David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

'She wanted to stay in Pella,' said Philip, 'but I told her it would be best to move south.' He sighed. 'She's not a bad woman, Nicci. But I do not want her here. This palace is for a special bride.'

'The dream again?'

'It keeps coming to me, each time more powerful than the last. I can see her now more clearly than I see you.'

'She is bewitching you, Philip,' said Nicanor, his eyes betraying his concern.

'If she is, then it is an enchantment a man would die for — or kill for. She tells me we will have a son — a man of unique greatness. I believe her. And I must build a kingdom worthy of him. But I cannot do it while I am paying such a high tribute to Bardylis.'

'What will you do?'

Philip smiled. 'I have already done it. I have cancelled the tribute.'

'Does Parmenion know?'

'Is he the King here?' thundered Philip.

'No, sire; that is not what I meant. Bardylis will have no choice but to invade. Are we ready?'

'I think that we are,' said Philip. 'Macedonia's time has come, and I will not travel to Samothrace as another man's vassal. When I bring her home, it will be to a victorious nation.

Either that or I shall be dead and have no concern for sons and glory.' Taking Nicanor by the arm, he leaned in close. 'What I am saying now must not be repeated to any man.'

'I will say nothing,' promised Nicanor. Philip nodded.

'Macedonia will be free,' said the King.

Later, after Nicanor had left, Philip moved to the long window in the western wall and sat watching the sun falling behind the distant mountains.

He had not told Nicanor everything, nor would he.

The grand strategy had begun. First Bardylis, then Thessaly to the south, then Thrace to the east.

And then. .?

Ever since the first dream, Philip's ambition had grown day by day. He began to see events in a different way, on a larger scale. For centuries the great cities had sought to impose their will on their fellow Greeks, but all had failed. Mighty Sparta, invincible on land; Athens, Queen of the Seas; Thebes, Lord of Boeotia. None had succeeded for long. They never would, Philip realized, for ultimately their dreams were small, bound to their own cities.

But if a nation should rise up strong, confident and far-sighted, then the cities would topple and all of Greece would be free to be united, to be led into battle by a single warrior King.

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 a tension behind the good humour.

The two men lounged on couches and drank until near 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 2,000 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 cancelled the tribute. We have less than six weeks before the Illyrian army crosses the mountains.'

'May I share your reasoning?' enquired Parmenion.

'I spent the money on armour 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. / 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 under-officers 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 two armies were drawn up in battle order on a dusty plain a day's ride into Upper Macedonia.

The Illyrians, with 10,000 infantry and 1,000 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 centre of their ranks. Parmenion remained mounted with Attalus and Nicanor beside him, 400 cavalrymen waiting patiently behind. The Spartan looked beyond the three phalanxes to where Antipater commanded 300 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 towards 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.