The Golden Hope: A Story of the Time of King Alexander the Great

In vain the three young men tried to learn what had become of the pursuers upon whom Leonidas had let loose their terrible ally. Grasping their swords, they stood back to back amid the drifting smoke, striving to look beyond the flaming wall. The wave of fire reached the slope from which they had fled, lingered there for a few moments, and then vanished as quickly almost as it had sprung into existence. The smoke blew away over the uplands in a bellying cloud. Gazing through its rifts, they could see nothing of the Persians. They seemed to have disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed them.

"Where are they?" exclaimed Clearchus in bewilderment.

"They must have escaped," Leonidas replied.

"No, by Zeus, I see them!" Chares cried, pointing to a group of blackened mounds about halfway from where they stood to the edge of the marsh.

One of the mounds stirred as he spoke, and they saw that he was right. It was one of the horses. The animal tried to raise itself on its fore legs, gave a scream of agony, and fell back among the cinders.

Without a word, the three Companions turned away. While the fire had fled rapidly before the wind, it had made little progress in other directions. It was still eating into the rushes behind them and on either side and they were surrounded by it, excepting where it had swept back to the slope. To return in that direction would be to run new risk of capture. They were prisoners.

They looked at each other. Their faces and garments were black with smoke and ashes.

"What would they say if they could see you in the Agora in Athens looking like that?" Chares asked of Clearchus.

"They would ask me the price of charcoal, I suppose," the Athenian replied, laughing.

They moved slowly after the receding fire, choosing their path with caution and halting every few yards to wait until the ground had cooled.

"We shall not get out in time!" Leonidas groaned.

"Don't be too sure," Clearchus cried. "Look at that." He extended his hand, upon which a drop of water had fallen.

"Rain!" cried the Spartan, joyfully. "The Gods be thanked!"

It was rain, indeed. The drops were falling all around them, making little puffs in the hot ashes and hissing on the embers. The wind shifted further to the east and brought a refreshing dampness to their faces, crimsoned by the stifling atmosphere which they had been forced to breathe. There was a muttering of thunder, then a nearer crash overhead, and they saw the storm striding across the plain in a long, sweeping curve. They lifted their faces to it and drew deep breaths, letting the water trickle through their hair and down their bodies. Steam rose from the blackened expanse all about them. Gaps began to appear in the hissing circle of fire. The red tongues flickered and went out.

"There is yet time," Leonidas cried, and in a few moments they were once more among the reeds, heading for the northern margin of the swamp.

CHAPTER XVIII

GREEK AND BARBARIAN

Alexander was riding upon Bucephalus, with Parmenio at his side. Behind them rode the light-hearted pages and the grave generals, followed by the Companions and the infantry, winding like an enormous snake along the road that led southward to the Granicus.

The young king seemed preoccupied. He glanced restlessly to the right and left where scouting parties were beating the country to guard against surprise and in the hope of finding some trace of the enemy.

"The Persians cannot be far away now," he said to Parmenio. "Do you think they will wait for us?"

"If they were wise, they would fall back and draw us away from our supplies," the old general replied.

"They must fight," Alexander exclaimed.

"I have no doubt they will," Parmenio answered, with the shadow of a smile upon his lips.

Alexander glanced sharply at him and was silent, riding with bent head as though debating with himself. There was something in the veteran's tone that jarred upon him.

"I wish Leonidas, Chares, and Clearchus were here," he said at last.

"Perhaps they have taken service under Memnon," Parmenio suggested dryly.

"Is there none that you trust?" Alexander said sharply. "They are not deserters; but they may have been killed."

"That is possible," the old man replied.

"I care not so much for the Persians," Alexander continued, "but I would like to know how many men Memnon has and what spirit they are in."

A small party of the scouting horsemen appeared before them in the road.

"It is Amyntas himself," Alexander said, catching sight of them. "What has the Lyncestian found?"

"Either stragglers or prisoners," Parmenio replied, shading his eyes with his palms. "They seem to be negroes."

"We will put them to the torture," Alexander said, with satisfaction. "They may be able to tell something of what we wish to know."

He urged Bucephalus forward to meet the skirmishers, who halted to await his arrival.

