Darius waved his hand in assent. Already the nobles in the outer circle of the royal guard were struggling for their lives with the Companions. The charge had been delayed too long and there was no time now to make it. Nothing was left but defence.
Darius saw the white plume tossing like a fleck of foam on the crest of an advancing wave. He fitted an arrow to his bow and drew it to the head. The loosened shaft struck the satrap Arsames and passed through his body.
Princes and nobles fought breast to breast with the sons of Macedonian herdsmen. There was no longer question of rank or power, of birth or riches, but only of who had the braver heart and the stronger arm. The eminence on which the Great King had posted himself to witness the punishment of the invaders at his leisure was clothed in slaughter. His favorites were rolling in the dust under the feet of their maddened horses. For the first time in his life, the monarch looked in the face of peril, and his spirit quailed before the test.
Out of the struggle Oxathres came galloping, breathless and with blood upon his armor.
"Save thyself, brother!" he cried, forgetting the royal titles in his haste. "The battle is lost! Mount and fly while there is yet time!"
Darius sprang from his chariot and threw himself upon the back of the chestnut mare, whose silken flanks trembled with excitement. A bound and she was beside the smoking altar, from which the priests had already fled. In her ears rang the anxious call of her foal, and the brute instinct of her mother-love saved that day the King of Kings, who was leaving his own wife and children and the queen his mother to the mercy of his enemies.
Straight as an arrow, leaping every obstacle that came in her way, the mare darted through the confused squadrons of the reserves toward the Amanic Gates. Behind her thundered prince and satrap, each intent upon saving himself at whatever cost.
"The king flees! The king flees!" The cry rose in a hundred tongues throughout the Persian host. The tens of thousands of troops who had not been called upon to strike a blow because there had been no room for them in the fighting line melted away as if by magic. The plain was filled with men streaming toward the mountains or the sea, seeking some place of refuge. Here a body of Scyths, clad in shuggy skins, retreated sullenly; there a band of dark-skinned Libyans ran like a herd of frightened cattle, casting away their clubs and stone-tipped spears; Arabs, Egyptians, Indians, Assyrians, fled in panic, each man seeking to place his neighbor behind him. Collisions were frequent, and more than one unfortunate was hacked down because he stood in the way of some savage comrade in arms.
The men who were actually engaged in fighting did not at first perceive that they were being left to their fate. As soon as they discovered the desertion of the reserves, many of them threw down their weapons and sued for mercy. A portion of the Greek mercenaries alone maintained a semblance of discipline, though broken into several bodies. They fell back, still facing their enemies, toward the seashore, in search of ships to carry them away.
To the Persian cavalry, that had borne back Parmenio, the news of defeat came last of all. They alone still held an advantage, and it was bitter for them to be forced to abandon it. But without support they were powerless. The phalanx wheeled in upon them, threatening to drive them into the sea. Finally they too relinquished hope and joined the rout.