Two days ago, during a lightning march across the shallows of the River Penios, the Macedonian army surprised the defenders of the port city of Pagasai. The city had fallen within three hours. By sunset the Macedonians manning the ramparts had seen a fleet of Athenian battle triremes sailing serenely across the gulf. But with Pagasai taken the triremes had nowhere to dock, and the soldiers they carried were lost to the enemy cause. The nearest shallow bay was a day's sailing and four days' march distant, and by the time the Athenian soldiers had come ashore the battle would be over.
Now, with the rear secured against an Athenian attack, Philip felt more confident of the coming battle. There was nowhere this time for Onomarchus to hide his giant catapults; no steep, tree-shrouded mountains from which he could send death from the skies. No, this battle would be fought man against man, army against army. Philip still remembered with sick horror the huge boulders raining down on the Macedonians, could still hear the awful cries of the crushed and dying.
But today it would be different. Today the odds were more even.
And he had Parmenion. .
Glancing to his left Philip sought out the Spartan, watching him ride along the flank, talking to the riders, calming the younger men and lifting the spirits of the veterans.
A momentary anger touched Philip. The Spartan had come to Macedonia's aid seven years ago, when the nation was beset by enemies on all sides. His strategic skills had been vital then and he had trained Philip's fledgling army, turning them from farmers and peasants into the most feared fighting force in the civilized world.
'I loved you then,' thought Philip, remembering the heady days of victory over the Illyrians to the west, the Paionians to the north. City after city had fallen to Macedonia as her strength grew. But always the victories belonged to Parmenion, the strategos, the man whose battle plans had won victories for a quarter of a century, in Thebes, in Phrygia, in Cappadocia and Egypt.
Philip shaded his good eye and strained to see the Phocian centre, where Onomarchus would be standing with his bodyguard. But the distance was too great, the sun gleaming from too many breastplates, shields and helms for him to pick out his enemy.
'What I would not give to have your neck under my blade,' he whispered.
'Did you speak, sire?' asked Attalus, the King's Champion. Philip turned to the cold-eyed man beside him.
'Yes — but only to myself. It is time. Order the advance!'
Philip strode to the grey gelding, taking hold of the mane and vaulting to the beast's back. The gelding whinnied and reared, but Philip's powerful legs were locked to the barrel of its belly. 'Steady!' said the King, his voice soothing. A young soldier ran forward carrying Philip's high-crested helm of iron. It was polished until it shone like silver and the King took it in his hands, gazing down at the burnished face of the goddess Athena which decorated the forehead.
'Be with me today, lady,' he said, placing the helmet upon his head. Another man lifted Philip's round shield and the King slid his left arm through the leather straps, settling it in place on his forearm.
The first four regiments, 11,000 men, began the slow march towards the enemy.
Philip glanced to where Parmenion waited on the left with 2,000 cavalry and two regiments of reserves. The Spartan waved to his King, then transferred his gaze to the battlefield.
Philip's heart was hammering now. He could still taste the bitterness of defeat when last he had met Onomarchus. It was a day like this one — brilliant sunshine, a cloudless sky — when the Macedonians had marched against the enemy.
Only then there were mountains on either side, and they had contained hidden siege-engines which hurled huge boulders down upon the Macedonians, smashing their formation, crushing bones and destroying lives. Then the enemy cavalry charged and the Macedonians had fled the field.
Long would Philip remember that day. For six years he had seemed invincible, victory following victory as if divinely ordained. And one terrible hour had changed everything. Macedonian discipline had reasserted itself by the evening and the army had re-formed in time for a fighting retreat. But, for the first time in his life, Philip had failed.
What was more galling even than defeat was the fact that Parmenion was not present at the battle. He was leading a force into the north-west to put down an Illyrian insurrection.
For six years the King had been forced to share his victories with his general, but the one defeat was his — and his alone.
Now Philip shook himself clear of the memories. 'Send out the Cretan archers,' he shouted to Attalus. The King's Champion turned his horse and galloped down to where the 500 archers were awaiting orders. Lightly armoured in baked leather chest-guards, the Cretans set off at a run to line up behind the advancing regiments.
Two hundred paces to the right of Philip's position the Second General, Antipater, was waiting with 1,000
cavalrymen. Philip tugged on the gelding's reins and rode to take his position alongside him in the front line. The horsemen, mostly Macedonian noblemen, cheered as he approached and he rewarded them with a wave.
Drawing his sword he led the cavalry forward at a walk, angling to the right of the advancing Macedonian infantry.
'Now they come!' yelled Antipater, pointing to the Phocian cavalry. The enemy horsemen, spears levelled, were charging towards them.
'Macedon!' bellowed Philip, kicking the gelding into a gallop, all his fears vanishing as the Macedonians thundered across the plain.
Parmenion's pale blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the battlefield. He could see Philip and his Companion Cavalry charging on the right, coming abreast now of the marching regiments of Macedonian infantry, with their shields locked, their eighteen-foot, iron-pointed sarissas aimed at the enemy ranks, the Cretan archers behind them sending volley after volley of shafts into the sky to rain down on the Phocian centre.
All was going according to plan, yet the Spartan was uneasy.
The King was the Supreme Commander of all Macedonia's forces, but Philip insisted always on riding into battle with his men, risking death alongside them, leading them from the front. His courage was both a blessing and a curse, Parmenion knew. With the King in their midst the Macedonians fought harder, yet were Philip to fall panic would sweep through the ranks faster than a summer fire over dry grass.
As always, with Philip at the heart of the fighting Parmenion took charge of the battle strategy, watching for signs of weakness, clues to the shifting changes in the fortunes of war.
Behind him the Thessalian cavalrymen awaited his orders, while before him the Fifth Regiment of infantry were standing calmly, watching the battle. Parmenion removed his white-crested helm, pushing his fingers through his sweat-drenched, short-cropped brown hair. Only one thought dominated his mind.
What was the Phocian planning?
Onomarchus was no ordinary general. During the past two years, since taking charge of the Phocian forces, he had moved his armies around central Greece with consummate skill, taking key cities in central Greece and sacking the Boeotian stronghold of Orchomenus. He was a wily and instinctive leader, respected by those who served him. But, more importantly to Parmenion, the man's strategy invariably relied on attack. Yet here his infantry regiments were positioned defensively, only his cavalry sweeping forward.