Dark Prince, Page 2

  Parmenion’s concentration was broken as the Macedonian war-cry went up and the regiments broke into a run, the gleaming sarissas hammering into the Phocian ranks. Now the screams of the wounded and dying could be heard faintly above the clashing of shields. Parmenion turned to the rider beside him, a handsome young man in a red-crested helm.

  ‘Nicanor, take five sections and ride towards the woods. Halt some two bow-lengths back from the trees and send in scouts. If the woods are clear, turn again and watch for any signal from me. If not, stop any hostile force from linking with Onomarchus. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Nicanor, saluting. Parmenion waited as the 500 riders cantered out towards the woods, then swung his gaze to the hills.

  The Macedonian formation would not have been hard to predict - infantry at the centre, cavalry on either wing. Onomarchus must have known.

  The infantry were now locked together, the Macedonians in tight phalanx formations sixteen ranks deep, one hundred and fifty shields wide. The First Regiment - trie King’s Guards, commanded by Theoparlis - had pierced the Phocian lines.

  ‘Not too far!’ whispered Parmenion. ‘Swing the line and wait for support!’ It was vital that the four regiments stayed in close contact; once separated they could be enveloped by the enemy’s greater numbers. But the Spartan relaxed as he saw the King’s Guards holding firm on the left, the right driving forward, the phalanx half wheeling, forcing back the Phocians. The Second Regiment had almost linked with them. Parmenion switched his concentration to the Third Regiment. It was coming under heavy pressure and had ceased to move forward, the fighting line beginning to bend back.

  ‘Coenus!’ yelled Parmenion. A broad-shouldered warrior at the centre of the reserve regiment looked up and saluted. ‘Support the Third,’ the general shouted.

  The 2,500-strong Fifth Regiment began to move. They did not run but held to their formation, slowly crossing the field. ‘Good man,’ thought Parmenion. With emotions heightened by fear and excitement, it was all too easy for a commander to lead his men in an early charge, or run them hard to reach the battle. Coenus was a steady officer, cool under pressure. He knew that his heavily armoured men would need all their strength when the fighting began - and not before.

  Suddenly, on the left, the Macedonian line bulged and broke. Parmenion swore as he saw an enemy regiment burst clear of the centre, their shields tightly locked. He did not need to see the emblems on the enemy shields to know from which city they came: they were Spartans, magnificent fighting men feared across the world. The Third Regiment gave way before them and the Spartans moved out to encircle the Guards.

  But Coenus and the Fifth were almost upon them. The sarissas swept down and the phalanx charged. Suddenly outflanked the Spartans fell back, the Macedonians regaining their formation. Satisfied the immediate danger was past, Parmenion swung his black stallion and cantered towards the right, the Thessalians streaming after him.

  The King and his Companions were locked in a deadly struggle with the Phocian cavalry, but Parmenion could see the Macedonians were slowly pushing the enemy back. Glancing to the left he saw Nicanor and his 500 halted before the wood, the scouts riding into the trees.

  Summoning a rider from his right Parmenion sent him to Nicanor with fresh orders, should the woods prove to be clear, then turned his attention to the hills.

  If Onomarchus had planned any surprise strategy, then it was from here it must come. Returning his gaze to the centre, he saw Coenus and the Fifth had blocked the Spartan advance and were battling to link with Theoparlis and the Guards. The Third Regiment had merged with the Fourth and were once more cleaving at the Phocian lines.

  Parmenion had two choices now. He could gallop in to aid the King, or swing his line to hit the enemy from the left. Touching heels to the stallion he rode further along the right flank. A rider detached himself from the battle and galloped to where Parmenion waited; the man had several shallow wounds on his arms, and his face was gashed on the right cheek.

  ‘The King orders you to support the right. The enemy are almost beaten.’

  The Spartan nodded and turned to Berin, the hawk-faced Thessalian prince. ‘Take five hundred men and swing out to the right before linking with Philip.’

  Berin nodded, called out his orders and - his men fanning out behind him - cantered across the battlefield. The wounded messenger moved closer to Parmenion. ‘The King ordered all the reserves into action,’ he whispered.

  ‘You have done well, young man,’ said Parmenion. ‘Now ride back to camp and let the surgeon see to those wounds. They are not deep but you are losing a great deal of blood.’

