It contrasted with the savagery he unleashed on those towns and cities who tried to oppose him.
The Ionian city of Miletus was stormed by the King’s Thracian mercenaries, and appalling tales of murder, rape and slaughter swept east across the Persian empire and west to the cities of Greece. Even Alexander’s enemies could scarcely believe the scale of the atrocities.
It was even whispered that the Macedonian King himself was present, dressed as a common soldier and urging the Thracian savages to even greater depths of depravity.
When Alexander heard of it he flew into a towering rage and an immediate inquiry was launched, headed by an Athenian general. Miletian survivors were questioned and brought to the Macedonian camp. The Thracians were ordered to stand in file while the survivors walked among them, pointing out soldiers alleged to have taken part in the atrocities. By dusk on the fifth day of the inquiry, some seventy Thracians had been executed.
The swiftness of Alexander’s justice earned him credit among the allies, and the Macedonian army moved on.
By the spring of the following year Alexander had reached the southern satrap of Cilicia on the coastline of the sea of Cyprus. No Persian army had come against him and Darius’ general, Memnon, had moved his offensive to the sea - sailing through the Aegean with a force of 300 warships, destroying Macedonian supply ships and raiding the coastal cities which had declared support for Alexander.
In the captured port of Aphrodesia Parmenion watched the unloading of three Greek ships which had broken through the Persian blockade. The first, an Athenian trireme, carried supplies of coin desperately needed to pay the troops. Alexander had decreed that there should be no plunder of the liberated lands. All goods would be paid for and any soldier found guilty of looting or theft would be instantly executed. This was good policy, for it meant that the King could continue to be seen as a liberator and not an invader. But it carried with it a serious problem. If soldiers had to pay for food or clothing or women, then they needed coin - and that was in short supply.
Three gold shipments so far had been intercepted by the Persian fleet, and no Macedonian had received pay for more than three months. Disquiet was growing, morale low.
Parmenion counted the chests as they were carried from the ship and loaded on ox-carts, then mounted his stallion and led the convoy to the city treasury. Here he watched the unloading of the carts and left Ptolemy and Hector to supervise the storing of the treasure in the vaults below the palace.
Alexander was waiting in the upper rooms, Hephaistion and Craterus with him. The King looked tired, thought Parmenion, as he entered the room and bowed. Alexander, in full armour of shining gold-embossed iron, was sitting on a high-backed chair by the wide window.
‘The coin is safely stored, sire,’ said Parmenion, untying the chinstrap and lifting his helm from his head. His grey hair was streaked with sweat and he moved to a nearby table where a pitcher of watered wine had been set, with six goblets around it.
‘What news of Darius?’ asked the King, standing and moving to where Parmenion stood.
The Spartan had reached for the pitcher but now he paused. ‘The moment is coming,’ he said. ‘Last year the Greek King ordered a full conscription from all the satrapies. But he was persuaded that our invasion was merely a swift incursion into Asia Minor in order to plunder the Ionian cities. Now he has realized his error. Our reports are not as complete as I would like, but it seems he is amassing an army of great size.’
‘Where?’ asked the King, his eyes gleaming.
‘That is difficult to say. The troops are moving from all over the Empire. One army is reported at Mazara, which is some three weeks to the north-east of us. Another is said to be at Tarsus, a week’s march to the east. Yet another is gathering in Syria. There may be more.’
‘How many will come against us?’ asked Hephaistion.
The Spartan’s mouth was dry and he found himself longing to lift the pitcher, to feel the strength of the wine flowing in his limbs. He shook his head. ‘Who can say?’ He reached for the wine.
‘But you can guess?’ Alexander insisted.
‘Perhaps a quarter of a million,’ Parmenion answered. Swiftly he filled a goblet and lifted it to his lips, intending only to sip at the wine, but the taste was almost overpowering and when he replaced the goblet on the table it was empty.
Alexander refilled it for him. ‘A quarter of a million? Surely not!’ argued the King.