"What have you here, Amyntas?" he asked.

"Three men who seemed to be wandering about the Country," Amyntas replied. "They are Greeks, but they refuse to give any account of themselves excepting to Alexander."

One of the three prisoners, short and strong of build, stood forward and saluted. Alexander looked hard at him and then at the other two. His face cleared and he laughed aloud.

"Order a halt," he said. "Let the men rest and eat. Leave the prisoners to me."

He gave his horse to a groom and led the way to a wide-spreading oak tree a short distance from the road.

"I thought you had been either killed or captured," he said to the prisoners. "Leonidas, what have you learned?"

"Everything," the Spartan replied.

"How many soldiers has Memnon?" the young king asked.

"Twenty thousand," was the reply.

"Will they fight?" Alexander inquired.

"No, because the Persians will not let them," Leonidas said. "Memnon advised a retreat, but the satraps laughed in his face and gave him permission to watch them win the battle."

"What think you of that, Parmenio?" Alexander exclaimed. "He gave them the same advice you would have given had you been there. They have refused it. The day is ours!"

With hasty questions he brought out the whole story of the expedition. The plan of battle formed itself in his mind as he listened, walking back and forth before them. His eyes flashed and his cheeks glowed red.

"You have done well," he said to the three friends, when they had finished. "Your horses are waiting for you. Refresh yourselves and put on your armor, for you will need it before the sun goes down."

"I hope nobody has stolen my breastplate," Chares muttered.

Alexander continued to pace backward and forward with his head inclined a little to the left, as was his wont when in thought. Parmenio watched him closely, but did not venture to speak. Amyntas, who had ridden forward after surrendering his prisoners, now returned at a gallop.

"The barbarians await us on the opposite side of the river," he said.

"Your prisoners have already told me," Alexander replied. "Is the stream fordable?"

"Not directly in front of their line," the cavalryman replied. "There is shallow water above and below them, but the stream is swift."

"Call the council," Alexander said quietly, turning to Parmenio.

Heralds bore the order down the road beside which the army lay at rest. The commanders left their stations and came forward, singly and in groups, gathering about their leader. In few words he set the situation before them.

"Shall we attack them now or to-morrow?" he asked.

"Let us fight now!" the captains shouted.

But Parmenio frowned and shook his head. "My advice is to wait," he said boldly. "Already it is late and we must cross the river to reach the enemy. They have chosen their own ground. The men are weary with their march."

"No, no!" the younger men shouted.

"As for the river," Alexander replied, "the Hellespont would blush for shame if we stood waiting on the banks of such a stream as this after having crossed the other. It is true that we have little time, and that is the more reason that we should make the most of it. We will fight now."

His decision was received with a burst of cheers. He waited with a smile until the clamor of approval had ceased.

"Comrades and Macedonians!" he continued, "we are about to face the Mede. If we win here, we win all. I say to you that we shall win. I ask you only to be worthy of yourselves. Fight this day as the heroes fought before the walls of Ilium. Their shades are with us. Your names shall be linked forever with theirs. Here we shall reap the first harvest of our hope."

"Lead us, Alexander! We shall win!" the captains shouted.

They ran back to spread the news among the soldiers, who received it with such enthusiasm that even the anxious face of Parmenio brightened. In another half hour the army was again in motion with Alexander in the van, wearing the helmet with the white plumes that swept his shoulders.

When they reached the river, they saw the Persians drawn up on the opposite bank in a long, deep line. The front of the enemy was gay with banners flaunting in the sun and resplendent with the multi-colored finery of the Persian lords. The Greeks could hear the braying of their trumpets and the shouts of their commanders as the dense masses of their cavalry wheeled into position to meet the attack. At sight of Alexander a high-pitched, long-drawn cry ran from one end of their line to the other, rising and falling in derision.

There was no answer from the Greeks. The young king drew aside to a point of vantage and threw a rapid glance at the barbarian host. He saw that the river before them broadened into a pool, over whose quiet surface the swallows were skimming. Immediately in front of him the water foamed and gurgled over a shallow, and a similar break ended the pool below. The opposite bank rose steeply from the water's edge to the wide declivity upon which the Persians had taken their stand. Behind them Memnon's mercenaries had been posted as a reserve and to be spectators of the punishment which the barbarians were to inflict upon their countrymen.