  ‘But, sir...’

  ‘Do as you are bid,’ said Parmenion, turning away from the man. As the messenger rode away a second Thessalian commander guided his mount alongside the general. ‘What are we to do, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘We wait,’ Parmenion answered.

  Philip of Macedon, his sword dripping blood, swung his horse’s head and risked a glance to the rear. Berin and his 500 Thessalians had circled to the right and charged in on the flanks of the Phocian cavalry, but Parmenion still waited. Philip cursed. A Phocian rider, breaking through the Macedonian outer line, swept towards him with lance levelled. Philip swayed left, the iron point slashing to his right and plunging into his gelding’s side. The beast reared in pain but, even while clinging to its back, Philip’s sword sliced out in a reverse cut which tore under the Phocian’s curved helmet to rip open his throat. Maddened with pain Philip’s gelding reared again, then fell. The King leapt clear of the beast’s back, but a flailing hoof cracked against his hip and hurled him from his feet.

  Seeing the King fall, the Phocians mounted a counter-charge. Philip rolled to his feet, hurled aside his shield and ran at the first rider. The man’s lance stabbed out, glancing from the King’s breastplate. Philip leapt, dragging the lancer from his horse and stabbing him twice in the belly and groin. Leaving the dying man he ran to the horse, taking hold of the mane and vaulting to its back. But now he was surrounded by Phocian warriors.

  A spear opened a long gash in Philip’s right thigh, and a sword-blade glanced from his bronze wrist-guard to slice a cut on his left forearm. The King blocked a lunging sword, cleaving his own blade through the man’s ribs.

  Berin, Attalus and a score of riders attacked the Phocians, forcing them back from the King.

  The enemy cavalry were split, the Macedonians surging forward now to engage the enemy infantry. In the brief respite Philip saw his enemy, Onomarchus, standing at the centre of the foot-soldiers, urging them on. ‘To me!’ yelled Philip, his voice rising above the clashing swords. The Macedonians gathered around him and the King kicked his horse into a run, charging at the first line of shields.

  The Phocian line bent in on itself and almost broke, but Onomarchus ordered a second regiment forward to block the charge and Philip was pushed back. A lance plunged into his horse, skewering the heart. The beast collapsed, but once more Philip jumped clear.

  ‘Where are you, Parmenion?’ he bellowed.

  The Spartan general could feel the increasing anxiety in the men behind him. Like all warriors, they knew that the balance of a battle could swing in a matter of moments. This one was teetering. If Philip’s cavalry could be pushed back, Onomarchus would use the greater strength of his infantry to split the Macedonian centre and still achieve victory.

  Parmenion looked to the left. A hidden force of foot-soldiers had charged from the woods, but Nicanor and his 500 were engaging them. From here it was impossible to gauge the numbers of men Nicanor and his troops were battling to hold, and the Spartan sent a further 200 men to his aid.

  ‘Look!’ shouted one of his Thessalians, pointing to the line of hills on the right.

  Hundreds of cavalrymen had appeared on the crest. Philip and his Companion cavalry were caught now between hammer and anvil.

  The Phocians charged...

  Parmenion’s arm swept up. ‘Forward for Macedon
!’ he shouted. Drawing his sword the Spartan kicked his stallion into a gallop, heading for the Phocian flank. Behind him the remaining 800 Thessalians drew their curved cavalry sabres and, screaming their war-cries, hurtled after him.

  The two forces crashed together on the hillside above the surging mass of warriors righting for control of the centre ground.

  Onomarchus, seeing his cavalry intercepted, screamed out fresh orders to his men, who valiantly tried to form a shield-wall around him. But the Macedonians were pushing now on three sides: Theoparlis and the Guards at the front; Coenus and the Fifth forcing the Spartans back on the left; and the King, cutting and slashing a bloody pathway on the right.

  Bodies lay everywhere, being trampled underfoot by the heavily armoured phalanxes, and no longer could a single bloom be seen on the churned earth of the battle site.

  But Philip had long since ceased to think of the beauty of flowers. Mounted on his third horse he forced a path between the Phocian shields, hacking his blade down into a warrior’s face, seeing the man disappear beneath the hooves of the Macedonian cavalry. Onomarchus was close now and the Phocian leader hurled a javelin which flew over Philip’s head.

