Blood of Kings Page 17

  Hoplite spearmen in twenty neat blocks of a thousand, each fifty files wide and twenty ranks deep, were commanded by a syntagma in a muscled cuirass chased with silver. The men wore the full panoply of bronze cuirass and greaves, and a bronze helmet whose cheek guards hid their faces in sinister shade. Rising from those helmets, plumes were blood-red in the sun. Strapped to their left arms, large round hoplon shields covered each man’s left side and the right of his neighbour. On their belts hung heavy iron swords, in their right hands were long, iron-tipped spears, butt spikes digging into the salt crust. Even at rest, the phalanx radiated menace. These were the men Phanes had trained in the new Greek arts of war. The men who Darius remembered him boasting could not be beaten.

  Darius could see they scared the hell out of Cambyses. Watching the king’s nervous darting eyes, the little tremors of his hand that he was trying to control, Darius suddenly understood Cambyses’ darkest secret: the man was a coward.

  A horn blared in the Egyptian lines, a cheer went up and the sky above Darius was suddenly full of screaming shafts. He looked up grimly as disciplined silence fell in the ranks. Then a rustling, clinking sound as thousands of braceleted arms lifted and the shields went up. Mechanically Darius followed, figure-of-eight-shaped shield raised above his head to join the canopy of leather and reeds which was all that stood between him and death. He felt the churning in his gut that always comes at the start of combat, and yearned for the battle heat that would drive it out. Then the arrows were punching down. Darius braced his arm as they struck, feeling them slamming hard into his shield. Resisting the urge to flinch down he stood straight-backed with his head high, as did all the men around him. A few cries broke the Persians’ silence, then the scream of a horse somewhere behind as the animal went down. Darius counted eight heartbeats, nine, ten, then the storm was past and the shields were lowered. Two arrows had buried deep in Darius’s. Snapping them off, he turned to see how Cambyses had fared.

  Beside the royal chariot, Otaneh stepped neatly from beneath his shield, broke off a few arrows and politely discarded them. Contemptuous of the arrows in his heavy bronze cuirass, Phanes had been protecting Cambyses with the vast, curved battle shield of the King of Kings. Now he lowered it. Darius saw a shaken Cambyses pull himself upright, lick nervous lips and raise his war bow high in the air.

  Sunlight flared off the gilded end pieces and instantly the plain shook, as thirty thousand bowmen stamped their left feet on the ground raising a cloud of fine grey dust. Drawn up four deep, they stretched out of sight to Darius’s left and right. Hands dipped into leather quivers, and notched the groove at the back of the cane shaft into the taut string. Highly stressed horn and wood protested as the Persian archers bent their bows, the effort equal to picking up a small woman and raising her chest-high. Not too difficult at first, Darius knew the repeated strain would soon tire them. But these men were the Spada’s main strike force, the finest, best-equipped archers in the world. Other than the Ma-Saka, nothing had stood up to them in thirty years.

  A harsh trumpet call filled Darius’s ears then echoed down the line. Rank by rank, arrows were pointed at the sky. Cambyses’ arm fell, the trumpets blared again and with a hiss like a thousand flocks of birds the arrows shot away. Each was two cubits long and tipped with a triple-finned iron point. They spun as they flew.

  Darius watched the arrowheads flashing in the sun like shooting stars. They reached the top of their trajectory, angled down, whistling into their descent. Two hundred paces away swarthy Egyptian axemen looked up and lifted small wooden shields, then their line dissolved in a blur of falling arrows and screaming men as iron points buried themselves in faces, skulls, chests and arms. Even as they hit, the next flight of missiles was climbing. Again Persian arrows flashed, dipped and swooped, this time with the phalanx as their target.

  Deep within the phalanx a Greek voice shouted, followed by a rattling of shields. Sunlight glinted off bronze rims as the hoplons were raised, and even at this distance the sound of arrows striking cast bronze armour was deafening. Cane shafts snapped, iron points screeched and scraped, sparks flew. Leaning forward on the balls of his feet Darius strained his eyes, anxious for the dust to settle, certain that under such a pounding the phalanx must have suffered.