"Leonidas was right," Alexander exclaimed, pointing to the mercenaries. "See, we shall not have to meet the spears of the Greeks. Form the line, Parmenio."

Squadron and company emerged from the road and wheeled into their positions in silence under the direction of their captains. Clearchus, Chares, and Leonidas were riding with Ptolemy's troop when a page sought them and they saw Alexander beckoning.

"Do not forget that you are to fight with Alexander to-day," he said, as they rode up.

Leonidas flushed with pride and Chares threw a satisfied glance at the gorgeous breastplate which he had recovered safely. They took their places in the cluster of young Macedonians behind the king.

Amyntas, with his light horsemen, was posted on the extreme right, beyond the left of the Persian line. Ptolemy, with the heavy cavalry, stood next, and Alexander, with seven squadrons of the Companions, the best and bravest of his army, supported him on the left. Then came the terrible phalanx, rank on rank, its sarissas standing up to four times the height of a man, like a giant field of corn. Farther down the river, in the left wing, where Parmenio commanded, was the dashing Thessalian horse, with the riders of Thrace and the Greek allies, supported by other squadrons of foot-soldiers.

Quickly and calmly, as though forming for a parade, the line extended itself and stood still. Behind its centre the catapults and ballistæ were posted, with their strings tightened and their great arms drawn back, ready to hurl their bolts or to discharge their missiles.

A sudden hush fell on both sides of the river. The jeers of the Persians died away and their banners stirred lazily in the light air. The Macedonians stood facing them like an army of statues. Alexander touched his horse with the spur and rode slowly down the line alone to see that all was in readiness. As he passed he spoke to the captains, calling them by name.

"Nicanor," he said, "let your men prove themselves men once more to-day! Perdiccas, fight for the honor of Hellas! Cœnus, there are no cowards among your followers; fight now as you never fought before! Remember Macedon!"

So the young king reached the left of the array, where he gave his final instructions to Parmenio, and galloped back to his place on the right with his double white plume streaming behind him.

Gazing across the narrow stream, the veterans of Macedon saw the pride of Persia awaiting their onset. The great struggle for which they had been making ready through years of toil was about to be brought to an issue. There rose before them a vision of the farms and villages among the rugged Macedonian hills where their wives and children awaited them. They set their teeth upon the thought that defeat would leave the road to their homes unguarded. They pictured the shame of returning as hunted fugitives, with the barbarians at their heels – how sullen Sparta would exult and fickle Athens blaze up in revolt. It would be better to die there on the banks of the foreign river than to incur such disgrace.

To all minds came the thought that the fate of the world was hanging in the balance, and all eyes turned to Alexander. The young king, cool and confident, had regained his position at the head of the Agema. He raised his hand and away on the right the army heard the clear notes of a trumpet sounding the charge.

Amyntas, with his gallant lancers, galloped down the slope and dashed into the river, which foamed about the knees of the plunging horses.

Again the trumpet-call quavered in the air, and Ptolemy's squadrons followed Amyntas with a clanking of armor and a jangling of scabbards.

On the opposite shore the Persians raised their fierce, defiant shout and rushed eagerly forward to meet the charge. A flight of arrows rose from the archers posted upon the hillside in their rear and converged in a glittering shower upon the ford.

Then along the dreaded phalanx of the Greeks ran a swelling murmur. The forest of sarissas began to move toward the river. Louder rose the chant until it drowned the clash of arms and the shouts of the barbarian host. It was the solemn pæan from twelve thousand bearded throats, calling upon the Gods of Hellas for their aid. The hearts of the Greeks in the mercenary camp on the heights across the river tightened as the deep-toned chorus rolled up to them and for a time they avoided looking into each other's eyes.

Enormous darts, ponderous balls of lead, and jagged stones were hurled against the Persian line from the death-dealing engines in the rear of the Greek position. Amyntas was struggling hand to hand in the foaming ford. The battle was joined.

CHAPTER XIX

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 Phœnician. 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 Phœnician 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 Phœnician. 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, Phœnician!" 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 Phœnician, 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.