Something was wrong. Parmenion could feel it. Shading his eyes he scanned the battlefield once more. Here the Crocian Plain was virtually flat, save for a low line of hills to the far right and a small wooded area a half-mile to the left. There was no danger from the rear, now that Pagasai had been taken. So then, he thought again, what is the Phocian's battle plan?
Parmenion's concentration was broken as the Macedonian war-cry went up and the regiments broke into a run, the gleaming sarissas hammering into the Phocian ranks. Now the screams of the wounded and dying could be heard faintly above the clashing of shields. Parmenion turned to the rider beside him, a handsome young man in a red-crested helm.
'Nicanor, take five sections and ride towards the woods. Halt some two bow-lengths back from the trees and send in scouts. If the woods are clear, turn again and watch for any signal from me. If not, stop any hostile force from linking with Onomarchus. You understand?'
'Yes, sir,' answered Nicanor, saluting. Parmenion waited as the 500 riders cantered out towards the woods, then swung his gaze to the hills.
The Macedonian formation would not have been hard to predict — infantry at the centre, cavalry on either wing.
Onomarchus must have known.
The infantry were now locked together, the Macedonians in tight phalanx formations sixteen ranks deep, one hundred and fifty shields wide. The First Regiment — trie King's Guards, commanded by Theoparlis — had pierced the Phocian lines.
'Not too far!' whispered Parmenion. 'Swing the line and wait for support!' It was vital that the four regiments stayed in close contact; once separated they could be enveloped by the enemy's greater numbers. But the Spartan relaxed as he saw the King's Guards holding firm on the left, the right driving forward, the phalanx half wheeling, forcing back the Phocians. The Second Regiment had almost linked with them. Parmenion switched his concentration to the Third Regiment. It was coming under heavy pressure and had ceased to move forward, the fighting line beginning to bend back.
'Coenus!' yelled Parmenion. A broad-shouldered warrior at the centre of the reserve regiment looked up and saluted.
'Support the Third,' the general shouted.
The 2,500-strong Fifth Regiment began to move. They did not run but held to their formation, slowly crossing the field. 'Good man,' thought Parmenion. With emotions heightened by fear and excitement, it was all too easy for a commander to lead his men in an early charge, or run them hard to reach the battle. Coenus was a steady officer, cool under pressure. He knew that his heavily armoured men would need all their strength when the fighting began — and not before.
Suddenly, on the left, the Macedonian line bulged and broke. Parmenion swore as he saw an enemy regiment burst clear of the centre, their shields tightly locked. He did not need to see the emblems on the enemy shields to know from which city they came: they were Spartans, magnificent fighting men feared across the world. The Third Regiment gave way before them and the Spartans moved out to encircle the Guards.
But Coenus and the Fifth were almost upon them. The sarissas swept down and the phalanx charged. Suddenly outflanked the Spartans fell back, the Macedonians regaining their formation. Satisfied the immediate danger was past, Parmenion swung his black stallion and cantered towards the right, the Thessalians streaming after him.
The King and his Companions were locked in a deadly struggle with the Phocian cavalry, but Parmenion could see the Macedonians were slowly pushing the enemy back. Glancing to the left he saw Nicanor and his 500 halted before the wood, the scouts riding into the trees.
Summoning a rider from his right Parmenion sent him to Nicanor with fresh orders, should the woods prove to be clear, then turned his attention to the hills.
If Onomarchus had planned any surprise strategy, then it was from here it must come. Returning his gaze to the centre, he saw Coenus and the Fifth had blocked the Spartan advance and were battling to link with Theoparlis and the Guards. The Third Regiment had merged with the Fourth and were once more cleaving at the Phocian lines.
Parmenion had two choices now. He could gallop in to aid the King, or swing his line to hit the enemy from the left.
Touching heels to the stallion he rode further along the right flank. A rider detached himself from the battle and galloped to where Parmenion waited; the man had several shallow wounds on his arms, and his face was gashed on the right cheek.
'The King orders you to support the right. The enemy are almost beaten.'
The Spartan nodded and turned to Berin, the hawk-faced Thessalian prince. 'Take five hundred men and swing out to the right before linking with Philip.'
Berin nodded, called out his orders and — his men fanning out behind him — cantered across the battlefield. The wounded messenger moved closer to Parmenion. 'The King ordered all the reserves into action,' he whispered.
'You have done well, young man,' said Parmenion. 'Now ride back to camp and let the surgeon see to those wounds.
They are not deep but you are losing a great deal of blood.'
'But, sir. .'
'Do as you are bid,' said Parmenion, turning away from the man. As the messenger rode away a second Thessalian commander guided his mount alongside the general. 'What are we to do, sir?' he asked.
'We wait,' Parmenion answered.
Philip of Macedon, his sword dripping blood, swung his horse's head and risked a glance to the rear. Berin and his 500 Thessalians had circled to the right and charged in on the flanks of the Phocian cavalry, but Parmenion still waited. Philip cursed. A Phocian rider, breaking through the Macedonian outer line, swept towards him with lance levelled. Philip swayed left, the iron point slashing to his right and plunging into his gelding's side. The beast reared in pain but, even while clinging to its back, Philip's sword sliced out in a reverse cut which tore under the Phocian's curved helmet to rip open his throat. Maddened with pain Philip's gelding reared again, then fell. The King leapt clear of the beast's back, but a flailing hoof cracked against his hip and hurled him from his feet.
Seeing the King fall, the Phocians mounted a counter-charge. Philip rolled to his feet, hurled aside his shield and ran at the first rider. The man's lance stabbed out, glancing from the King's breastplate. Philip leapt, dragging the lancer from his horse and stabbing him twice in the belly and groin. Leaving the dying man he ran to the horse, taking hold of the mane and vaulting to its back. But now he was surrounded by Phocian warriors.
A spear opened a long gash in Philip's right thigh, and a sword-blade glanced from his bronze wrist-guard to slice a cut on his left forearm. The King blocked a lunging sword, cleaving his own blade through the man's ribs.
Berin, Attalus and a score of riders attacked the Phocians, forcing them back from the King.
The enemy cavalry were split, the Macedonians surging forward now to engage the enemy infantry. In the brief respite Philip saw his enemy, Onomarchus, standing at the centre of the foot-soldiers, urging them on. 'To me!' yelled Philip, his voice rising above the clashing swords. The Macedonians gathered around him and the King kicked his horse into a run, charging at the first line of shields.
The Phocian line bent in on itself and almost broke, but Onomarchus ordered a second regiment forward to block the charge and Philip was pushed back. A lance plunged into his horse, skewering the heart. The beast collapsed, but once more Philip jumped clear.
'Where are you, Parmenion?' he bellowed.