GAJENDRA LEADS HIS elephants through the lines. The infantry are formed up in their phalanx, the brigade sergeants shouting, ‘Plugs off, skin ’em back!’, and the corpsmen strip off the oiled fleece covers from their sarissas, each the height of three men. It’s a dangerous business just forming up for battle down there, the whetted edges lethal in close formation.
Trumpets are blaring, grooms boost riders onto horses’ backs, they use their body weight to keep the beasts from bolting, they are high and need a firm hand. The forest of pikes springs into the air as the infantry rise from their knees. There is the smell of sweat and oil and iron. Nervous horses piss steaming yellow streams on the ground.
Gajendra looks left and right, sees the phalanx wheel in column and line without a word, in perfect unison. The gleaming spear line swings right then left. They are a terrifying sight. Suddenly the men beat their spears on their shields and shout their war cry:
‘Alalalalai…’
The sound of it shatters the silence. It is terrifying even though they are on his side. He would hate ever to have to face them on the battlefield. As much as Alexander is brilliant, it was the phalanx that had conquered Asia.
The problem for Alexander is that Antipater knows him too well; he will anticipate him. But Antipater has his problems also; he has never before faced elephants.
Antipater has decided to stand his ground. His heavy infantry are in the centre, his cavalry in the wings, no innovation, a massive army three times the size of Alexander’s and the Guggas on their way down from the mountains. It is up to Alexander to shift him or be crushed on the plain.
Reveal and conceal, Alexander tells them. He has shown Antipater a weakened right flank oblique to the centre, where Ptolemy is, inviting Antipater to attack him there.
Alexander rides along the line, the shoulder wings of his corselet unbattened; he won’t dog them down until he’s ready in the line. He’s telling them all: look at me, I am utterly relaxed about this morning’s little skirmish. Being outnumbered three to one is nothing to a god.
He wears an extraordinary helmet, with two great golden wings. He has his usual crowd of pages and staff officers clustered around him. This display is not just his monstrous vanity, though that is part of it. He wants Antipater to see him, to put his best cavalry regiments against him. This way he controls his enemy’s moves as if he were issuing their orders himself.
He calls out to his sergeants by name as he rides the line, settles the more restless of his men with a gesture of his hand. His massive stallion is high, his tail up. Froth sprays from his muzzle and along his flanks. His hooves are the size of skillets, his chest armoured, seventeen hands high. Alexander rallies them to his cause, reminds them all that what they do this morning, they do for history. You are on the road to destiny, he tells them; no one has done what we will do, we are the first army of men to conquer the world.
‘What do I care for Macedon? You fight for the gods, you fight for Zeus. I am Zeus!’
And he offends no one with his talk of foreigners and Greek gods; he says it all in Greek so none of the foreigners in his army can understand him. They cheer as loudly as the rest for the fine spectacle he makes.
Out on the left Ptolemy has begun to advance and has halted. Antipater has been invited to see the apparent weakness, but he knows Alexander’s tactics of old and will not be drawn. Couriers from both armies dash along the lines; the sergeants stand out before their squares shouting instructions, keeping the lines to order.
Nearchus appears from nowhere, galloping alone from the line into the killing ground between the two armies. His disfigured face is concealed by his regimental scarf; he tears this garment free as he gallops. He cannot clearly be seen from where he sits but Gajendra knows what is now revealed; the nose and ears have gone and crusted dried blood has taken their place.
Nearchus raises his right arm; the hand has been severed at the wrist. He then elevates the battle standard in his left. He intends to ride without reins to hold. Impressive.
He wears no helmet and no armour, though his horse’s headstall and frontlet are in place. He has only a light combat saddle.
‘What is he doing?’ Ravi shouts.
Gajendra thinks for a moment that he has come to steal his glory. Does he still think to command my elephants? But Alexander has made his wishes plain. He is the Elephantarch now, not Nearchus.
He rides back towards their line and raises the standard again in salute. Now Gajendra knows what is on his mind.
The two armies fall silent. Nearchus turns and rides straight at the enemy line. The archers and hoplites wait behind their palisade and let him come. Finally an arrow arcs from the line, then a volley. He does not fall.
There are shouts from their own infantry. Some of them seem to believe he might get through.
Another volley of arrows and he goes down, his horse as well. But there is yet movement as the dust settles. His horse rises slowly and starts to trot back towards their line. Then, unbelieving, they watch Nearchus rise too. He starts to stagger towards the palisade. Are they mocking him or honouring him by letting him come so close? Finally a last volley of arrows and he falls and lies still.
He remembers what Nearchus told him: Be careful of him. You are his favourite now but it will not last.
The riderless horse gallops back through the lines. The sweat dries on his back; he feels a sudden chill.
The size of their army is breathtaking. We are a wave and they are inviting us to dash ourselves on the rocks.
Gajendra is desperate with thirst; nerves and dust have turned his throat to chalkstone. Colossus flares out his ears, impatient to charge.