  Slowly the haze cleared. Out of it the hoplites emerged in pristine ranks. Encased in solid bronze, the Greeks were unscathed. But the phalanx had been roused by the rattle of arrows. Like a great armoured beast shaking itself awake the hoplites dropped their shields to waist level, shook off the splintered shafts and straightened their backs. Waving rods and screaming curses the officers dressed the lines and the first three ranks lowered their spears. Another shout and the phalanx advanced in perfect formation. Twenty thousand men heading straight for Darius and the Persian line at a steady trot, spiked boots crunching the salt crust, shields clanking as they touched.

  Darius saw them coming at him and held his breath. In four years of war he had never known anything like it. He had heard Phanes’s description, but dislike of the man had dulled its impact. Now for the first time he understood the phalanx’s deadly threat. If the Greek formation wasn’t broken, it would crash through the Persian line like a flung boulder.

  The Persian ranks shifted nervously as the incredible thing approached. Archers lowered their bows and stared. Cambyses chewed his lip, no longer able to hide his fear. He summoned his archery commanders and pointed. ‘Destroy it. At any cost!’

  An order came down the line. ‘We’re joining the attack!’ A boy dropped a bundle of arrows at Darius’s feet. Extremely costly, they had armour-piercing, hardened Luristan steel points to punch through bronze. Darius cut the plaited reed binding, took a handful and passed the rest on. Ignoring the onrushing Greeks he calmly strung his bow, with the ease of a movement practised every day of his life since the age of five. Then grasping the smooth cane arrow he fitted it to the string. Shunning the rings many men use he hooked index and middle finger behind the twisted gut, cradling the shaft between them. The bow fought him as his back muscles strained, then it was coming, the wings drawing together, the belly flexing, his lungs expanding. When he looked up to aim, the phalanx was a thousand glints of metal hurtling through the dust towards him, so close now he could clearly make out each file of the deadly formation.

  A trumpet blast sounded, Darius slipped his fingers free, and there was a tremendous rush of air as nigh on fifty thousand arrows shot towards the advancing Greeks. Archery was in the Persians’ blood, almost a religion, and a breathless sigh swept the Persian ranks as the entire might of the Spada converged on the phalanx in one devastating salvo. This time, the outcome could not be in doubt.

  Again Greek voices shouted, arms were raised and there was a rattling of shields. A lone voice sang, then the entire phalanx joined in a rousing battle hymn that competed with the arrows beating against shields and armour in a deafening tattoo. For ten heartbeats they rained down. Darius imagined standing beneath them and knew it was impossible anything could survive such punishment.

  Barely scratched, the phalanx continued its advance towards the Persian line.

  Darius blinked stunned eyes. The phalanx had started as a curiosity but now it was a threat. Persian file leaders craned their necks anxiously left and right as these indestructible men approached. The shieldsmen leant into their man-high spara shields while the ranks behind clutched spears, loosened swords in scabbards and prayed. Scared soldiers looked to Cambyses, needing him to say something to steady their nerves. Cambyses stood silent in his chariot, as awestruck as the rest.

  Only Phanes was calm. Leaning against Cambyses’ chariot he cradled helmet against chest, his lean, hard face composed. Darius watched him run a hand slowly through cropped blond hair and stretch his limbs languorously. Phanes had created this monster. Surely he knew how to destroy it?

  As the last arrows clattered harmlessly against bronze, the stratekos raised his arm. Then chopped it down. A trumpet blasted and from Darius’s
left and right came pounding hooves, the galloping asabari gouging chunks out of the virgin salt crust. Their gowns hooped in turquoise, red, yellow and blue, the bright colours drew dizzying patterns as they criss-crossed the field, swarming around the phalanx like angry wasps. Sleeves flashed gold as arms were drawn back, torsos lifted and javelins cast, iron warheads arcing towards the Greeks, striking backs and sides where the armour was weakest. Watching the figures outlined in the dust, Darius saw a Greek’s leg collapse under him as a missile struck his heel. Another gave an animal scream as a well-cast point severed his spine.

  Giving his former comrades no respite, Phanes sent Imperial slingers sprinting forward to join the slaughter. Dipping hands into leather pouches, wrists whirled, leather slings snapped, smooth, fist-sized stones or moulded lead shot flew in an almost flat trajectory that ended at the Greeks. The air resounded to the crack of tortured metal, hoplites suddenly jerking up as unseen missiles struck. A dazed Greek fell to his knees, swaying, concussed as a stone smashed into his helmet, denting it and sending waves of shock through the bronze. Others clutched ruptured organs or shattered bones. Trapped in the crossfire, hoplites fell in droves. Seeing them, Darius breathed easily, convinced the phalanx was on the point of breaking. Surely no unit could take such punishment for long?

