When they reached the river, they saw the Persians drawn up on the opposite bank in a long, deep line. The front of the enemy was gay with banners flaunting in the sun and resplendent with the multi-colored finery of the Persian lords. The Greeks could hear the braying of their trumpets and the shouts of their commanders as the dense masses of their cavalry wheeled into position to meet the attack.

At sight of Alexander a high-pitched, long-drawn cry ran from one end of their line to the other, rising and falling in derision.

There was no answer from the Greeks. The young king drew aside to a point of vantage and threw a rapid glance at the barbarian host. He saw that the river before them broadened into a pool, over whose quiet surface the swallows were skimming. Immediately in front of him the water foamed and gurgled over a shallow, and a similar break ended the pool below. The opposite bank rose steeply from the water's edge to the wide declivity upon which the Persians had taken their stand.

Behind them Memnon's mercenaries had been posted as a reserve and to be spectators of the punishment which the barbarians were to inflict upon their countrymen.

"Leonidas was right," Alexander exclaimed, pointing to the mercenaries.

"See, we shall not have to meet the spears of the Greeks. Form the line, Parmenio."

Squadron and company emerged from the road and wheeled into their positions in silence under the direction of their captains. Clearchus, Chares, and Leonidas were riding with Ptolemy's troop when a page sought them and they saw Alexander beckoning.

"Do not forget that you are to fight with Alexander to-day," he said, as they rode up.

Leonidas flushed with pride and Chares threw a satisfied glance at the gorgeous breastplate which he had recovered safely. They took their places in the cluster of young Macedonians behind the king.

Amyntas, with his light horsemen, was posted on the extreme right, beyond the left of the Persian line. Ptolemy, with the heavy cavalry, stood next, and Alexander, with seven squadrons of the Companions, the best and bravest of his army, supported him on the left. Then came the terrible phalanx, rank on rank, its sarissas standing up to four times the height of a man, like a giant field of corn. Farther down the river, in the left wing, where Parmenio commanded, was the dashing Thessalian horse, with the riders of Thrace and the Greek allies, supported by other squadrons of foot-soldiers.

Quickly and calmly, as though forming for a parade, the line extended itself and stood still. Behind its centre the catapults and ballistae were posted, with their strings tightened and their great arms drawn back, ready to hurl their bolts or to discharge their missiles.

A sudden hush fell on both sides of the river. The jeers of the Persians died away and their banners stirred lazily in the light air.

The Macedonians stood facing them like an army of statues. Alexander touched his horse with the spur and rode slowly down the line alone to see that all was in readiness. As he passed he spoke to the captains, calling them by name.

"Nicanor," he said, "let your men prove themselves men once more to-day! Perdiccas, fight for the honor of Hellas! Cnus, there are no cowards among your followers; fight now as you never fought before!

Remember Macedon!"

So the young king reached the left of the array, where he gave his final instructions to Parmenio, and galloped back to his place on the right with his double white plume streaming behind him.

Gazing across the narrow stream, the veterans of Macedon saw the pride of Persia awaiting their onset. The great struggle for which they had been making ready through years of toil was about to be brought to an issue. There rose before them a vision of the farms and villages among the rugged Macedonian hills where their wives and children awaited them. They set their teeth upon the thought that defeat would leave the road to their homes unguarded. They pictured the shame of returning as hunted fugitives, with the barbarians at their heels--how sullen Sparta would exult and fickle Athens blaze up in revolt. It would be better to die there on the banks of the foreign river than to incur such disgrace.

To all minds came the thought that the fate of the world was hanging in the balance, and all eyes turned to Alexander. The young king, cool and confident, had regained his position at the head of the Agema. He raised his hand and away on the right the army heard the clear notes of a trumpet sounding the charge.

Amyntas, with his gallant lancers, galloped down the slope and dashed into the river, which foamed about the knees of the plunging horses.

Again the trumpet-call quavered in the air, and Ptolemy's squadrons followed Amyntas with a clanking of armor and a jangling of scabbards.

On the opposite shore the Persians raised their fierce, defiant shout and rushed eagerly forward to meet the charge. A flight of arrows rose from the archers posted upon the hillside in their rear and converged in a glittering shower upon the ford.