  Suddenly the Phocians, sensing defeat was imminent, broke and fled in all directions. Onomarchus - his dreams of conquest in ruins - drew his sword and waited for death. Theoparlis and the Guards crashed through the last line of defence and, as Onomarchus turned to meet the attack, a sarissa clove through his leather kilt, smashing his hip and ripping the giant artery at the groin.

  With the Phocian leader dead and his army fleeing in panic, the mercenary units and the contingents from Athens, Corinth and Sparta began a fighting retreat across the Crocus Field.

  Philip dismounted before his dead enemy, hacking Onomarchus’ head from his shoulders and thrusting the severed neck on to the point of a sarissa, which he held high in the air for all men to see.

  The battle was over, the victory Philip’s. A great weariness settled on the King. His bones ached, his sword-arm was on fire. Letting the sarissa fall, he pulled his helmet from his head and sank to the earth staring around the battlefield. Hundreds of men and scores of horses lay dead, the numbers growing even now as the Macedonian cavalry hunted down the fleeing Phocians. Parmenion rode to where Philip sat. Dismounting, he bowed to the King.

  ‘A great victory, sire,’ he said softly.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Philip as his one good eye looked up into the Spartan’s face. ‘Why did you not come when I sent for you?’

  Other men - Attalus, Berin, Nicanor and several officers - were close by, and they looked to the Spartan, awaiting his answer. ‘You asked me to watch over the battle, sire. I believed Onomarchus would have men in reserve - as indeed he did.’

  ‘Damn you!’ Philip roared, surging to his feet. ‘When the King gives an order it is obeyed! You understand that simple fact?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ replied the Spartan, his pale eyes gleaming.

  ‘Sire,’ put in Nicanor, ‘had Parmenion come to you earlier you would have been trapped.’

  ‘Be silent!’ thundered Philip. Once more he turned to Parmenion. ‘I will not have a man serve me who does not obey my orders.’

  ‘That is a problem easily solved, sire,’ said Parmenion coldly. Bowing once he turned and, taking his stallion’s reins, stalked from the battlefield.

  Philip’s anger did not abate during the long afternoon. His wounds, though shallow, were painful, his mood dark. He knew he had been unfair to Parmenion, yet in a strange way it only increased his irritation. The man was always so right. The King’s wounds were bound with wine-soaked bandages and despite the remonstrations of the bald surgeon, Bernios, Philip supervised the removal of all severely wounded Macedonians to a hospital area outside Pagasai before retiring in the early evening to the captured palace at the centre of the deserted city. From here he watched the executions of the 600 Phocian prisoners captured by the cavalry. The killings lifted his mood. Onomarchus had been a strong enemy, a rallying point for all those who feared Macedonia. Without him the roads to central Greece were now open.

  At dusk Philip made his way to the andron, a large room with nine couches. The walls were covered with murals by the Theban artist, Natiles; they were mostly hunting scenes, horsemen chasing down several lions, but Philip was impressed by the artistry and the vivid colours used. The painter was obviously a man who understood the hunt. His horses were real, the lions lean and deadly, the attitudes of the hunters reflecting both courage and fear. Philip decided to send for the man once this campaign was over. Such scenes would look spectacular in the palace at Pella.

  One by one Philip’s officers arrived with details of the day’s losses. Theoparlis, commander of the Guards, had suffered 110 dead and 70 wounded. Antipater reported 84 dead among the Companion cavalry. In all the Macedonians had lost 307 killed, with 227 wounded.

  The Phocians had been virtually annihilated. Two thousand had been slain on the battlefield, with at least another thousand drowning as they fled from the beaches, trying in vain to swim to the waiting Athenian triremes.

  This last news cheered Philip considerably. Stretching his powerful frame on the silk-covered couch he drained his fifth cup of wine, feeling his tension evaporate. Glancing at his officers, he chuckled. ‘A good day, my friends,’ he said, sitting up and refilling his cup from a golden pitcher. But the mood was sombre and no one joined him in a toast. ‘What is the matter with you all? Is this how to celebrate a victory?’