The Spartan forced himself to ignore the wine and moved to a couch at the centre of the room. Rubbing his tired eyes he sat down, leaning back against the silk-covered cushions. ‘Those who have never been in Asia,’ he began, ‘find it difficult to visualize the sheer size of the Empire. If a young man wanted to ride slowly around its outer borders he would arrive back at his starting point middle-aged. Years and years of travel, through deserts and mountains, lush valleys, immense plains, jungles and areas of wilderness that stretch on a hundred times further than the eye can see, even from the tallest mountain.’ He gazed around the room. ‘Look at the wine pitcher,’ he told them. ‘If that is Greece, then this palace is the Persian Empire. It is so vast that you could not count the Great King’s subjects: a hundred million... two hundred million? Even he does not know.’
‘How then do we conquer such an Empire?’ Craterus asked.
‘By first choosing the battleground,’ answered Parmenion, ‘but more importantly by winning the support of its people. The Empire is too vast to defeat as an invader. We must become a part of it. Darius took the throne by poisoning his rivals. He has already faced his own civil wars and won them. But there are many who distrust him. Macedonia was once considered a part of the Empire and we must build on that. Alexander is here not only to liberate the Greek cities, he is here to liberate the Empire from the usurper.’
Hephaistion laughed. ‘You jest, Parmenion! How many Persians will accept that an invading Greek is a liberator?’
‘More than you would believe,’ said Alexander suddenly. ‘Think of it, my friend. In Greece we have many city states, but we are all Greeks. Here there are hundreds of different nations. What do the Cappadocians care if it is not a Persian sitting on the throne? Or the Phrygians, or the Syrians, or the Egyptians? All they know is that the Great King rules in Susa.’ He turned to Parmenion. ‘You are correct, strategos, as always. But this time you have surpassed yourself.’ The King brought Parmenion a fresh goblet of wine, which the Spartan accepted gratefully.
There is still the question of the Persian army,‘ pointed out Craterus. ’Who will lead it?‘
‘That is a problem,’ Parmenion admitted. ‘Memnon is a skilled general. We defeated him at the Granicus because he was not aware of the scale of reinforcements which had arrived with Alexander. He was marginally outnumbered. But wherever this battle is fought, we will face a ten-to-one disadvantage.’
‘Do not concern yourself with Memnon,’ said Alexander, his voice curiously flat and emotionless. ‘He died two nights ago.’
‘I had not heard that,’ said Parmenion.
‘Nor should you,’ said the King. ‘I saw it in a vision: his heart burst like an over-ripe melon.’
Alexander walked to the window and stood staring out over the sea.
Hephaistion moved to his side, speaking so softly that Parmenion could not make out the words. But Alexander nodded.
‘The King wishes now to be alone,’ Hephaistion stated.
Parmenion rose and gathered his helm, but Alexander remained at the window. Baffled, the Spartan followed Craterus from the room.
‘Is the King well?’ he asked the younger man as they walked out into the sunlight.
Craterus paused before replying. ‘Last night he told me he was about to become a god. He was not joking, Parmenion. But then later, when I asked him about it, he denied ever saying it. He has been so... fey of late. Visions, talks with the gods. You have great experience, sir, of men and battles and long campaigns. Do you understand what is happening to him??
??
‘Have you spoken of this to anyone?’
‘No, sir. Of course not.’
‘That is wise, my boy. Say nothing - not to Hephaistion, nor any of your friends. Even if others discuss it in your presence, stay silent.’
Craterus’ eyes widened. ‘You think he is going insane?’
‘No!’ replied Parmenion, more forcefully than he intended. ‘He has genuine powers. He had them as a child: the ability to see events a great distance away, and other... Talents. Now they have returned. But they create in him terrible pressures.’
‘What do you advise?’
‘I have no more advice to offer. He is marked for greatness. All we can do is support him and follow him. He is strong-willed and I hope this... malaise... will pass.’
‘But you do not think it will?’
Parmenion did not reply. Patting the young man’s shoulder the Spartan walked away, his thoughts sombre. For too long he had pushed away the doubts, turned his eyes from the truth. Mothac had been right, he had blinded himself to the obvious.
