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.