in retreat, chased by the hetairoi , the Thessalians and the very fast light cavalry of the Thracians and the Triballians, now wildly engaged in furious hand-to-hand fighting.
Now came the clash between the phalanx of the pezhetairoi and Memnon’s mercenary infantry, who continued to advance compactly, shoulder to shoulder, protected by their large convex shields, their faces covered by light Corinthian sallets. The two armies called out: ‘ Alalalài! ’ and rushed forward brandishing their weapons.
Memnon gave the signal and the Greek mercenaries let fly with their spears in a single swarm of iron-tipped shafts and then they unsheathed their swords and threw themselves into the battle before the phalanx had time to reorganize itself. Great blows were unleashed, right, left and centre, as they sought to cut through the shafts of the sarissae to open up a breach in the enemy front line.
Parmenion realized the danger they were in now, and he called up the savage Agrianians and directed them towards Memnon’s flanks. The Greek mercenaries had to hold back to defend themselves.
The phalanx re-formed and the front line started throwing short spears again. Memnon’s troops were completely surrounded now, even from behind, with the Macedonian cavalry approaching on its return from having chased the Persians. But they fought valiantly to the bitter end.
The sun now flooded the plain, illuminating the bodies which lay heaped one upon another. Alexander had Bucephalua brought to him, while the vets took care of his wounded bay, and he inspected his victorious troops. His face was red with blood from his head wound, his breastplate torn by Spithridates’s javelin and his body covered with dust and sweat, but to his men he looked like a god. They beat their spears on their shields just like the day on which Philip had announced Alexander’s birth to his troops and they all shouted: ‘Alexandre! Alexandre! Alexandre!’
The King turned his gaze off to the far right of the line-up of the pezhetairoi and saw Parmenion there. The general was almost seventy years old now and he stood, fully armed, the marks of the battle he had just fought clearly on his body, his sword in his hand, just as solid as any of the young, twenty-year-old soldiers.
Alexander guided Bucephalas over to him, dismounted from his horse, and embraced the old general while his soldiers’ cries rose up to the heavens.
7
T HE TWO AGRIANIAN WARRIORS leaned over a group of bodies and started stripping them of their best weapons – bronze helmets, iron swords, greaves – which they then threw on to a nearby cart.
In the now fading evening light one of them suddenly spotted a gold bracelet in the shape of a serpent on the wrist of one of the dead bodies; he moved nearer, while his friend’s back was turned, with the intention of keeping this small treasure for himself. But as he bent over to grab hold of it, a dagger came flashing out of the tangle of bodies and cut his throat from ear to ear in a single movement.
The man dropped to the ground in silence. His companion, intent on loading the weapons on to the cart, was making so much noise he did not even hear the sound of the body falling. When he turned round again he found himself alone in the twilight and started calling out for his friend, thinking that he had perhaps hidden himself away as some sort of joke.
‘Come on . . . come out, stop being so stupid and give me a hand here with this stuff. . .’ He didn’t even manage to finish the sentence – the same weapon that had slit his friend’s throat flew blade first into the space between his collarbone and his neck, plunging right up to the hilt.
The Agrianian fell to his knees and instinctively grabbed at the dagger, but he didn’t have the strength to pull it free and he fell face first into the dirt.
Memnon got up then, freeing himself from the pile of bodies in which he had remained hidden up to that moment, and he swayed on his
Now came the clash between the phalanx of the pezhetairoi and Memnon’s mercenary infantry, who continued to advance compactly, shoulder to shoulder, protected by their large convex shields, their faces covered by light Corinthian sallets. The two armies called out: ‘ Alalalài! ’ and rushed forward brandishing their weapons.
Memnon gave the signal and the Greek mercenaries let fly with their spears in a single swarm of iron-tipped shafts and then they unsheathed their swords and threw themselves into the battle before the phalanx had time to reorganize itself. Great blows were unleashed, right, left and centre, as they sought to cut through the shafts of the sarissae to open up a breach in the enemy front line.
Parmenion realized the danger they were in now, and he called up the savage Agrianians and directed them towards Memnon’s flanks. The Greek mercenaries had to hold back to defend themselves.
The phalanx re-formed and the front line started throwing short spears again. Memnon’s troops were completely surrounded now, even from behind, with the Macedonian cavalry approaching on its return from having chased the Persians. But they fought valiantly to the bitter end.
The sun now flooded the plain, illuminating the bodies which lay heaped one upon another. Alexander had Bucephalua brought to him, while the vets took care of his wounded bay, and he inspected his victorious troops. His face was red with blood from his head wound, his breastplate torn by Spithridates’s javelin and his body covered with dust and sweat, but to his men he looked like a god. They beat their spears on their shields just like the day on which Philip had announced Alexander’s birth to his troops and they all shouted: ‘Alexandre! Alexandre! Alexandre!’
The King turned his gaze off to the far right of the line-up of the pezhetairoi and saw Parmenion there. The general was almost seventy years old now and he stood, fully armed, the marks of the battle he had just fought clearly on his body, his sword in his hand, just as solid as any of the young, twenty-year-old soldiers.
Alexander guided Bucephalas over to him, dismounted from his horse, and embraced the old general while his soldiers’ cries rose up to the heavens.
7
T HE TWO AGRIANIAN WARRIORS leaned over a group of bodies and started stripping them of their best weapons – bronze helmets, iron swords, greaves – which they then threw on to a nearby cart.
In the now fading evening light one of them suddenly spotted a gold bracelet in the shape of a serpent on the wrist of one of the dead bodies; he moved nearer, while his friend’s back was turned, with the intention of keeping this small treasure for himself. But as he bent over to grab hold of it, a dagger came flashing out of the tangle of bodies and cut his throat from ear to ear in a single movement.
The man dropped to the ground in silence. His companion, intent on loading the weapons on to the cart, was making so much noise he did not even hear the sound of the body falling. When he turned round again he found himself alone in the twilight and started calling out for his friend, thinking that he had perhaps hidden himself away as some sort of joke.
‘Come on . . . come out, stop being so stupid and give me a hand here with this stuff. . .’ He didn’t even manage to finish the sentence – the same weapon that had slit his friend’s throat flew blade first into the space between his collarbone and his neck, plunging right up to the hilt.
The Agrianian fell to his knees and instinctively grabbed at the dagger, but he didn’t have the strength to pull it free and he fell face first into the dirt.
Memnon got up then, freeing himself from the pile of bodies in which he had remained hidden up to that moment, and he swayed on his
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