Lion of Macedon (55 page)

Then would the world tremble.

Philip shivered. What am I thinking? he wondered. Why has this ambition never shown itself before?

Because you are a king now
, whispered a small voice in his mind.
Because you are a man of power and insight, wisdom and courage
.

By the time Parmenion arrived to give his report, the king had consumed several jugs of wine. He was in a merry mood, witty and convivial, but the Spartan sensed tension behind the good humor. The two men lounged on couches and drank until nearly midnight; it was then that Philip asked the question Parmenion had been waiting for.

“So tell me,
strategos
, are the men ready?”

“For what, sire?” Parmenion hedged.

“To fight for the freedom of Macedonia.”

“Men are always ready to fight for freedom. But if you are asking me whether we can beat the Illyrians, I don’t know. In
another six months we will have two thousand more men trained; then my answer will be yes.”

“We do not have six months,” said Philip, refilling his wine cup.

“Why is that?” asked Parmenion mildly.

“I have canceled the tribute. We have less than six weeks before the Illyrian army crosses the mountains.”

“May I share your reasoning?” inquired Parmenion.

“I spent the money on armor and weapons, so there is nothing left for Bardylis. Can we beat him?”

“It depends on what tactics he chooses and on the terrain. We need flat ground for the infantry and space for the cavalry to strike at his wings. But then, sire, it is down to the fighting soul of the army.”

“How do you see the battle developing?”

Parmenion shrugged. “The Illyrians will begin confidently, expecting another easy victory. That will be an advantage for us. But when we push back, they will form the fighting square. After that it is down to strength, courage, and will. Something will crack, break—them or us. It will start with one man turning to run, the panic spreading, the lines shifting and pulling apart. Them or us.”

“You are not filling me with confidence,” muttered Philip, draining his wine.

“I am confident enough, sire. But we will be evenly matched. There is no question of a guaranteed victory.”

“How is your hand?” asked Philip, switching the subject.

Parmenion lifted his left hand, opening his fingers for the king to see the scarred flesh of his palm. “It has healed well enough, sire, for me to hold a shield strap.”

Philip nodded. “The men talk of that day. They are proud of you, Parmenion; they will fight for you; they will not break unless you do. They will look to you—you will be the fighting soul of Macedonia.”

“No, sire, though I thank you for the compliment. They will look to the king.”

Philip smiled, then laughed aloud. “Give me this one victory, Parmenion. I need it. Macedonia needs it.”

“I shall do my best, sire. But long ago I learned the hazards of placing everything on a single race.”

“You won, though,” Philip pointed out.

“Yes,” said Parmenion, rising. He bowed and walked from the palace, his thoughts in turmoil.

Why had the king taken such a terrible risk? Why not delay until the result was more sure? Philip had changed since the dream woman had come to him, becoming at times more moody and intense.

The following morning Parmenion called his main underofficers to him and walked with them on the training field outside Pella. There were twelve men in the group, but foremost of these were Achillas and Theoparlis, two of his first recruits.

“Today we begin a new series of training routines,” he told them, “and the men will work as never before.”

“Is there something we should know?” Theo asked.

“An army is like a sword,” Parmenion told him. “Only in battle can you judge its worth. And now ask no further questions. Concentrate on the men under your command—find the weak ones and remove them. Better to be undermanned than to carry a coward into battle.”

Slowly he looked around the group, meeting each man’s eyes.

“Sharpen the sword,” he told them softly.

THE LYNCESTIAN PLAIN, SUMMER, 358 B.C.

The two armies were drawn up in battle order on a dusty plain a day’s ride into Upper Macedonia. The Illyrians, with ten thousand infantry and a thousand cavalry, outnumbered the Macedonians by almost two to one.

Philip dismounted and walked to the foot guards, who sent up a cheer as he hefted his shield and took his place at the center of their ranks. Parmenion remained mounted with Attalus and Nicanor beside him, four hundred cavalrymen waiting patiently behind. The Spartan looked beyond the three phalanxes to where Antipater commanded three hundred Macedonian horsemen on the right flank; the black-bearded warrior was issuing last-minute instructions to his men.

“By Hecate,” whispered Attalus, gazing at the Illyrian lines, “there are enough of the whoresons.”

“There will be fewer later,” Parmenion assured him. The Spartan tied the chin straps of his white-crested helm and glanced once more at the enemy ranks less than a half mile distant.

Bardylis had drawn up his men in a fighting square with the cavalry to his right. The old wolf had gained the first advantage, Parmenion knew, for the square would be hard to break, and in the first stages of the battle, this could damage Macedonian morale beyond repair.

“Forward!” bellowed Philip, and the guards lifted their
sarissas
and marched toward the enemy, the phalanxes of
Theo and Achillas close behind. Parmenion lifted his arm and touched heels to his stallion; the cavalry followed, angling out to the left of the marching men.

Dust billowed, but a strong wind dispersed it, leaving a clear field of vision. Parmenion watched the guards break into a run, his heart beating faster now as he studied their formation. It was still tight, compact. He willed it to remain so.

“Here they come!” shouted Attalus. Parmenion wrenched his eyes from the infantry to see the Illyrian cavalry charging across the plain.

“Remember the wedge!” yelled Parmenion, raising his spear and kicking the stallion into a gallop.

The Macedonians streamed after him.