He looks out to the left: eight squadrons of Companion Cavalry under Ptolemy, and their Agrianians, halted on the plain; the Greeks would be pleading with Antipater to let them at him. But small as Ptolemy’s force is, Alexander has insurance: two thousand light infantry, specially trained to fight cavalry and on double pay for doing it. They have no armour, just leather shields and a twelve-foot lance. They have been training since Carthage for this.
Now here it is. The Greeks charge their right flank, Antipater lured into it after all, or perhaps a commander acting out of concert. They will overrun Ptolemy, it is only a matter of time, but that is what Alexander plans to deprive them of.
Yet what he plans seems impossible.
He stands in the saddle and raises his sword. Gajendra turns and waves to the signal boy in the howdah and he raises the flags.
Alexander and his heavy cavalry transit to the front, his misdirection as he called it when they were gathered around his battle charts. Gajendra takes his squadron after them, revealing the mass of the infantry behind, then peels off to the right. Two movements, the elephants moving more swiftly than Antipater could have imagined. What will he make of this?
Now it is their nerves that will jangle.
Because he does not know elephants, Antipater cannot anticipate that they are as fast as horses over short distances. Maintaining such speed is not easy. He looks back and sees the archers in the howdahs clinging on. But his elephants are keeping their shape, none have peeled away, they follow Colossus in perfect order. They drive towards the cavalry on Antipater’s left flank.
He wonders what Antipater will do. He is in a fix. If he moves to cover him he will lose the opportunity to attack on their weaker flank and he still has Alexander charging his infantry at the centre. He knows horses will not go against a well-ordered phalanx. He has just a few heartbeats to divine Alexander’s plan.
Gajendra can imagine nerves at breaking point around the old general. They have the numbers but they no longer have the initiative. If he moves the infantry across to cover the elephants, Alexander may break through. If he doesn’t, can the cavalry alone withstand the elephants?
Antipater will be doubting himself at every turn. Alexander could win this just with the legend of his own invincibility.
From up here the battle sounds like an earthquake. She can see nothing. The armies are too close to each other to make out what is happening. Gajendra told her it was the same for a warrior, even a general, that battles only made sense when you drew them out afterwards, in the sand – if you survived it – after talking to your fellows and sometimes to prisoners. You were either too close or too far away, too scared or too confused to know what was going on. At the time it was just a blur, terror and desperation and instinct running together.
‘You came back,’ Catharo says to her and does not seem surprised.
‘I thought I should find Alexander on a funeral pyre and you on a cross. Why didn’t you do it?’
‘This Gajendra found me out. I’m sure he saw the knife I hid in my tunic. Even when he confronted me later, he knew I was lying. A strange boy. He could have had me thrown in front of Alexander in chains but he chose not to do it. I thought I understood him, but I’ve not worked him out at all. Have you?’
She shakes her head.
‘There is someone else I haven’t worked out either. You, princess. I thought you would be long gone by now.’
‘So did I.’
‘Did you come back because of the Indian boy?’
‘I don’t want to die, Catharo, not any more. And I would like to see my father again and make my peace with him. But what is the point if I leave behind the very man who made me want to live again?’
‘It’s a curse, this wanting to live. It weakens the resolve.’ He folds his arms. ‘Well, that’s it then. We’re both trapped here now. It will be a long day.’
The ranks upon ranks of their heavy cavalry shimmer on the heat haze. All Gajendra can do is hold on. All they have against these thousands is these forty elephants, and for once Alexander has not yet teased a break in the line.
At this last moment he sees Alexander break off his advance and wheel his Companion Cavalry to the right and traverse the line towards them. His intentions are clear now. But if Antipater’s cavalry hold the line they are lost.
But they have the wind at their backs, and this will be important.
He can see them now, the squadrons of heavy cavalry, pennants whipping in the wind, the serried ranks of the hoplites between them, in pot and plate, impenetrable lines of bristling steel. The archers are forming up; they will have the chance to fire one volley before they are on them.
Gajendra prays for movement and sees it.
A horse shies, then another. It is like a ripple spreading through the water, it starts from around the centre and moves outwards along the entire line. He has seen this in drills and in casual encounters, a horse’s utter panic at the sight or smell of an elephant. The officers try to hold their mounts and cannot. The line breaks, slowly at first but then crumbles away as more horses bolt, terrifying their fellows.
The first volley of arrows whines down. The archers have miscalculated the speed of the tuskers. There are three ranks; the front row get off two volleys, the second one, but by then the third rank is already running.
The horses are shoving and kicking their way back through their own ranks, and when they find their way blocked they gallop over the top of the soldiers positioned between them. An infantry phalanx relies on order and discipline for its effect; once it is fractured the individual soldiers are powerless. The panicked horses create corridors through their ranks and Gajendra turns and points to his signalman, who is holding grimly to the sides of the howdah. They must all follow me!
And they do. Instead of attacking the entire flank along its length he leads Colossus through the widest gap, trampling anything in his way. There is scarce any resistance at this point in the line. The enemy’s own horses have created chaos in their retreat and Gajendra’s squadron punches a hole through Antipater’s left flank.
He catches a glimpse of the famous golden helmet as Alexander follows them through with two thousand heavy cavalry coming in behind, flashing past them and ploughing into the rout.