The strategos had allowed emotion to mask intellect, had even dulled his reason with wine. How many times had he warned his junior officers of just such stupidity? But now he was forced to face, head on, the fear he had lived with for so long.
The Chaos Spirit had returned.
Battle at the Issus, 333 BC
The morning was chill as Parmenion, in full battle armour, rode the grey, Paxus, towards the north, and steam billowed from the stallion’s nostrils. The sky was the colour of iron and a sea-mist had crept in from the west, seeping across the camp-site, dulling the sounds as the Macedonian infantry moved into formation. Parmenion tied the chinstraps on his helm and swung to watch the gathering men.
For five days the Macedonians had marched south, apparently fleeing before Darius’ vast army, but now - as the dawn light bathed the Mediterranean - the Greeks swung back to the north, marching through a narrow rock-strewn pass.
With the Persian camp less than four miles distant, Parmenion rode warily at the head of the Macedonian infantry with Alexander alongside him. Throughout the night the Spartan had listened to reports from the scouts concerning the Persian positions. Believing Alexander to be fleeing from him, Darius - as Parmenion had hoped - had become careless. His vast forces numbering more than 200,000 were camped by a river south of the town of Issus, and it was here that Parmenion intended to force the battle; for the flatlands south of the town extended for only a mile and a half, and it would be difficult for the Persians to use their numerical advantage to envelop the Macedonian flanks.
Alexander was unnaturally quiet as they rode, and none of the officers felt inclined to break the silence.
This was the moment of truth and every man, marching or riding, peasant or noble, knew it. It was not even the question of victory or defeat - save in the minds of the generals and captains. Today would see each man face the prospect of death or mutilation. News had spread of the size of the force opposing them and Alexander had toured the camp - talking to the men, exhorting them, lifting them. But even such charismatic encouragement seemed thin and as wispy as the mist on this cold morning.
The land ahead widened, the hills to the east flattening and the mountains receding behind them, and Alexander ordered the infantry to fan out on to the plain. Led by the silver-bearded Theoparlis, the Shield Bearers - elite foot-soldiers trained by Parmenion - moved out to the right, leaving the Macedonian infantry under Perdiccas in the centre. Allied soldiers and mercenaries remained on the left and the advance continued on a wide front, the men marching now in ranks eight deep.
Alexander and his officers rode along the line to the west where the allied cavalry and Thessalians fanned out from the centre like the wings of an eagle.
At last Alexander spoke, guiding Bucephalus alongside Parmenion’s mount. ‘Well, my general, the day is finally here.’ He grinned and reached out to clasp Parmenion’s hand in the warrior’s grip, wrist to wrist. ‘We will meet again in victory - or in the Elysian Fields.’
‘Victory would be preferable,’ answered Parmenion, with a wry smile.
‘Then let it be so!’ agreed the King, tugging on the reins and galloping to the far right, his Companion cavalry and Lancers streaming behind him.
Parmenion rode back to the column of lightly-armoured archers, marching behind the phalanxes. The men were Agrianians from Western Thrace, tall and wolf-like, mountain men carrying short, curved hunting bows of bonded wood. The archers were fine fighters - calm, unflappable and deadly in battle. Calling their officer to him, Parmenion ordered the bowmen to angle their march to the right into the mist-clad foothills.
‘Darius will almost certainly send cavalry to outflank us. Harry them. Turn them back if you can. If you cannot, then make sure they suffer great losses.’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered the man. ‘We’ll send them running.’ He gave a gap-toothed grin and loped off towards the east, his men filing out behind him.
The Spartan rode back to the cavalry on the left, his eyes scanning the long line of flat beach to the west. He swung to Berin, the hawk-faced Thessalian prince who had fought beside him at the Crocus Field so many years before. Berin was grey-bearded now, but still lean and strong, his face tanned to the colour of old leather. The Thessalian smiled. ‘They may try to attack on the flat by the sea,’ he said. ‘You want us to ride out there?’
‘No. Take your men behind the infantry and dismount. I do not want you seen until the enemy are committed to a flank attack.’
