David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

The Spartans bravely tried to re-form, but no army twelve deep — no matter how courageous — could hope to contain an enemy with fifty concentrated ranks. Unable to lock shields, Spartan warriors were cut down where they stood.

At the head of the charge Pelopidas powered into the Spartan ranks, Callines beside him. A sword lanced towards Pelopidas' head but Callines blocked it with his shield, stabbing his own sword deep into the Spartan's groin. The phalanx moved on, slowing now but still advancing. Pelopidas was stabbing and hacking, oblivious to the many small cuts which bled freely on his arms and legs.

Behind him Epaminondas — at the centre of the phalanx, and not yet brought into the righting -

peered through the dust, locating the Spartan King, Cleombrotus, who was fighting alongside his bodyguard a little to the right of the main advance.

'Pelopidas!' shouted the Theban general. 'To your right! Your right!'

Pelopidas heard him, even through his bloodlust, and glanced round. He saw Cleombrotus and began to fight his way towards the Spartan King. Callines moved alongside him, the two men protecting one another and fighting as a team. Behind them the Sacred Band also altered the line of advance, homing in on the Spartan Battle King.

On the right Leonidas forced himself to the front of the two Spartan ranks ordered out to encircle the Thebans. Seeing the enemy closing on Cleombrotus, he ordered the men to close ranks. 'The King! The King!' he bellowed. The Spartans surged forward, desperately trying to reach the beleaguered monarch. 'Fall back, sire! Fall back!' yelled Leonidas.

Cleombrotus, realizing the danger, could not bring himself to retreat in the face of Thebans.

'Stand firm,' he told his bodyguard. 'They will break upon us like the sea against stone.'

Parmenion and the cavalry had pushed deep into the enemy centre, the lightly-armoured archers fleeing before them. The Spartan cavalry had been routed. Parmenion swung left to see the Theban battle-line slowing as it sought to turn and crush Cleombrotus. His eyes flickered to the Spartan right, where he saw Leonidas had gathered two ranks to him and was forcing a path to save his King.

'Thebans to me!' shouted Parmenion. There were only fifty riders within hearing distance — the others were chasing down the fleeing archers — but the men galloped to him. 'Follow me!' Parmenion cried, kicking his heels to the stallion and charging the Spartan line.

The Spartans had tried to lock shields against the Theban phalanx, but they were more open on their left and the attacking horsemen clove through the ranks.

The move surprised the Spartans, who tried to turn and defend themselves. But this only weakened the front of the line, allowing Pelopidas and the Sacred Band to hammer through.

Cleombrotus cursed. His sword stabbed out, cleaving through the teeth of an advancing man and piercing him to the brain. Another Theban, then another, fell to the Battle King.

A scream came from beside him and he twisted in time to see his lover and companion, Hermias, fall

— his throat slashed open. A dark-bearded warrior with a death's-head grin leapt at him.

Cleombrotus parried a thrust, then a second. But Pelopidas crashed his shield against the King, forcing him back, then dropped to his knees to ram his blade through Cleombrotus' groin. Still the King tried to fight, but his lifeblood drained away — and with it his strength. His shield arm dropped and the Theban's sword smashed his jaw to shards.

As the King fell, the Spartan centre buckled. Leonidas and his men finally forced their way to the front, gathering up the dead King and fighting a rearguard action back towards the defensive line of their night camp.

At last the battle petered out. Isolated groups of Spartan warriors were surrounded and destroyed, but Leonidas gathered the remnants into a strong defensive position on a nearby ridge. The Spartan allies, seeing the fall of Cleombrotus, fled the field without a fight.

The Thebans gathered around Pelopidas and Epami-nondas, hoisting them to their shoulders and carrying them around the battlefield, their cheers echoing to the Spartan lines.

Parmenion, his horse dead, walked slowly over the battlefield, looking down at the twisted corpses. More than 1,000 Spartiates had died for the loss of 200 Thebans, but at that moment these figures meant nothing to him. He was dazed and emotionless. He had seen the Battle King fall to Pelopidas, but worse he had watched the Theban kill Hermias moments before. Parmenion knelt by the body, looking down at the face of a man and seeing the face of the boy who had befriended him.

He remembered the night when they had sat by the statue of Athena of the Road, when he had learned there would be no victory celebration after winning the Games.

'I will make them all pay!' he had promised. And Hermias had touched his arm.

'Do not hate me too, Savra!'

'Hate you, my friend?' he had answered'. 'How could I ever hate you? You have been a brother to me, and I will never forget that. Never! Brothers we have been, brothers we shall be, all the days of our lives. I promise you.'

He closed the dead eyes and rose to his feet. The surgeons were coming on to the battlefield now, moving to the wounded Thebans. Most of these men would die, Parmenion knew, for physicians with the skills of Argonas or Dronicus were rare. He gazed around him. There to the left lay Callines, the man who had admitted to being a poor swordsman. Further away was the body of Norac the Smith.

Later he would hear of the other dead, like Calepios the orator and Melon the statesman. He looked down at his hands, which were covered in blood, drying now to a dull, scabby brown.

Crows were already circling above the plain.

He recalled the General's Games, the cleanly-carved soldiers in the box of sand. No blood there, no stench of open bowels. Just a child's game, fought without pain in the sunshine of another age.

'I will repay them all,' he had promised Hermias.

And he had. But at what price? Hermias was dead, as Derae and now Thetis were dead.

Sparta was finished, her invincibility gone. Now other cities dominated by Sparta would rise against her and she would fade away, her power a memory. Not immediately, he knew; there would be other Spartan victories. But never again would they rise to rule Greece.

'I am the Death of Nations,' he whispered.

'Or the saviour of them?' suggested Epaminondas.

Parmenion turned. 'I did not hear you. You won, my friend. You won a famous victory. I hope Thebes proves a better ruler than Sparta.'

'We seek to rule no one,' said Epaminondas.

Parmenion rubbed at his tired eyes. 'It will be thrust upon you, general. In order to be safe, you will carry the battle to Sparta and humble her. Then the Athenians and their allies will fear you, and will come against you. Rule or die, they are the choices you have.'

'Do not be so glum, Parmenion. This is a new age, when we do not have to repeat the follies of the past. The Spartans will send an ambassador to ask permission to remove their dead; you will receive him.'

Parmenion shook his head. 'Listen to me,' said Epaminondas softly. 'You have carried your hate for too many years. With this victory you can bury that hate for ever. You can be free. Do this for me.'

'As you will,' agreed the Spartan, his mind empty, his emotions drained. All his adult life he had dreamed of this moment, but now it was here he felt dead inside. Thetis had asked him what he would do once his vengeance was complete. He had no answer then, he could find none now. He gazed around at the silent corpses. Where, he wondered, was the joy of victory? Where was the satisfaction?

Three hours later, with dusk approaching, a Spartan rider cantered into the Theban camp.