are made fun of in Greek proverbs, but we seek after places that are desert rather than cities and rich fields. Why? For freedom! Rather would we dine on coarse meal at liberty than feast on honeyed cakes in chains.”
At this the whole mountain seems to levitate off its base. The host bawls for our blood and the blood of our king.
Spitamenes prowls beneath the torchlight. He has stripped his tarbousse; he paces bareheaded. Gray streaks his hair, which is thick and falls below his shoulders. His gait hitches; his flesh appears sallow. Is he unwell? Only in his voice and eyes does he seem to command unbroken strength. He speaks of Alexander’s presumption to strike across the Jaxartes.
“As our warriors, only days past, have slaughtered the foe in the shallows of the Many Blessings, so shall we now butcher Alexander and his paid murderers when they attempt to force the Jaxartes. God will not permit this blasphemer to set foot upon holy soil. By the sword of the Almighty shall our river run red, stained with the blood of the invader!”
Like Hook in prior harangues, Spitamenes rattles off the catalog of would-be conquerors whom Afghan and Scythian valor has in the glorious past brought to grief. Let Alexander not trust in his celebrated good fortune, for that wind which commences in the north comes about and blows from the south. The Wolf turns again to address us prisoners.
“Your king believes us savages and ignorant, but we have learned a thing that he has not: the proper measure of man’s portion under heaven.
“Great trees are long in growing but fall in a single hour. Even the lion has been made food for the smallest of birds, and rust consumes iron. Therefore tell your king to hold his fortune with tight hands; she is slippery and cannot be confined against her will.
“Finally, if your lord Alexander is a god, he ought to confer benefits on mankind, not strip them of those few they have. But if he is a mortal man, let him remember his place in the scheme of the Almighty. For what indeed is madness, save to recall those things that make one forget himself?”
Two dawns later, Alexander strikes across the Jaxartes. Our knot of captives, held by Ham and others, observes from a peak overlooking the vast, treeless plain.
The river is three hundred yards wide. On the near bank mass thirty thousand Bactrians and Sogdians, Daans, Sacae, and Massagetae. The host blackens the shore for two miles, dense as a mound of ants. I can’t make myself even glance at Lucas. What chance do our fellows have, forcing a hostile shore against such numbers?
Alexander’s rafts and floats launch into the crossing. We can see riders, dispatched by Spitamenes, gallop to the troops on their right and left wings, calling them in. The foe’s front contracts. His depth and density concentrate within that section of the bank, a thousand yards across, toward which Alexander’s armada advances. The Wolf stations his bowmen up front, at the very brink of the shore. Numbers of archers thrash forward on their own, thigh-deep into the river, so eager are they to hurl their bolts upon our men. The massive Scythian bow is wielded with one foot bracing it against the earth; it launches shafts half the size of javelins. Such missiles can fly a hundred yards with enough power to pierce armor.
How will Alexander cross the final stretch into the teeth of such volleys?
Among our first rank of captives watching from the peak is Aeropus. We can hear his mates narrating the action to him. Have our troops, he asks, made any kind of flanking move? Is this crossing point only a ruse? Has our king sent cavalry upstream or down, to get over and take the foe from the flank and rear?
Every eye strains.
Nothing.
What about our watercraft? Aeropus curses his blindness. Are they barges or rafts? How many are they?
The Mack assault advances in waves. Rafts built up into bunkers. Floats carrying twenty, thirty, fifty men, rigged with side-screens and prow mantlets. The fleet numbers at least five thousand. They cross in ranks, dense as hornets. Scores of pontoon spans have been prerigged. These extend from the Macedonian shore two-thirds of the way across the river-as far as they dare, without getting in range of Scythian bows. From these fixed platforms, anchored in the channel, hundreds of cables run back to the embarkation bank. From our peak we can barely make these threads out, so great is the distance, but clearly our fellows are not propelling their craft by oar (or we would see the current deflecting their course). Instead, they are warping the vessels across by tackle strung from the pontoon stations fixed in the channel.
“Our fellows must be hauling hand-over-hand,” Aeropus says when this is described to him. “How much of the channel have they crossed?”
Halfway, he is told. Another fifty yards will bring them in range of the Scythian bows.
“What of the horses?”
They are being swum across. They trail the rafts and barges. Light infantry in tens of thousands swim behind the horses, floating their arms and armor on bhoosa bags of goatskin filled with straw.
“Where is Alexander? Can you see?”
Up front of course. Even at our extreme distance, we can make out the flash of his armor and the dazzle off his double-plumed helmet, of iron burnished to silver.
The first Mack barges have reached the two-thirds mark. At the pontoons. Archers of the Scyths begin loosing their volleys from shore. We can see the broadsides arcing across the open space, to splash within yards of our foremost craft. Great shouts ascend from the enemy. We can see the tribesmen surging forward. Thousands jam up at the water’s edge. Hundreds press into the current in their zeal to get to grips with the advancing Macks.
On our peak, Ham and the guards have come forward. They want to see the show too. Captors and prisoners take up posts side by side, transfixed by the drama mounting to a pitch below. I can see Ham’s jaw work, and his feet beat a dance upon the earth. “Now,” says he to Lucas and me, “we will see your king strangle on his own blood.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Lucas tells him.
The first wave of Macedonian assault craft has come to a standstill. The second moves up behind, then a third and fourth. United, they form a solid mass, a thousand yards end-to-end and seventy-five deep. A hundred-odd yards across from them, the Scythian hordes jig on the shoreline, bawling curses and taunts. We all hold our breath.
Suddenly a pennant ascends on Alexander’s craft. Along the Macedonian shore stand a thousand tented squares, what we (and the foe) have assumed are quarters for the army. Now at our king’s signal, the hides and fabric are flung back. Crews and machines appear beneath.
“What is it?” cries Aeropus.
“Catapults!” one of our fellows cries. “Bolt- and fire-throwers!”
A thousand-bolt volley hurtles skyward from the Macedonian shore. Streaks of smoke smudge the sky. Trajectories light up like parabolas of fire.
Every eye strains. We can barely see the machines, the range is too far. But there’s no mistaking the salvos of smoke and flame slinging from the Macedonian shore.
Incendiary jars.
Flaming naphtha.
“Stones and bolts! The barges are hurling them too!”
Now the assault craft surge forward. They have catapults too. Each craft is a naval bunker armed with a hurling engine; the thousand-yard front is one great platform for artillery.
So densely have the barbarians packed themselves at the water’s edge that it’s impossible for our gunners to miss. A second volley arcs over. Before these missiles strike, our catapults launch a third. Stones, shafts, and fire rain upon the foe. Chaos seizes the enemy shore. Every Mack bolt impales a man or horse of the Scyths, every fire- jar explodes among a jam-up of warriors and beasts.
The Afghan has no experience of modern artillery. Ham certainly hasn’t. He goggles in horror at the spectacle unspooling below. That sound which is like no other-the clamor of men and beasts giving over to panic-ascends with such amplitude that we hear it plain, far away as we are. The foe’s archers up front have turned and stampeded, throwing the horse warriors behind them into disorder. Great rifts open in the enemy’s fore ranks. We can see his wings bolting right and left and his rear guard taking to flight. In the melee, riders trample foot troops, infantry inflicts chaos on horse cohorts.