Berin gave a casual salute and led his men back along the line. Dust was rising now behind the marching men and the Thessalians dismounted and hung back, protecting the delicate nostrils of their mounts. Some even spilled precious water on to dry cloths, wiping dust from the mouths of their horses.
The army moved on. In the distance the Persian defences came into sight, across a narrow ribbon of a river where earthworks had been hastily thrown up, pitted with stakes.
Brightly-garbed Persian cavalry could be seen moving through the foothills on the right, but Parmenion forced himself to ignore them, trusting to the skills of the Agrianian archers to contain them. Slowly the advance continued, Parmenion angling the 2,000 allied cavalry further to the left and ordering the men to spread out.
As he had hoped, a large force of Persian horsemen forded the river, heading west towards the beach. His trained eye watched them streaming out from the enemy right, three thousand, four, five, six...
Ptolemy moved alongside Parmenion. ‘Can we hold them?’ asked the young man nervously. The Spartan nodded.
‘Order Berin and his Thessalians to mount.’
Parmenion swung his gaze back to the centre, where the Macedonian infantry were almost at the river. Now was the testing time, for there was no way the men could cross the water and maintain formation. And they faced a solid mass of well-armed and armoured Persian Guards and at least 5,000 renegade Greek mercenaries, many from Boeotia and Thebes, men with deep hatred for the Macedonian conquerors.
Parmenion was confident that his wild Thessalians could turn the Persian cavalry on the beach, protecting the left, and had great faith in the skills of the Agrianian archers guarding the foothills on the right. But everything now depended on the Macedonian cavalry breaching the enemy centre. For, if the Persians were allowed to sweep forward, sheer weight of numbers would cleave like a spear through the eight deep ranks of the infantry.
The Spartan cleared his throat, but could not raise enough saliva to spit. All rested now on the courage and strength of Alexander.
Alexander tightened the straps on the iron buckler at his left forearm, then knotted Bucephalus’ reins. From here on he would control the war-horse only with his knees. Philotas called out and Alexander turned to see Persian cavalry on the right moving into the foothills. Glancing back, he saw the bowmen moving out to intercept. He hawked and spat, clearing the dust from his mouth; then drawing his sword he raised it high above his head and kicked
Bucephalus into a run for the river. The Companion cavalry, led by Philotas, Cleitus and Hephaistion, raced after him. Arrows and stones flashed by the King’s head as he charged, but none of the missiles touched him as Bucephalus splashed into the water, sending up great arches of spray.
Thousands of Persian horsemen rode to meet the Macedonian attack, and Alexander was the first to come into contact. With a wild cut he hammered his blade into the shoulder of a silk-clad rider and the man fell screaming into the mud-churned water.
The Persians wore little armour save brocaded breastplates, and the Macedonians surged through them to the far bank.
‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ roared Alexander, his voice carrying above the ringing clash of battle. As the King pushed on a lance clanged from his breastplate, tearing loose a gold-embossed shoulder-guard. Alexander ducked under a slashing sabre and disembowelled the attacker.
At the top of the slope the King reined in his mount and cast a swift glance to his left. Darius’ renegade Greek mercenaries had countercharged against the Macedonian infantry and the two forces were battling at the centre of the shallow river, all formations lost. Behind the Greeks stood the Persian Royal Guards, poised to follow the mercenaries into the attack. Instantly Alexander realized that were they to enter the fray now the Macedonian centre would be sundered.
Swinging Bucephalus, Alexander charged at the Guards, the Companion cavalry desperately trying to support him. It was a move of dazzling courage and the Macedonians struggling in the water saw their King, single-handedly it seemed, cleaving his way towards the Persian centre.
A great cry went up and the phalanxes surged forward.
Alexander, wounded on both arms, continued his advance, for he had caught sight of his enemy, Darius, standing in a golden chariot drawn by four white horses. The Persian King was tall and fair, his golden beard long and tightly curled. Upon his head was a conical crown of gold set upon a silver helmet. A white silk scarf was bound about his face and neck, flowing down over a cloak of silver thread.