But there is the danger that in the rush of victory they may push too far through the lines. If you were Alexander it wouldn’t matter; Alexander is immortal. But Gajendra knows he must wait for the infantry following behind or there will be no one to protect the elephants once they are isolated from the charge. He turns and gives the order to the signalman in the howdah to pull back, but it is too late.
Ravi is in trouble.
Some Macks have surrounded Ran Bagha; they must have been veterans of the Jhellum River, he supposes, for they know how to fight an elephant. They target the mahavat first, one of their scouts whirling a sling above his head, bringing Ravi down with a stone. Archers take out the men in the howdah.
It would have been easier for Ran Bagha to retreat then, and leave Ravi there. Instead he stands his ground, one massive foot either side of his mahavat. He flares his ears, trumpeting his defiance.
Two of the soldiers run in and one is sliced clean through by his iron tusk; the other he catches with his trunk and slams him onto the ground. But an isolated elephant cannot last long against a determined attack from brave men. They have surrounded him now and it is just a matter of time.
Gajendra sends Colossus thundering over.
He knows he will be too late. Alexander’s light infantry, his stingers, will not be far behind but they cannot get to Ran Bagha in time. Hard men like these Macks, they fight to the death, they will not run like a conscript or a mercenary. They are well drilled and know their business.
Ran Bagha catches two more of his tormentors with his iron-tipped tusk but already a third has slipped in behind with a battle axe and chopped his hamstring. He roars and swings to face his tormentor, all the while keeping himself above Ravi’s stricken body.
The man raises his axe again and Ran Bagha swings with his armoured trunk and knocks him aside, like kicking a stone off the path. The man does not rise.
But now there is another, in behind him, his battle axe hacking again at his unprotected lower legs. A soldier is underneath him, thrusting up with his spear.
He roars and his back legs give way, crushing the soldier while impaling himself further on the spear. But still he holds himself up with his forelegs; if he goes all the way down Ravi will be crushed.
He swings again with his trunk and another soldier cartwheels across the ground.
They are attacking his eyes now, and looking for the gaps in the lamellar. But he won’t go down. There must be at least a dozen Macks dead or wounded around him.
The soldiers see Colossus coming and wheel around to face him. He barrels into them, and they go down under his feet, screaming. He is in a rage and Gajendra does not have to tell him what to do. He uses his tusks and his trunk and his feet. Gajendra wonders at the courage of these Macks for they try and stand up to him. Brutes, the lot of them, but they don’t know the meaning of defeat.
As Colossus wheels around he uses his heels to give the order: Let me down. It seems to him that Colossus hesitates a moment but is too well trained to disobey. Gajendra leaps off and rushes over to Ravi, grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him clear just as Ran Bagha collapses. The ground shakes when an elephant goes down; you can feel it through your feet.
Colossus continues the slaughter unaided; he is a warrior for all his gentle ways with Mara. Now here come the stingers, rushing in and taking out the last of the phalanx.
Gajendra sinks to his knees beside Ravi. Colossus has finished with the war also and stands over Ran Bagha, searching for life with his trunk. Finally he raises his head and bellows.
Ravi’s eyes blink open. He does not know where he is or what has happened; there is a dent in his helmet the size of a fist. Gajendra takes it off, there is a split in his head but his brains are all in there, his head has been given a good rattling is all. He would have been dead if not for his elephant.
The battle rushes over them like a wave, the slaughter continues somewhere else. They are calling to him from the howdah; he must lead the line again or the attack may yet falter. He runs back to Colossus and orders the signal boy to raise the flags.
They sweep into the remains of the phalanx a second time. He glimpses Alexander far ahead, in the thick of things, surrounded on every side, tireless in the way he swings his sword, laughing. It is the only time he ever sees him truly happy, when he is about death’s work. Spray him with another man’s blood and in his mind you pelt him with flowers; he feels fragrant and blessed.
The Gauls that Antipater has brought with him have dropped their weapons and armour and run. Only the Macks and Greeks stand their ground, but their lines are broken and it is simply a matter of doing the slaughter. After a time killing is just heavy labour; the soldiers will be exhausted tonight from wielding their swords all day. Antipater’s men die in their thousands. Some of the Macedonians fought side by side with Alexander in India, but it must be done; these men have turned once and they cannot be trusted to be loyal again.
Impeded by their own baggage train, decimated by their own cavalry turning back on them, Antipater’s thousands count for nothing. Once a soldier starts to run he can save himself or he can die, but he cannot hurt you any more. Many fall prey to Alexander’s cavalry and the light infantry that follow in behind.
Behind the army the wives, the whores and the general crowd have been caught in the massacre and Antipater’s baggage train is in ruins also; tents are just rags, carts no more than firewood. Whores stagger about stealing money from dead soldiers and offering their services to their new masters.
The day wears on, and the battle degenerates into bargaining; soldiers buy women with rings torn from dying men; prisoners are dragged behind horses for sport; captains and corporals stagger about draping themselves in plundered gowns and women’s jewels.
It was supposed to be the great battle that would decide the future of the world. In the end it was no more than a skilled fighter grabbing a bully by the hair and pitching him out of the window.