Then along the dreaded phalanx of the Greeks ran a swelling murmur.

The forest of sarissas began to move toward the river. Louder rose the chant until it drowned the clash of arms and the shouts of the barbarian host. It was the solemn paean from twelve thousand bearded throats, calling upon the Gods of Hellas for their aid. The hearts of the Greeks in the mercenary camp on the heights across the river tightened as the deep-toned chorus rolled up to them and for a time they avoided looking into each other's eyes.

Enormous darts, ponderous balls of lead, and jagged stones were hurled against the Persian line from the death-dealing engines in the rear of the Greek position. Amyntas was struggling hand to hand in the foaming ford. The battle was joined.

CHAPTER XIX

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.

Mithridates, son-in-law of Darius, infuriated by this success, ordered a charge which should sweep the Macedonians back into the river.

Followed by Rhoisakes, his brother, and by a throng of nobles he hurled himself upon the stubborn mountaineers, aiming straight for Alexander.

Chares, who was in the path of the avalanche, was swept aside. His shield was shattered upon his arm by the blow of a mace which also broke the fastenings of his helmet. A shout of warning rose from the Agema as it wheeled to face the attack. With sword upraised, Mithridates rushed upon Alexander; but the king's tough lance pierced the scales of his armor before he could deliver his stroke. The prince fell from his horse and rolled beneath the flying hoofs. Rhoisakes, thundering behind him, aimed a blow with his keen battle-axe which shore away the king's crest and half the double plume. At the same moment the satrap Spithridates attacked Alexander from behind, but before his arm could fall, dark Clitus, with an upward stroke, severed his wrist so that his hand, still grasping his hilt, leaped into the air. Rhoisakes met his brother's fate upon Alexander's spear. Dismay filled the Persian ranks. The charge was broken. "Enyalius!"

Alexander shouted, and the Agema thundered up the slope against the disordered barbarians.

Clearchus and Leonidas fought close behind Alexander. The Athenian was never afterward able to recall the details of that desperate struggle.

His remembrance was a confused blur of thrust and parry, of shouting and confusion. Suddenly, out of the shifting throng, the proud, flushed face of Phradates appeared to him as in a dream. The young man's gaze was fixed and he seemed to be striving to extricate his horse from the press that hemmed him in. Struck by the expression of rage and hate that convulsed his features, Clearchus followed the direction of his glance and saw Chares, with bare head and on foot, holding two adversaries in check with his sword. Blood flowed from a wound upon his cheek, reddening his shoulder and dimming the lustre of his armor. He had been left behind by the cavalry, and the space around him was clear except for the two riders, who had thought to find him an easy victim.

Clearchus read the thought in the dark face of the Phnician.

Phradates had recognized his rival and was bent upon taking him at a disadvantage. The Athenian turned to warn Chares of his peril, but Phradates shot out of the crowd in advance of him and spurred down upon his enemy, bending low upon the neck of his fleet Arabian horse.

"Ho, Chares! Guard thyself!" Clearchus shouted, realizing that he would be too late.

The cry reached the ears of the Theban, who turned his head for an instant and saw Phradates rushing upon him. He leaped forward and hewed one of his adversaries from the back of his horse. The other closed in, aiming a blow with his sword that Chares had barely time to catch upon his own blade. The shoulder of the leaping horse hurtled against him, causing him to stagger and drop his point.

"I have thee, dog!" screamed Phradates.

So intent was the Phnician upon his ignoble revenge that he had not seen Clearchus, spurring desperately to overtake him. The Athenian heard his shout of triumph and his heart failed.

"I cannot reach him in time!" he groaned.

In a few more strides, Chares would be at the mercy of his foe.

Phradates raised his arm to strike at the defenceless head. There was one chance of stopping him and one only. Clearchus hurled his sword at the Phnician. The hilt of the whirling blade struck Phradates on the arm with such force that, with a cry of pain, he let fall the sword from his benumbed fingers.

"Not this time, Phnician!" Chares shouted, as Phradates swooped past him. "Go back to Tyre and await my coming; for I follow!"

Clearchus leaped down from his horse and recovered his sword with the intention of pursuing Phradates, but he saw at a glance that the attempt would be useless. The Phnician, unarmed as he was, fled toward the Persian lines too fast to be overtaken.