Spinning on his heel he stalked to his horse. Behind him the burly warrior climbed to his feet.
'The King!' he cried.
The King! The King!' shouted the others, surging to their feet.
Philip bowed and waited until the roar had died down, then his own voice boomed out. 'Macedon!
Macedon!'
The warriors cheered, and took up the cry as Nicanor moved alongside Philip. 'A proud moment for you, sire,' he said. 'You have won their hearts.'
Philip did not reply. Already he was thinking of the pretender, Argaios, and the Athenian army.
In the days that followed Philip worked tirelessly, gathering men from the south, hiring a group of 20 °Cretan archers at an exorbitant forty drachms per man a month, continuing his discussions with Aischines and waiting with ill-concealed tension the news from Thrace and Illyria.
The treasury was running low, supplies of gold from Crousia in the east drying up, and there was now only enough coin to support a month of campaigning.
Then news came that the rebel Argaios had landed at the port of Methone, two days' march from Aigai. With him were 3,000 Athenian hoplites, a group of 800 mercenaries and more than 100 rebel Macedonians.
Philip called Antipater to him. 'What force can we muster against them?' he asked the officer.
'We still have 500 men in the north, under Meleager, harrying the Paionians. Another 1,000 are waiting in the east with Nicanor, against possible Thracian attack. We could recall either, but it would leave us open.'
'How many here?'
'Not more than 700, but half of these fought with you in your first battle. They would ride with you into the fire of Hades.'
'It's not enough, Antipater — not against Athenian hoplites. Get Aischines here. Be polite, but get him here swiftly.'
Philip bathed and dressed in full battle armour — breastplate, greaves and bronze-reinforced kilt, his sword by his side, and waited in the throne-room. Aischines arrived within the hour, looking startled when he saw the King arrayed for war.
'I had not expected treachery,' said Philip, keeping his voice low and sorrowful. 'I trusted you, and I trusted Athens. Now you land an army at one of my ports. I have messengers ready to ride to Thebes, and I suggest with regret, Aischines, that you prepare to leave Pella.'
'There has been some mistake, sire. Please. .trust me,' said Aischines, his face reddening. 'I have sent many messages to our leaders, and I am sure the force at Methone will not advance into Macedonia. There was some confusion when they set out. But they will not make war on an ally — and that you are, sire. An ally.'
Philip stared long and hard at the man before he answered him. 'Are you sure of this, Aischines, or are you merely hopeful?'
'I received despatches today from Athens, and one is to be sent on to Manilas who commands the hoplites. They are to return home, I promise you.'
Philip nodded. 'Then send your despatch today, sir, and with some speed. For the day after tomorrow I inarch on the traitor.'
Antipater gathered the 700 horsemen and — despite what he had told Aischines — Philip led them that night on a lightning ride south, taking up a position at dawn on the slopes between Methone and Aigai, hidden from the road.
Two hours after dawn the enemy appeared in the distance. Philip shaded his eyes and scanned the advancing men. There were more than 100 cavalry leading the force and behind these almost 1,000
hoplites. The foot-soldiers were a motley crew, some sporting plumed helms and others wearing Thracian leather caps. The devices painted on their shields were many: the winged horse of Olynthus, the Theban club of Heracles, the crossed spears of Methone. But none bore the helm of Athena. Philip was exultant. The Athenians — as Aischines had promised — had not marched with Argaios.
Lying on his belly, Philip flicked his eyes left and right of the advancing enemy. They had no outriders and were moving in a straggling line stretched out for almost a quarter of a mile.
The King slid back from the peak, calling Antipater to him. 'Send the Cretans to that outcrop of rocks. Let them loose their shafts as soon as the enemy is within range. You take 400 men, keep behind the line of hills and hit them from the north. I will wait to give you time, then come in from the south.'
Antipater grinned. 'Do not be so rash this time, my lord. Stay with your men, and avoid charging single-handed into enemy ranks.'
The first volley of arrows from the Cretans decimated the leading horsemen, their mounts rearing in terror as the rain of death fell from the skies. The smell of blood in their nostrils brought panic to the horses, making them almost impossible to control.
Then Antipater's 400 came galloping from the north, their battle-cries echoing in the rocks. The Macedonians smashed their way through the confused mass of the enemy cavalry, hacking men from their mounts, then thundered into the milling foot-soldiers just as Philip's force hit them from the south.
The mercenary infantry, having lost more than half their number before they could form a defensive square, locked shields against a second attack, but Antipater wheeled his men and charged again at the cavalry, who broke and galloped from the battlefield.
Philip also pulled back his riders and the Cretan archers loosed volley after volley over the shield wall of the mercenaries.
At the centre of the shield square stood Argaios, his helm knocked from his head, his golden hair bright in the sunshine.
'Ho, Philip!' he shouted. 'Will you face me, or do you have no stomach for the fight?'
It was a desperate last throw from a man already beaten, but Philip knew the eyes of his men were upon him.
'Come out!" he called, 'and then we will see.'
Argaios pushed his way clear of the shield wall and strode towards Philip. The King dismounted, drawing his sword and waiting. Argaios was a handsome man, tall and slender, his eyes the blue of a spring sky. He looked so like Nicanor that Philip could not help but flick his eyes to his friend, comparing them. In that moment Argaios attacked. Philip's shield only half deflected the blow, which glanced from his breastplate to slice a narrow cut on his cheek.
His own sword lashed out, hacking into his enemy's bronze-reinforced leather kilt. Argaios threw himself forward, their shields clanging together. But Philip, though shorter, was more stocky and powerful and held his ground. His sword lanced out, stabbing low, piercing Argaios' left leg above the knee. The pretender screamed in pain as Philip twisted the blade, severing muscles and tendons. Argaios tried to leap back, but his wounded leg gave out beneath him and he fell.
Throwing aside his shield, Philip advanced on the injured man.
Argaios' sword slashed out, but Philip danced away from the gleaming blade, then leapt forward, his foot pinning Argaios' sword-arm to the dusty ground.
'I call upon the King's mercy,' screamed Argaios.
'There is no mercy for traitors,' hissed Philip, his blade plunging into Argaios' neck, through the windpipe and the vertebrae beyond.
By nightfall more than 600 of the enemy lay dead, a further 100 mercenaries held captive. The forty Macedonian prisoners were stoned to death by the troops after a short trial presided over by Philip. Of the rest, sixty-two were mercenaries who were freed to return to Methone and thirty-eight were Athenian volunteers; these were freed without ransom and Philip invited them to dine with him in his tent, explaining once more his policy of friendship with Athens.
By dawn Philip was still awake, hearing from Antipater of Macedonian losses. 'Forty men dead, three crippled, seven recovering from wounds,' Antipater told him.