The Pillars of Hercules (22 page)

But Alexander never stopped moving. His bodyguards were strapping on his armor while he bellowed orders. Signal flags ran up the masts of the flagship even as the oarmasters beat a faster time on the drums—Alexander’s ship sped up toward the barricade, the rest of the fleet following suit. The soldiers on the shore began running, keeping pace with the fleet.

Alexander stared at them for a moment, frowned—then reeled off another string of orders with an impatience that made it seem he would shove the signal officer aside and run those flags up himself. As he strapped on his rams-head helmet, more flags were going up along each shore, relaying his directives down the chain of command. The squares of infantry and cavalry stopped and began forming up, facing outward, away from the river. Adopting a defensive formation, Eumenes thought… against what?

And then he saw it.

Flames had appeared all along the tops of the hills bordering the river on both sides: a line of fire that blossomed into full-on incandescence and began rolling downhill. They were wagons that the tribesmen had set alight; as hordes of screaming warriors charged in behind the careening wagons, the full extent of the Macedonian predicament became terribly apparent. Trumpets sounded along the river; the infantry squares along the river clustered into an integrated phalanx and then began advancing up the hills toward the oncoming wagons. Alexander had given his orders, deciding in the instant that the situation called for eschewing defense and going straight into an attack formation. Eumenes could only guess as to why. Perhaps so the soldiers could put as much distance between themselves and the river-bank behind them as possible. Perhaps because that was always Alexander’s instinct, regardless of the circumstances. The burning wagons would be hitting the phalanxes on both sides of the river within the next thirty seconds.

But the men on the flagship had more pressing concerns. The ships and barges and skiffs now formed the two sides of a V behind Alexander’s ship, stretching out toward either bank. The scene on the deck of the flagship was one of controlled chaos. Marines pushed the pavilion overboard, setting up mantlets in its place. Eumenes and Hephaestion crouched behind one such barricade. The latter was ashen-faced. He seemed to be in a state of near-shock.

“You were right about the Scythians,” he muttered.

“I’d rather not be,” replied Eumenes as a dart shot past him.

“But how—in Zeus’ name,
how
did they achieve such surprise?”

Eumenes shrugged. “They must have taken out all our scouts and outriders. Then moved in from all sides.”

“We were careless.”

Eumenes wasn’t about to disagree. Nor was he going to say anything out loud. Particularly when the man most responsible was within earshot: Alexander stood on the main-deck, totally exposed to the fusillade of Scythian darts and arrows streaking past. He was yelling at one of the siege-engineers, who in turn was gesturing frantically at some of his subordinates as they struggled with something below deck. Then Alexander turned to some marines crewing one of the ballistae, began pointing out the field of fire he wanted. Hephaestion looked aghast.

“Can’t he keep his fucking head down?”

“I think we both know that’s not his style,” said Eumenes.

“He could save the fleet right now.” Hephaestion was practically spluttering. “Just turn around and go back down the river to regroup.”

“But then he’d lose the army.”

“The army’s already
lost,
” spat Hephaestion—and as he said this, the wagons reached the phalanx. With practiced precision, segments of that infantry formation were already sliding aside like beads on an abacus: a last-moment series of orders opening up gaps in the phalanx through which many of the wagons passed, their fires hissing out as they plunged into the Danube.

But there were too many Macedonians and too many wagons for them all to miss. Men flew into the air while others were simply crushed. Wrapped in flames, others ran screaming for the river shore, leaping in as the smoldering wagons crashed after them. The phalanx was reeling; before its gaps could close, the mass of howling barbarians charged into it with a gigantic crash. A pitched battle raged up and down both sides of the Danube. As one, the latter ranks of the phalanx moved in to shore up the gaps torn in the front lines.

“They’re holding,” said Eumenes. But the phalanx was already in considerable disorder, fighting in conditions about as suboptimal as could be imagined—on ground that was far from level, with enemies already in amidst its ranks. In places, the forest of massed
sarissae
pikes was still intact, a hedgehog on which barbarians impaled themselves as though it were a gigantic pincushion. But in all too many areas, the
sarissae
were down, the swords were out, and hand-to-hand combat was underway. As more barbarians poured down the hills and into the fray, the Macedonians on both banks were gradually being forced backward, remorselessly, toward the river.

