David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'Look what we have here!' called a warrior, squatting down to look under the wagon. Dropping to his knees he crawled towards the women, his hand reaching out. Olympias plunged the knife into his eye and he dropped without a sound, his head pinning the dagger firmly in the socket. Olympias struggled in vain to free it. But then a group of warriors took hold of the wagon, overturning it.

Olympias rose, her green eyes angry, her chin held high.

'You will die for this,' she promised them.

'No one will die,' said a tall handsome warrior with blond hair and braided forked beard. 'But Philip of Macedon will pay a fine price to get you back. If you are kind to me, princess, it may be that your short stay with us will be pleasant.'

Olympias' eyes swept the group, her contempt apparent. Then she glanced beyond them to the eastern hills. A line of riders appeared, and at their centre rode a warrior on a huge grey horse. The man wore armour of gleaming bronze and a helm with a white horsehair plume.

'I think you will find,' she said slowly, 'that Philip of Macedon has already set the price — and it is you who will pay.'

'Arcetas! Look!' shouted a man, pointing to the stationary riders. Arcetas swore. He scanned the Macedonian line, counting no more than seventy cavalrymen.

'To horse!' he bellowed. 'They are too few to stop us. Cut them down!'

The Illyrians mounted and galloped towards the waiting Macedonians.

'Watch, Phaedra,' whispered Olympias, dropping down beside the terrified seeress. 'Watch how my husband fights!' Phaedra opened her eyes to see the sunlight gleam from the bronze breastplate of the Macedonian on the giant grey. He drew his sword, holding it high.

And the Macedonians hurtled down to meet the charge, the grey rider forming the point of a wedge that clove into the Illyrian ranks, splitting them, destroying their momentum. Olympias saw the fork-bearded Arcetas straining to reach the grey rider. Dust swirled, but still she could just make out the fight that followed as their swords clashed. There was no question in Olympias' mind as to the outcome, no fear for the safety of the grey rider. She merely waited for the inevitable and leapt with joy as the gleaming sword swept through Arcetas' neck, his head lolling, blood fountaining into the air.

'That is the price, you whoreson!' she shouted.

The Illyrians broke and fled, the Macedonians reforming their lines and galloping after them. But the rider on the grey, followed by three officers, approached the women.

'Philip!' called Olympias, running to meet him.

'No, my lady,' he answered, removing his helm. 'It is I, Parmenion.'

They found a camping site in a grove of trees close to the River Haliacmon. Parmenion went to the wounded men, who had been placed away from the main group lest their cries during surgery should upset the women. The Macedonians had lost seventeen men in the battle, with seven hurt. The crushed Illyrians suffered more than eighty dead. Parmenion knelt by a young soldier who had lost three fingers of his right hand. The boy's face was grey with shock and pain, and shone with sweat.

'I am useless now,' he whispered. 'What shall I do?'

'The gods gave you two hands, Peris — you must learn to use the left. It is not so bad. You are not a foot-soldier, so you will not need to worry about forming the line. You are a cavalryman -

aye, and a good one. You have too much courage to let such a small wound overcome you."

'I am no good with my left, general.'

'We will work on it, you and I.'

Parmenion moved on to the next man, but he had bled to death. The general covered the dead man's face with a cloak and moved on.

The surgeon, Bernios, rose to greet him as he finished his rounds. 'We did well,' said Bernios, wiping the sweat from his bald head with a blood-stained towel.

'Had we been an hour earlier, there would have been no battle,' replied Parmenion. 'That would have been better, my friend.'

'Indeed it would, general. But,' the man shrugged and spread his hands, 'it could have been considerably worse. We might have been an hour later — and then the King's new bride would have been stolen from him. I believe Philip would have been mildly aggrieved.'

Parmenion smiled. Slapping the surgeon on the shoulder, he returned to the main camp. The women's quarters had been set back into the trees, where they could enjoy privacy, while the fifty-one surviving soldiers sat around four camp-fires. Parmenion called to Nicanor, signalling the young man to follow him.

'Are there scouts out?' asked the general.

'Yes, sir. Six men patrolling the hills. Three others are stationed north, west and east of the woods.'

'Good. You fought well today. The King will be proud of you.'

'The King long since ceased to care about me,' answered Nicanor with a shy smile. 'But I truly do not mind, Parmenion. Do not concern yourself for me. I was his favourite for a time. Now there are others. I am getting old, you see. I am twenty-seven now.' Nicanor shrugged. 'But Olympias is very beautiful, don't you think?'

'Yes,' answered Parmenion, too abruptly. Nicanor looked up sharply, but Parmenion turned away.

'See to their needs,' he said over his shoulder as he walked to his blankets.

The younger man took up a wineskin which he carried back to the Queen's camp-fire. Olympias was sitting on some cushions brought from the carriage; the girl he took to be her maid was tending the blaze.

'I have some wine for you, ladies,' said Nicanor, bowing deeply.

Olympias flashed him a dazzling smile. 'And you are, sir?' she asked.

'Nicanor. I am Parmenion's First Captain.'

'Join us, Nicanor,' ordered the Queen. He filled their wine cups, added water, then folded his cloak to make a seat. 'Why is Parmenion not here?' Olympias asked.

'He is… er… weary, my lady. He did not sleep much last night. He was concerned to be here on time. He feared. . well, he feared the Illyrians might raid and he was right. He usually is; it is most galling.'

'And yet you like him?'

'Oh, yes, my lady. He is a fine general — the best in the world. He has built Philip's army into a force to strike fear into the hearts of all our enemies.'

'But he is not Macedonian,' Olympias pointed out.

'Half Macedonian,' replied Nicanor. 'He was raised in Sparta.'

'Perhaps then we should forgive his bad manners in not attending us. Spartans are not renowned for their courtesies.'

'I do not believe he meant to be discourteous,' Nicanor said. 'Far from it. He ordered me to see to your needs. I believe he felt you would sooner rest and recover from your ordeal than endure his company.'

Olympias smiled and, reaching out, touched Nicanor's arm. 'You are a good friend to your general, and a powerful advocate. I shall forgive him instantly. And now, Nicanor, I would like to rest.'

The young man rose and bowed once more before gathering up his cloak and walking back through the trees.

'You are shameless,' said Phaedra. 'You quite dazzled the poor man.'

Olympias let the smile fade from her face. 'This is a foreign land,' she said softly. 'I will need friends here. Why did Parmenion not come?'

'Perhaps it was as the officer said, that he was weary.'

'No. He would not meet my eyes when he rode up. Still, what does it matter? We are safe. The future is bright.'

'Do you love Philip?' asked Phaedra suddenly.

'Love? He is my husband — the father of the child I carry. What has love to do with it? And, anyway, I have met him only once — on the night of the wedding in Samothrace seven months ago.'

'What was it like on the Isle of Mysteries — when he made love to you?'

Olympias leaned back, smiling at the memory. 'The first time was magical, strange. . but in the morning it was as it always is. The man ruts and grunts, sighs and sleeps.' She yawned. 'Fetch me my blankets, Phaedra. And some more cushions. I will sleep now.'