The Spartan general could feel the increasing anxiety in the men behind him. Like all warriors, they knew that the balance of a battle could swing in a matter of moments. This one was teetering. If Philip's cavalry could be pushed back, Onomarchus would use the greater strength of his infantry to split the Macedonian centre and still achieve victory.
Parmenion looked to the left. A hidden force of foot-soldiers had charged from the woods, but Nicanor and his 500
were engaging them. From here it was impossible to gauge the numbers of men Nicanor and his troops were battling to hold, and the Spartan sent a further 200 men to his aid.
'Look!' shouted one of his Thessalians, pointing to the line of hills on the right.
Hundreds of cavalrymen had appeared on the crest. Philip and his Companion cavalry were caught now between hammer and anvil.
The Phocians charged. .
Parmenion's arm swept up. 'Forward for Macedon!' he shouted. Drawing his sword the Spartan kicked his stallion into a gallop, heading for the Phocian flank. Behind him the remaining 800 Thessalians drew their curved cavalry sabres and, screaming their war-cries, hurtled after him.
The two forces crashed together on the hillside above the surging mass of warriors righting for control of the centre ground.
Onomarchus, seeing his cavalry intercepted, screamed out fresh orders to his men, who valiantly tried to form a shield-wall around him. But the Macedonians were pushing now on three sides: Theoparlis and the Guards at the front; Coenus and the Fifth forcing the Spartans back on the left; and the King, cutting and slashing a bloody pathway on the right.
Bodies lay everywhere, being trampled underfoot by the heavily armoured phalanxes, and no longer could a single bloom be seen on the churned earth of the battle site.
But Philip had long since ceased to think of the beauty of flowers. Mounted on his third horse he forced a path between the Phocian shields, hacking his blade down into a warrior's face, seeing the man disappear beneath the hooves of the Macedonian cavalry. Onomarchus was close now and the Phocian leader hurled a javelin which flew over Philip's head.
Suddenly the Phocians, sensing defeat was imminent, broke and fled in all directions. Onomarchus — his dreams of conquest in ruins — drew his sword and waited for death. Theoparlis and the Guards crashed through the last line of defence and, as Onomarchus turned to meet the attack, a sarissa clove through his leather kilt, smashing his hip and ripping the giant artery at the groin.
With the Phocian leader dead and his army fleeing in panic, the mercenary units and the contingents from Athens, Corinth and Sparta began a fighting retreat across the Crocus Field.
Philip dismounted before his dead enemy, hacking Onomarchus' head from his shoulders and thrusting the severed neck on to the point of a sarissa, which he held high in the air for all men to see.
The battle was over, the victory Philip's. A great weariness settled on the King. His bones ached, his sword-arm was on fire. Letting the sarissa fall, he pulled his helmet from his head and sank to the earth staring around the battlefield.
Hundreds of men and scores of horses lay dead, the numbers growing even now as the Macedonian cavalry hunted down the fleeing Phocians. Parmenion rode to where Philip sat. Dismounting, he bowed to the King.
'A great victory, sire,' he said softly.
'Yes,' agreed Philip as his one good eye looked up into the Spartan's face. 'Why did you not come when I sent for you?'
Other men — Attalus, Berin, Nicanor and several officers — were close by, and they looked to the Spartan, awaiting his answer. 'You asked me to watch over the battle, sire. I believed Onomarchus would have men in reserve — as indeed he did.'
'Damn you!' Philip roared, surging to his feet. 'When the King gives an order it is obeyed! You understand that simple fact?'
'Indeed I do,' replied the Spartan, his pale eyes gleaming.
'Sire,' put in Nicanor, 'had Parmenion come to you earlier you would have been trapped.'
'Be silent!' thundered Philip. Once more he turned to Parmenion. 'I will not have a man serve me who does not obey my orders.'
'That is a problem easily solved, sire,' said Parmenion coldly. Bowing once he turned and, taking his stallion's reins, stalked from the battlefield.
Philip's anger did not abate during the long afternoon. His wounds, though shallow, were painful, his mood dark. He knew he had been unfair to Parmenion, yet in a strange way it only increased his irritation. The man was always so right. The King's wounds were bound with wine-soaked bandages and despite the remonstrations of the bald surgeon, Bernios, Philip supervised the removal of all severely wounded Macedonians to a hospital area outside Pagasai before retiring in the early evening to the captured palace at the centre of the deserted city. From here he watched the executions of the 600 Phocian prisoners captured by the cavalry. The killings lifted his mood.
Onomarchus had been a strong enemy, a rallying point for all those who feared Macedonia. Without him the roads to central Greece were now open.
At dusk Philip made his way to the andron, a large room with nine couches. The walls were covered with murals by the Theban artist, Natiles; they were mostly hunting scenes, horsemen chasing down several lions, but Philip was impressed by the artistry and the vivid colours used. The painter was obviously a man who understood the hunt. His horses were real, the lions lean and deadly, the attitudes of the hunters reflecting both courage and fear. Philip decided to send for the man once this campaign was over. Such scenes would look spectacular in the palace at Pella.
One by one Philip's officers arrived with details of the day's losses. Theoparlis, commander of the Guards, had suffered 110 dead and 70 wounded. Antipater reported 84 dead among the Companion cavalry. In all the Macedonians had lost 307 killed, with 227 wounded.
The Phocians had been virtually annihilated. Two thousand had been slain on the battlefield, with at least another thousand drowning as they fled from the beaches, trying in vain to swim to the waiting Athenian triremes.
This last news cheered Philip considerably. Stretching his powerful frame on the silk-covered couch he drained his fifth cup of wine, feeling his tension evaporate. Glancing at his officers, he chuckled. 'A good day, my friends,' he said, sitting up and refilling his cup from a golden pitcher. But the mood was sombre and no one joined him in a toast. 'What is the matter with you all? Is this how to celebrate a victory?'
Theoparlis stood, bowing awkwardly. He was a burly man, black-bearded and dark-eyed. 'If you will excuse me, sire,' he said, his voice deep with the burr of the northern mountains, 'I wish to see to my men.'
'Of course,' answered Philip. Nicanor rose next, then Coenus and Antipater. Within minutes only Attalus remained.
'What in Hecate's name is wrong with them?' enquired the King, rubbing at his blinded eye.
Attalus cleared his throat and sipped his wine before answering, then his cold eyes met Philip's gaze. 'They want to see Parmenion before he leaves Pagasai,' Attalus told him.
Philip put down his wine-cup and leaned back against the cushioned couch. 'I was too harsh,' he said.
'Not at all, sire,' ventured Attalus. 'You gave an order and it was disobeyed. Now you may have to give another.'
Philip stared at his Champion and sighed. 'Ah, Attalus,' he said softly- 'Once an assassin always an assassin, eh? You think I should fear the man who has kept Macedonia safe all these years?'
Attalus smiled, showing tombstone teeth. 'That is for you to decide, Philip,' he whispered. The King's eye continued to stare at the Champion, remembering their first meeting in Thebes nineteen years before when Attalus was in the pay of Philip's uncle, the King Ptolemaos. The assassin had — for whatever reason — saved Philip's life then and had served him faithfully ever since. But he was a cold, friendless man.