The Golden Mean - Annabel Lyon [78]
PHILIP IS ALREADY IN PHOCIS, marching toward Boetia and Athens itself. I ride with Alexander and Antipater and some reinforcements to catch up to the main force.
We are led in our march south, symbolically and for luck, by that perennial Macedonian mascot, a goat; one of a dozen transported in their very own cart so they can spell one another. If only my own circumstances were so comfortable. I walk, ride, walk, allowing the blisters and the chafing to spell each other, wondering how long it takes the average cavalier to develop a groin of hide. We are mostly foot soldiers, with only a few cavalry, friends of Alexander who ride with him. They carry knives and long lances akin to the foot soldiers’ sarissae and wear only light armour. The foot soldiers are arranged into squadrons of about two hundred men, grouped geographically; I walk for a while with the Chalcidician squadron, hoping to meet someone from home. They are scouts, archers, slingers, sword- and pike-men. They too are only lightly armed. If the cavalry are aristocracy, the foot soldiers are a great hot stew of Macedonians, conquered colonials, and mercenaries, and speak more languages than I can recognize around the fires at night. They travel fast, as fast as a pampered goat, thanks to that light armour and the fact that the heavy equipment of the siege train is already with Philip. The units—the smallest being groups of ten who camp and eat and piss and screw and fight together—are fiercely loyal to one another and to Philip, and even the mercenaries are better behaved than most, because Philip takes care to pay them well and promptly.
My fantasy, perhaps, was of a comfortable ride by the prince’s side, discussing Homer and the virtues. In fact I see little of Alexander, who rides now forward, now back, joking with the men, making a show of himself in his fine armour on his fine horse. He is only faintly ridiculous, and maybe only to me. He is leading as he was taught and doing it well. At night he moves from fire to fire, extemporizing speeches of encouragement to make Carolus proud. Men’s faces light up when they see him coming. Mostly when I ride it’s with Antipater, who’s softened a little toward me now that I’ve joined the campaign. We talk politics: borders, taxation, military strategy. (That is politics, to a general.) On the fourth day of our journey, scouts report that the main force of the army is encamped in the Cephissus Valley, held there by the Greek forces. The site of the battle, then, will be a place called Chaeronea, a broad plain, almost flat, with a river to the north and hills to the south. Tomorrow, now that we’ve arrived.
“You’ve never done this before, have you?” another medic says to me.
It’s early evening. I’ve helped pitch the tents where we’ll patch the wounded, and seeing the others clean their kits, do the same. Memories of my father are strong now, in the blue quiet of nervous soldiers sitting around their cook fires, not cooking. Drinking. Stars are prickling into view but there’s light enough still. I unroll and reroll some bandages. The other medic’s kit is grubbier, lighter than mine. I bought all new for this and it shows. He’s younger than me and more experienced. He has told me what I’ll need and what to leave packed, the surgical equipment there won’t be time to use.
“No,” I say. “Never seen battle.”
“You’re fucked, yeah?” He picks through my things. “This is nice.”
A new set of knives; I left my father’s at home. I offer him the set.
“No shit?”
I tell him he’ll get it before we leave. That’s a promise.
“Sure.”
He doesn’t seem to care either way. I wonder