David Gemmell - Lion of Macedon

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 levelled. 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 — 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, 300 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 clove through 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 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 counter-charge.'

'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 manoeuvres they had practised 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 hi 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 dyke.

'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 towards 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 towards 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.'

'You have travelled a long way in a short time, my son. And you fought well. What happens now to Audata? Will you throw her aside?'

Philip saw the anguish in Bardylis' eyes and he moved to him, laying his hands on the old man's shoulders. 'She is dear to me,' Philip assured him, 'and she is pregnant. She has her own estate now, near the sea. But I will send her to you for a visit when the babe is born.'