheer arose, ending in a grinding shock. The momentum
of the charge carried the Companions far into the exposed flank of the
mercenaries; but this time no panic and no yielding followed. Although
hard pressed in front by the furious and unremitting onslaught of the
Agema and the hypaspists, where Clearchus again caught the gleam of
Alexander's floating plumes, the hirelings stood their ground until
death overcame them. Facing half about, they met as well as they could
the attack of the Companions to which the cowardice of their allies had
laid them open. But not even their courage could save them,
unsupported and without generalship as they were, from the impetuous
determination of Alexander.
Into the living wall the Macedonians hewed their way, foot by foot.
Alexander raged like a tiger, knowing that here the battle was to be
lost or won. The phalanx was all but broken. Away on the beach the
Thessalians had been borne back by the impenetrable masses of the
Persian cavalry and were holding the enemy in check only by a series of
desperate and reckless charges. At that moment Darius was triumphant
everywhere excepting at the bloody curve in the river where Alexander
led in person.
It seemed to Clearchus that for hours they were locked in that
desperate struggle without being able to advance. His lance was broken
and the hand in which he held his sword was numb. Beside him he saw
the broad shoulders of Chares heave and fall as he delivered his blows.
The lust of battle seemed to flame in the Theban's veins like a fever.
Again and again the mercenaries leaped upon him to pull him down. His
sword was everywhere.
"He is mad!" thought Clearchus, and so indeed he seemed.
Nathan fought beside him, cool and wary, parrying and thrusting with
sinews of steel. His eyes glowed with excitement held in check, and a
flush tinged the sunburned olive of his cheek.
Little by little, the Companions worked their way toward the
hypaspists, until at last the cavalry and the foot fought side by side,
with Alexander at their head. So fierce was the conflict that flesh
and blood could not long sustain it. The flank attack finally threw
the left of the mercenaries into confusion, which gradually extended
until the ranks that opposed the phalanx began to waver. A mighty
quiver ran through the hireling force. Its resistance weakened and it
gave ground.
With a wild shout the phalanx rushed up the river bank. The mercenary
lines were hurled backward. The wall was broken.
Among the swirling eddies of men and plunging horses, Clearchus found
himself close to Alexander. He saw the young king, sword in hand, his
armor dimmed with dust and blood, pause for a moment with heaving
breast to note the final charge of the phalanx. As soon as he saw the
straightened lines and caught sight of the sarissas rising above the
river bank, followed by the grim faces of his veterans, he turned and
directed his gaze in the opposite direction, toward Darius.
The Great King had not shifted his ground since the beginning of the
battle. He still stood, erect and proud, in the golden chariot with
its four white steeds, whose jewelled bridles were held by slaves. His
long robe, in folds of lustrous purple, floated from his shoulders. In
his hand he held an idle bow, inlaid with pearl. He looked unmoved
upon the slaughter that was going on before his eyes, but when the
mercenary line gave way, he turned to his brother Oxathres.
"Is that the courage of which these Greeks boast so much?" he asked.
Oxathres shrugged his shoulders.
"They are dogs," he replied. "Wait until the Macedonian has spent his
strength upon them, and we will show him what it is to meet Persian
steel. Look yonder, O king!"
He waved his hand toward the sea beach, where the Persian cavalry had
pushed Parmenio and the Thessalians back from the river's mouth.
"So will we do to them here," he said contemptuously.
A cupbearer brought Darius a goblet, gleaming with precious stones and
filled with the wine that only the royal lips might taste. The Great
King drank it deliberately and turned again to the battle.
"What is that handful of horsemen there on the left?" he asked.
"They are called the Companion cavalry," Oxathres answered. "They are
said to be brave men."
"Who is leading them?" Darius asked again.
"Alexander, who wears the white plumes," his brother replied. "He is
mounting. They are about to charge."
"Will he dare to attack us here?" Darius queried anxiously.
"Grant, O Beltis, that he may!" Oxathres said fervently. "Then we
shall have him at our mercy."
"What shall I do with him when he has been captured?" Darius asked.
"O king, may you live forever!" Oxathres exclaimed. "Many have fallen
this day. Crucify him beside his fellow-robbers on the shore as a
warning to all the world."
"Could I so treat a king?" Darius asked doubtfully.
"Thou couldst treat him so, for he is no true king," Oxathres urged.
"Thou knowest the stories of his birth."
"So then shall it be," Darius said. "Give the necessary orders."
At that moment the steward of the king's household forced his way
through the nobles and prostrated himself, kissing the dust before the
chariot.
"Speak," Darius commanded.
"O king of kings!" the man said, "Sisygambis, thy mother, and the Queen
Statira sent me to know if thou wert safe, and to ask when thou wilt
return to them."
"Tell them to have no fear," Darius said confidently. "Let them make
ready to attend the banquet in my pavilion at the going down of the
sun."
Darius glanced again at the Companions, who were forming for the charge
under cover of the advancing phalanx, and let his eyes sweep slowly
over his own forces. Around him stood princes and governors of
provinces, satraps, viceroys, and generals. His personal guard of ten
thousand horse was drawn up on either side, while in front of him, so
disposed as not to obstruct his view of the battle, were ranged the
Immortals, ten thousand of the bravest soldiers of his empire.