Closer and closer came the horsemen, their lances leveled. Parmenion raised his buckler, chose his opponent, and then risked a glance to left and right. Attalus and Nicanor were beside and just behind him, the cavalry forming a giant spear point. Parmenion looked to the front, where bearing down on him was a yellow-cloaked rider on a chestnut gelding. Parmenion’s eyes moved to the man’s lance, which was resting across his mount’s neck; as the point flashed up, he kneed his stallion to the left and his opponent’s lance slashed the air by Parmenion’s face. At the same time the Spartan stabbed his own weapon into the warrior’s throat, hurling him to the ground. Blocking a thrust from another spear, he plunged his lance into the unprotected belly of an Illyrian rider. As the man fell, Parmenion’s lance snapped. The Spartan drew his sword and hacked and cut his way deep into the enemy ranks.

The Macedonian wedge split the Illyrians, who tried in vain to gallop clear and re-form. But as they did so, Antipater came from the right, thundering into their flanks. Caught now in a pincer, the Illyrians battled for survival.

A sword clanged against Parmenion’s helm, and a spear thudded against his breastplate, dropping to open a narrow gash in his thigh. His own sword rose and fell, spraying blood into the air.

Slowly the Illyrians were pushed back into a tight mass, where the majority could not fight, encumbered as they were by their fellows. Horses went down, trampling screaming warriors, and the cavalry battle became a rout, with the Illyrians forcing a path to the south and fleeing the field. Antipater set after them, but Parmenion, Attalus, and Nicanor recalled their own men and re-formed behind the battle lines.

Philip had no time to watch the clash of the horsemen. As the guards came within thirty paces of the Illyrian line, he ordered a halt. The phalanx slowed, then stopped, allowing Theo’s regiment to link on the left, Achillas holding back to prevent a flank attack on the right.

They were close enough now to see the faces of the enemy and the wall of spears and shields that awaited them.

“Victory!” bellowed Philip.

The line moved forward, three hundred shields wide, ten deep. As they closed on the Illyrian square, the Macedonian front line dug in their heels and halted once more, the
sarissas
held loosely, points gleaming in the sunlight. The men in the second rank lifted the hafts of the long spears and, at a shouted order from Philip, ran forward, propelling the awesome weapons into the first Illyrian rank. The iron
sarissa
points cleared shields and breastplates, punching men from their feet. Then the spears were drawn back to plunge yet again into the second rank.

In that first clash it seemed to Philip that the Illyrians would break and run, such was the panic that threatened to engulf the enemy. But then an Illyrian warrior, speared through the belly, seized the
sarissa
that was killing him and held on to it. Other men saw this act of defiant courage and followed his lead, grabbing at the wooden hafts and rendering the weapons useless.

“Down spears!” shouted Philip, whereupon the men of the leading line dropped the
sarissas
and drew their short stabbing swords. “Forward!” the king yelled. Once again the Macedonians drove on, stepping over the bodies of the Illyrian
slain. But now the battle changed and the advancing line was stopped by the wall of Illyrian shields; Macedonians began to fall before the stabbing spears of Bardylis’
hoplites
.

Achillas, who had held back, saw the charge falter.

“Level spears!” he called, and led his men in a second charge to aid Philip’s right. Once more the Illyrians fell back, the deadly
sarissas
opening their ranks, but soon these, too, were seized and rendered useless and all three Macedonian phalanxes were locked in lethal combat.

Parmenion and the cavalry waited and watched with growing concern.

“Should we ride in?” Nicanor asked.

“Not yet,” Parmenion told him.

“But they are holding us, and they have thousands more soldiers. The weight alone will force us back if they countercharge.”

“Not yet,” repeated Parmenion. The Spartan stared at the milling mass, wishing he could be in there at the heart, willing Theo to recall the maneuvers they had practiced so many times.

The Macedonian line in front of Philip was torn open by an Illyrian unit. The king ran forward, stabbing his sword into the groin of the leading warrior, who went down with a terrible cry. Philip leapt over him, ramming his shield into the face of a second warrior. Around him the guards tightened the line, but the king was now in the front rank, facing the spears and swords of the enemy.

To the king’s left, Theo at last shouted the order Parmenion had been waiting for.

“Ranks seven!
Ranks seven
!”

The men to the left pulled back, while those to the right locked shields, powering forward, swinging the phalanx, and separating from the guards. As the gap between the regiments opened, the Illyrians surged forward like the sea rushing through a broken dike.

“Now!” screamed Parmenion, and the Macedonian cavalry kicked their horses into a gallop, aiming for the gap and
the disordered Illyrians. Too late the enemy soldiers realized their peril and tried to re-form. But Macedonian warriors were now on both sides of them, the cavalry thundering toward them.

The Illyrians were tough men, seasoned in war. As best they could, they formed their shield wall and waited. But the cavalry smashed through them and on into the heart of the Illyrian square.

All was chaos and confusion now: the square broken, the Macedonians, tight and compact still, grinding their way toward Bardylis and his generals.

The old king stood firm, his own royal guard closing in around him. But the battle had now become a massacre, the Illyrian
hoplites
cut down in their hundreds by the advancing Macedonians.

Bardylis tried one last desperate move, ordering his guards to attack the line where Philip stood, but the regiments of Achillas and Theoparlis had closed in, stabbing at their flanks. Even so, four warriors hacked and cut their way through to Philip. The king killed the first with a stabbing thrust to the throat, his guards closing on the other three, scores of blades hacking them down.

Bardylis waited for death, drawing his own sword and hefting his heavy shield. But on a shouted order from Philip, the Macedonians drew back.

“Come forward, Father,” called the Macedonian king. Bardylis sighed. Sheathing his sword, he eased through the last line of his guards and walked to stand before his son-in-law.

“I suppose you want me to kneel,” said the old man.

“One king should never kneel to another,” replied Philip, returning his sword to its scabbard. “Was it not you who taught me that?”

“What do you require of me?”

“I want only my kingdom returned to me. All Illyrians and all of Illyrian blood will be moved to Illyria. The tribute will remain, save that it is you who will deliver it to me.”