  Theoparlis stood, bowing awkwardly. He was a burly man, black-bearded and dark-eyed. ‘If you will excuse me, sire,’ he said, his voice deep with the burr of the northern mountains, ‘I wish to see to my men.’

  ‘Of course,’ answered Philip. Nicanor rose next, then Coenus and Antipater. Within minutes only Attalus remained.

  ‘What in Hecate’s name is wrong with them?’ enquired the King, rubbing at his blinded eye.

  Attalus cleared his throat and sipped his wine before answering, then his cold eyes met Philip’s gaze. ‘They want to see Parmenion before he leaves Pagasai,’ Attalus told him.

  Philip put down his wine-cup and leaned back against the cushioned couch. ‘I was too harsh,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all, sire,’ ventured Attalus. ‘You gave an order and it was disobeyed. Now you may have to give another.’

  Philip stared at his Champion and sighed. ‘Ah, Attalus,’ he said softly- ‘Once an assassin always an assassin, eh? You think I should fear the man who has kept Macedonia safe all these years?’

  Attalus smiled, showing tombstone teeth. ‘That is for you to decide, Philip,’ he whispered. The King’s eye continued to stare at the Champion, remembering their first meeting in Thebes nineteen years before when Attalus was in the pay of Philip’s uncle, the King Ptolemaos. The assassin had - for whatever reason - saved Philip’s life then and had served him faithfully ever since. But he was a cold, friendless man.

  ‘I shall not have Parmenion killed,’ said Philip. ‘Go and ask him to come to me.’

  ‘You think that he will?’

  Philip shrugged. ‘Ask anyway.’

  Attalus stood and bowed, leaving Philip alone with the pitcher of wine. The King wandered to the window. From here he could still see the twelve Athenian triremes at anchor in the gulf, moonlight glinting from their polished hulls. Sleek, beautiful craft, yet deadly in battle, with three banks of oars to propel them at the speed of galloping horses so that the bronze rams at the prows could smash to shards the timbers of lesser ships.

  ‘One day,’ thought Philip, ‘I too will have a fleet to match them.’

  His blind eye began to throb painfully and he turned away from the window, pouring yet another cup of wine. Slumping to the couch, he drank slowly and waited for his First General.

  ‘Is it just envy, Parmenion?’ he said aloud. ‘I loved you once. But I was younger then and you were like a God of War - invincible, unbeatable. But now?’ The sound of footsteps came to him and he stood, waiting
at the centre of the room.

  Parmenion entered, followed by Attalus. Philip moved to the assassin, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘Leave us, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘As you wish, sire,’ answered Attalus, his eyes bleak.

  As the door closed Philip turned. Parmenion was standing stiffly, his armour put aside, a pale blue tunic covering his slim frame, a grey riding-cloak hanging from his shoulders. Philip gazed into the tall Spartan’s blue eyes.

  ‘How is it, Parmenion, that you look so young? You seem no more than a man approaching thirty, and yet you are what... fifty?’

  ‘Forty-eight, sire.’

  ‘Is there some special food you eat?’

  ‘You wanted to see me, sire?’

  ‘You are angry with me, yes?’ said the King, forcing a smile. ‘Well, I can understand that. Join me in some wine. Go on.’ For a moment it seemed the Spartan would refuse, but he picked up the pitcher and filled a cup. ‘Now sit down and talk to me.’

  ‘What would you have me say, sire? You gave me two orders. To obey the one, I had to disobey the other. When you are fighting it is I who lead the army. You made this clear to me. “Take whatever action is necessary”, you said. What do you want of me, Philip? It is a long ride to Pella.’

  ‘I do not want to lose your friendship,’ said Philip, ‘but you are making this hard for me. I spoke in haste. Does that satisfy your Spartan pride?’

  Parmenion sighed, his tension sliding from him. ‘You will never lose my friendship, Philip. But something has come between us these last two years. What have I done to offend you?’

  The King scratched his black beard. ‘How many victories are mine?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not understand. They are all yours.’

  Philip nodded. ‘Yet in Sparta they tell all who will listen that it is a renegade Spanan who leads Macedonia to glory. In Athens they say, “Where would Philip be without Parmenion?” Where would I be?’