  But though the phalanx reeled, it did not die. Distant orders were barked, the bronze rims of thousands of hoplon shields crashed to the ground. Spear butts thumped the salt flat, points were raised skyward, then sunlight rippled on waves of metal as the spears and shields of the flanking files were lowered to the sides. This time when the asabari attacked, ten-cubit-long spears jabbed in the faces of the Persian horses. Startled, they reared, while Persian riders grabbed reins, then manes and finally whips to control them. Even as the asabari were driven back, the rams’ horns were blaring behind the Egyptian lines. Fast-spinning wheels rattled and leather traces creaked as massed squadrons of light wicker chariots poured from the Egyptian centre, lurching crazily over the salt flats as they raced to engage the exposed slingers. Seeing the chariots advancing, the slingers’ weapons fell limp, the barrage of missiles stopped.

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  Baivarapatish Spitameneh was shouting and pointing an outstretched sword at the chariots. Darius’s heart jolted as he realized he was about to fight. The Immortals shot forward at a disciplined trot, Pomegranate Bearers in the lead. Darius ran, legs pumping, heart crashing from the exertion. Spear down, shield up, voice alive with pent-up excitement suddenly released. A line of chariots coming towards him, the flapping pennants, spinning wheels and creaking wicker; the hastily fired arrows from a jolting cart that flew past his face and swished into the salt crust. The horses closed, the drivers whipped them on. Darius’s unit held their ground, their line drawing tight. The horses charged, threatening to ride the Persians down. At last the battle heat came to Darius and dissolved his fear. He braced his legs, gripped his spear before him, opened his mouth and screamed with all his strength, lungs burning, jabbing the point savagely, willing the horses to bolt, his voice vicious.

  At twenty paces the charging horses filled his view, the sleek black hides, the plumes on their heads, the crack of whips as the drivers bullied them on, the Egyptians’ dark, kohl-ringed eyes turning left and right as they searched for gaps in the Persian line. Tensing for an impact Darius prayed wouldn’t come he screamed harder, then gulped down a lungful of air, breathing in hot dust and the smell of sweating horses sharpened by fear. Five paces from his spear tip the horses refused, big frightened eyes staring at the iron point, hooves digging stubbornly into the salt crust and the wheels of the chariot spinning to a halt. The charioteer’s long dark face radiated fury as he fought the team, one arm cracking his whip, the other yanking the reins, while his archer plucked an arrow from the drum on the side of the cart. He drew and aimed at Darius. Darting in, Darius slid the spear into a horse’s flank. It screamed in pain then reared up, blocking the line of fire. The hooves crashed down and Darius flung himself aside, feeling the ground tremble as they struck a hand’s breadth from his foot. He jabbed the spear again, this time at its face. The horse backed up in panic, pulling at the traces while its team-mate swung the opposite way. The Persian beside him speared the charioteer while Darius sprinted around the panicking horse and rammed his spear into the archer’s chest.

  All down the line chariots were swinging round to flee, or being overturned by panicking horses, and the drivers speared. With the threat removed, the Persians opened their ranks for the slingers to advance. Young fit men, faces wet with perspiration, they leapt through and sprinted back onto the field. When not called up for military service most were shepherds or goatherds, and Darius smelled the smells of the farmyard on their gowns as they brushed past.

  Again the slings whirred. Again the stones and lead shot flew. Standing heroically alone, the phalanx began to dwindle. As a tactical unit against other spearmen Darius thought it looked impressive, but he doubted now it would get the chance to fight. For a few comfortable moments the battle seemed as good as won.

  But then the rams’ horns screeched.

  Darius covered his ears against the sound that scraped his nerves, as high on Pelusium’s ramparts the shaven-headed priests sounded their call to battle. Suddenly everything changed. Down among the Egyptian ranks, Pharaoh’s guard answered that call, deep voices singing and goatskin drums rumbling. Advancing towards Darius out of the dust came rank after rank of dark towering men, close-fitting bronze helmets glinting dully in the morning sun, spears levelled, blue enamelled shields slung on their arms. The slingers targeted them. The guards didn’t care. The ancient land of their God-King was threatened; shielded by the fanaticism of martyrdom, it was their pleasure to die.