But Alexander had never lost a battle—and he clearly had no intention of starting now. Even if this particular fight had begun in the worst way possible, he continued to yell orders. More darts whipped past Eumenes’ head; the flagship had almost reached the barbarians’ barricade. Eumenes caught a glimpse of a jagged projectile streaking along the deck, just missing Alexander and skewering several marines behind him. More marines moved in to take their place, surging up from below-deck, getting ready to leap onto the barricade as soon as they reached it. Eumenes and Hephaestion led more squads forward from the mantlets to join Alexander. The air was filled with missiles as every barbarian within bowshot concentrated fire on that ship. Those aboard the boat screamed a war-cry—one that was taken up by the rest of the fleet. The barricade filled Eumenes’ vision—rows of barbarians along it, waving fists and brandishing weapons. The flagship put on one final burst of speed.

And then they hit.

A terrible, grinding crash: and Eumenes was knocked to the deck. Struggling to his feet, he saw a scene of total shock and confusion. The flagship had embedded itself in the barricade, but failed to break through. Alexander had already leapt over the railing and onto one of the barricade’s platforms, where he personally was battling it out with at least six Scythians. Alexander’s purple cloak and ram’s-head helmet left those tribsemen with no doubt who they were facing, leaving them mad for glory and the chance to end both battle and war right there. Even as Eumenes raced forward to help his prince, a thrown axe sailed past Alexander’s head. Alexander whirled aside and struck the man who’d hurled it a gigantic blow, cleaving through helmet, skull and neck in a single stroke just as Eumenes and Hephaestion and several marines reached him—Eumenes thrust his sword through the guts of a Scythian, withdrew it in a spray of shit and blood just in time to parry the blow of another tribesman that almost knocked him from his feet. The tribesman advanced for a second swing, only to be cut down by Alexander himself—who nodded quick acknowledgement at Eumenes before whirling aside, slicing off the arm of a Scythian about to unleash a vicious swipe at Hephaestion. Recovering from the collision, marines were pouring off the flagship, while barbarians simultaneously tried to fight their way onto the boat, sending up a howling cry that was echoed by their fellows along the riverbanks, pressing forward as they sought to drive the Macedonian phalanx to destruction in the Danube.

Then both deck and platforms shuddered anew as the ships to the immediate left and right of the flagship impacted. Men spilled off boats and barricade. The air was almost thick with stones, darts, and arrows. Eumenes took all of this in a moment—and then all the screaming and howling were drowned out by his prince’s voice:

“Get away from the flagship!” screamed Alexander. “Get distance! Get some fucking distance!” Still shouting, he led the way along the barricade, putting the flagship behind him even as barbarians continued to leap on board. Eumenes was starting to realize just how heavily outnumbered the Macedonians who had made it onto the barricade were. It was scarcely clear who was attacking who—whether the Macedonians were battling their way along the barricade or whether they were being chased away from their own boats.

But amidst it all Alexander was like a man possessed, wreaking deadly slaughter with his blade while not forsaking the other weapons at his disposal—a swift kick in the crotch to leave a barbarian howling before being run through, a shoulder-charge to knock another into the river. It seemed incredible that so much steel could be thrust at him and still miss, but Alexander was dodging with almost superhuman agility, his body contorting as he danced through the maze of swords and axes thrusting at him. The cost of keeping up with him was considerable—a barbarian’s blade grazed Eumenes’ shoulder, while a club crashed into his leg; but he kept on fighting, covering his prince’s left while Hephaestion covered the right, the three men operating as a brutally effective combat unit that fought their way ever further from the stricken flagship. Only a few marines from that ship were left now—all of them utterly surrounded by screaming Scythians who pushed in from all directions. Somewhere up ahead, Eumenes could see the other ships that had reached the barricade, in similar states of being overwhelmed—to the point where they were now backing their oars, Scythians clinging to them as they tore free of the barricade and reversed into the Danube. Now Alexander and his two lieutenants were the only ones who still fought on. Scythians swarmed in toward them from all sides. As the sparks of clashing steel burnt against Eumenes’ face, he found his life reeling past him—sunny days from a childhood in Cardia, teenage years in Macedonia where it seemed like anything was possible, the conquest of Persia where the impossible became everyday occurrence, and finally the growing shadow of Alexander’s meglomania—a quest for divinity which had led the prince to push past mortal limits once too often and that would now leave him to die on this godforsaken river, torn apart like a dog. For just a moment, Eumenes caught sight of Alexander’s face—still utterly determined, still totally confident. The prince caught his eyes.