In an open space behind his chariot stood a group of white-robed
priests around a massive altar of silver from which rose the pale blue
perfumed smoke of the eternal fire. Mithra, Darius believed, would
never forsake his votaries or permit his fire to be extinguished.
"They are coming," the Great King said tranquilly, having completed his
inspection. "Look, Oxathres, Baal has stricken them with madness!"
He leaned forward in his chariot, fixing his eyes upon the white plumes
that his brother had said distinguished his rival. Between him and the
Macedonians stood a solid barrier of men, every one of whom was ready
to die if by so doing he could save his master so much as a scratch.
"If they will persist in their folly," Oxathres said, "let them come."
The Companions tore their way through the remnant of the mercenary
line. Onward they came, trampling and scattering a squadron of Scyths
as if their weapons had been the toys of children. They reached the
Immortals. Darius drew a breath of relief. There they must stop at
last.
But no! The white plumes still advanced, and behind them came a
widening stream of horses and men. It seemed as though nothing could
stand against them. The Immortals were scattered like chaff from a
threshing-floor.
Oxathres changed color. He turned and spoke to his trumpeter. The
brazen note that followed warned the nobles to make ready for a charge.
The heart of many a silk-robed courtier who had been boasting all day
of the deeds he would do when his chance came grew sick at the sound.
The time had come.
Darius hastily dismounted from his heavy chariot, leaving his mantle
behind him, and took his place in another chariot, drawn by two horses
only and more easily manageable. At a sign from Oxathres, a groom
advanced, leading a beautiful chestnut mare, who tossed her head with
distended nostrils, neighing for her foal, which had purposely been
left behind beyond the Amanic Gates in Syria. The groom took his place
in silence beside the chariot.
"Shall I lead the charge?" Darius asked.
"Thy servants beg of thee not to deprive them of the glory that awaits
them," Oxathres replied.
Darius waved his hand in assent. Already the nobles in the outer
circle of the royal guard were struggling for their lives with the
Companions. The charge had been delayed too long and there was no time
now to make it. Nothing was left but defence.
Darius saw the white plume tossing like a fleck of foam on the crest of
an advancing wave. He fitted an arrow to his bow and drew it to the
head. The loosened shaft struck the satrap Arsames and passed through
his body.
Princes and nobles fought breast to breast with the sons of Macedonian
herdsmen. There was no longer question of rank or power, of birth or
riches, but only of who had the braver heart and the stronger arm. The
eminence on which the Great King had posted himself to witness the
punishment of the invaders at his leisure was clothed in slaughter.
His favorites were rolling in the dust under the feet of their maddened
horses. For the first time in his life, the monarch looked in the face
of peril, and his spirit quailed before the test.
Out of the struggle Oxathres came galloping, breathless and with blood
upon his armor.
"Save thyself, brother!" he cried, forgetting the royal titles in his
haste. "The battle is lost! Mount and fly while there is yet time!"
Darius sprang from his chariot and threw himself upon the back of the
chestnut mare, whose silken flanks trembled with excitement. A bound
and she was beside the smoking altar, from which the priests had
already fled. In her ears rang the anxious call of her foal, and the
brute instinct of her mother-love saved that day the King of Kings, who
was leaving his own wife and children and the queen his mother to the
mercy of his enemies.
Straight as an arrow, leaping every obstacle that came in her way, the
mare darted through the confused squadrons of the reserves toward the
Amanic Gates. Behind her thundered prince and satrap, each intent upon
saving himself at whatever cost.
"The king flees! The king flees!" The cry rose in a hundred tongues
throughout the Persian host. The tens of thousands of troops who had
not been called upon to strike a blow because there had been no room
for them in the fighting line melted away as if by magic. The plain
was filled with men streaming toward the mountains or the sea, seeking
some place of refuge. Here a body of Scyths, clad in shuggy skins,
retreated sullenly; there a band of dark-skinned Libyans ran like a
herd of frightened cattle, casting away their clubs and stone-tipped
spears; Arabs, Egyptians, Indians, Assyrians, fled in panic, each man
seeking to place his neighbor behind him. Collisions were frequent,
and more than one unfortunate was hacked down because he stood in the
way of some savage comrade in arms.
The men who were actually engaged in fighting did not at first perceive
that they were being left to their fate. As soon as they discovered
the desertion of the reserves, many of them threw down their weapons
and sued for mercy. A portion of the Greek mercenaries alone
maintained a semblance of discipline, though broken into several
bodies. They fell back, still facing their enemies, toward the
seashore, in search of ships to carry them away.
To the Persian cavalry, that had borne back Parmenio, the news of
defeat came last of all. They alone still held an advantage, and it
was bitter for them to be forced to abandon it. But without support
they were powerless. The phalanx wheeled in upon them, threatening to
drive them into the sea. Finally they too relinquished hope and joined
the rout.
Then through all the plain and up the mountain slopes rode squadrons of
Macedonian horse, cutting down the fugitives. The Thessalians there
took merciless revenge for their losses. The earth was encumbered with
corpses.
When the trumpets at nightfall recalled the scattered and weary bands
of executioners, nothing of the vast army of Darius remained on the
plain excepting the spoil and the dead, over whom the jackals snarled
and howled. And down the Syrian slope of the pass, bathed in sweat,
galloped the fleet-limbed chestnut mare, with Darius upon her back.