  Lowering spears, the suicidal Egyptians charged. Long strides quickly brought them to the asabari. Richly clad Persian horses pinned back their ears and screamed as spears were thrust at their eyes. Fighting to control their rearing mounts, the asabari were forced to give ground, first ceding the crucial area behind the phalanx, then pulling right back to the Persian front line. Suddenly alone again in hostile territory, the Imperial slingers stopped slinging, turned their backs on the advancing guards and ran.

  Volleys of long-range arrows kept the guards at bay, but they didn’t trouble the phalanx. Freed of the terrible slingshot, bronze-helmeted Greek faces lifted in relief and backs straightened, shields snapped into an overlapping carapace, spears were hefted and, screaming blue murder, the hoplites charged.

  As their hobnailed boots broke up the salt crust their war cry rose to a fervour. ‘Aiaiaiaiaiaiaiaiai!’

  Darius was now standing to the right and slightly in front of Cambyses’ chariot. In front of him, the main body of Pomegranate Bearers was drawn up in a mass one hundred men wide and ten deep, with the remaining nine thousand Immortals on either side. Behind were twenty heavily armoured asabari guards and a throng of nobles, satraps and brightly dressed courtiers on horseback, a recovered Vinda among them on his favourite white stallion. The satraps were distinguished by saffron-gold hoods and great quantities of jewellery, and carried shields and iron-tipped spears. They and the courtiers were there to be seen fighting at the Great King’s side, but the Pomegranate Bearers and Spearbearers were the ones to protect him. Darius was supposed to throw himself into the path of danger if Cambyses was attacked.

  Persians braced legs against the ground, took deep breaths, clutched spears and shields tightly. With less than fifty paces to cover Darius saw the Greeks coming at him full tilt, the clanking armour, the swirling dust, the vicious iron spear points, but most of all the sheer aggression, the violence Darius could smell in the sweat and blood of the onrushing men, the deliberate, determined will to kill face to face as they smashed into the front ranks of Pomegranate Bearers, brushing the spara shields aside and driving hard towards Cambyses. To his left, Darius heard Megabyzus’s latest stream of oaths cut off as he was barged aside by armoured shoulders and beaten t
o the ground. Gobryas was hit in the chest by a bronze shield boss and disappeared.

  Darius’s feet scrabbled for purchase against the dusty salt flat. Ahead of him came groans and cries and the ring of iron striking bronze, but his view was restricted to the rear of the neck of the man in front, who pressed hard against Darius’s shield and forced him to step back. The nobleman behind Darius shouted angrily as he crashed into his horse, but before Darius could reply a spear point erupted through the bronze corselet of the man in front. Darius stared at the bloody iron spear now pointing at his chest, automatically thrusting his shield forward. The lightweight, figure-of-eight shield contacted the spear, which immediately withdrew. Blood gouted from the hole in the Persian’s armour and he fell, his grasping arms tangling Darius’s legs.

  Darius kicked the dying man away as a bronze Corinthian helmet appeared and a glinting spear was driven into his face. Again Darius thrust his shield forward. His arm met resistance as the shield caught the spear point. He pushed harder. There was a splintering of wicker as the blade lodged deeper in the shield, then turned aside. Something solid hit Darius’s helmet, his head rang, vision went dark. Blinded, Darius began breathing in ragged gulps. Men down there were being crushed to a pulp by stamping, grinding boots. Salty sweat ran into his eyes, stinging like hell. His vision came back and swam into focus and his breathing steadied. Then he heard the sound of splintering wood. The Greek charge had burst through the line of Pomegranate Bearers, and to his left a sword-wielding hoplite had reached Cambyses and was hacking at his chariot, another Greek beside him holding the Persians at bay with a spear as they tried to drag the hoplite down.

  The hoplite had dropped his shield. His sword blade was biting into the gilded wooden frame. Thrusting a spear, Cambyses mistimed his stroke, stumbling against the chariot rail. He staggered forward with his guard down. The Greek drew back his sword arm, pointing the blade at Cambyses’ chest, poised to strike.