“Get down,” he said, hurling himself at the feet of the barbarians.

Eumenes and Hephaestion followed suit without hesitation.

Behind them, the Macedonian flagship detonated.

Pieces of wreckage were still raining down as Eumenes hauled himself to his feet to find most of the barbarians had been knocked from theirs. Alexander was already off and running, his boots slamming against backs and heads as he raced pell-mell toward the gaping hole in the barricade where the flagship had been. Flaming wreckage dotted the water. The black-powder charges that his engineers had rigged in that boat’s bowels had done their work well, though Eumenes hated to think what would have happened if they’d gone off prematurely. It seemed like half the barbarians in this section of the barricade had been tossed clean into the water. He and Hephaestion and Alexander charged through those who remained, practically bowling them over as they raced back the way they came. But their momentum was rapidly slowed as more and more barbarians got back into the fray—once more, numbers began to take their toll as the Scythians pressed in upon the prince and his companions. Eumenes found himself face to face with a huge tribesman, who waded in, lashing out with surprising speed, preventing Eumenes from even getting near enough to launch his own blows. But Eumenes couldn’t retreat—to do so would be to give up Alexander’s flank. The barbarian smashed away with the club, battering in Eumenes’ shield, systematically breaking down his guard—until suddenly Alexander lunged leftward with the speed of a striking snake, impaling the barbarian through the throat with a blow so quick it left Eumenes wondering if it had really happened until a jet of warm blood hit him square in the face and the barbarian toppled as though poleaxed.

Another Scythian stepped in behind his dying comrade—only to abruptly stumble and fall, an arrow in his back. All around, it was the same—barbarians dropping as darts and arrows struck them, a rain of missiles flung in from the ships and barges of the Macedonian fleet now sailing through the opening in the barricade. One of the warships swerved hard as soon as it had done so, turning along the barrier’s unprotected rear, coming alongside the tangle of metal and wood, close enough for Alexander and his two lieutenants to spring across. A cheer went up as the prince leapt onto the deck—a cry that was taken up by the rest of the vessels in the fleet as the warship shoved off, plowed back out into the Danube. Alexander gestured at the barricade.

“Burn it,” he said.

Flaming arrows and projectiles poured like a carpet from the Macedonian ships. Alexander hadn’t wanted to set the barricade on fire earlier lest he temporarily render that obstacle even more formidable—but now it no longer mattered. As each ship cleared the barricade, it turned sharply toward one of the two shores, archers and siege-engines discharging fiery bolts into the sea-wall that had seemed so unbeatable mere moments ago. The barricade was alive with fire and screaming—the barbarians dimly visible through wreaths of smoke as they leapt into the water or desperately tried to run back toward the shore. Meanwhile Alexander was conferring with the ship’s captain as Eumenes reached him.

“How many horses?” he was asking.

“We’ve got twenty, sire,” replied the captain.

“I’ll require three.”

The captain nodded—turned his attention back to the helm as the rowers’ drumbeat increased in time and the ship surged in toward the shore. Eumenes followed Alexander and Hephaestion as they headed below decks. The horses were there, stamping impatiently, whinnying as they smelt the smoke wafting past them from the nearby barricade. Cavalrymen were already climbing aboard the horses—and Eumenes felt the almost tangible wave of excitement that swept through them as they realized that they were about to fight alongside their prince. Cheers went up; Alexander called out for silence.

“We couldn’t turn the ships aside before that barricade,” he said, his voice soft, beguiling, utterly convincing. It seemed strange to Eumenes that he would eschew a traditional pep talk for a discussion of tactics—but suddenly it was as though he was simply a regular officer explaining the most basic of operations to his platoon. The men listened raptly, a silence broken only by the rowers calling out time and the screams and war-cries of those outside.