‘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.
‘Find out the names and whereabouts of the dead men’s families, then send 100 drachms to each. The crippled men will receive double that, and a pension of ten drachms a month.’
Antipater was surprised. ‘The men will be heartened by this news,’ he said.
‘Yes - but that is not why it is being done. They died for Macedon, and Macedon will not forget that.’
Antipater nodded. ‘I will not forget it either, sire - and neither will the warriors who ride for you.’
After the officer had gone Philip lay down on his pallet bed, covering himself with a single blanket. The Paionians were defeated, and one pretender had been despatched. But still the major enemies had to be met.
Where are you, Parmenion?
The Thracian Border, Autumn, 359 BC
Parmenion tugged lightly on the reins as he saw the man sitting on the rock ahead. ‘Good day to you,’ said the Spartan, glancing at the surrounding boulders, seeking out any men who might be hidden there.
‘I am alone,’ said the stranger, his voice agreeable, even friendly. Parmenion continued to study the nearby terrain. Satisfied the man was indeed alone his gaze flicked down on the distant River Nestus and then up towards the far blue peaks of the Kerkine mountains and the borders of Macedonia. Returning his attention to the man on the rocks, he dismounted. The stranger was not tall, but sturdily built, his hair grey, his beard curled in the Persian fashion, his eyes the colour of storm-clouds. He was wearing a long chiton of faded blue and a pair of leather sandals which showed little indication of wear. But there was no sign of a weapon of any kind, not even a small dagger.
The view is pleasant,’ said Parmenion, ‘but the land is desolate. How did you come here?’
‘I walk different paths,’ the man answered. ‘You will be in Pella in seven days. I could be there this afternoon.’
‘You are a magus’?’
‘Not as the Per
sians understand it, although some of the magi will one day walk the paths I use,’ answered the man smoothly. ‘Set you down for a while and dine with me.’
‘Let’s leave him here and ride on,’ said Mothac. ‘I don’t like this place, it is too open. He’s probably a robber.’
‘I have been many things in my time, Theban, but never yet a robber. I have, though, been waiting for you, Parmenion. I thought it wise that we sat and talked - of the past, the future and the echoes of the Great Song.’
‘You sound Greek,’ said Parmenion, moving to his left and continuing to scan the surrounding rocks.
‘Not... exactly... Greek,’ said the man, ‘but it will suffice. You accomplished great deeds in Persia; I congratulate you. Your attack on Spetzabares was brilliant. Outnumbered, you forced him to surrender, losing only 111 men in the process. Remarkable.’
‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I know nothing of you.’
‘I am a scholarly man, Parmenion. My life is devoted to study, to the pursuit of knowledge. My wish is to understand all creation. Happily I am not yet close to any real understanding.’
‘Happily?’
‘Of course. No man should ever completely realize his dreams. What else would there then be to live for?’
‘Look!’ shouted Mothac, pointing to a dust-cloud further down the mountain slopes. ‘Riders!’
‘They are coming to take you to Cotys,’ said the man. ‘Either that or to kill you. The Thracian King has no wish to see Parmenion helping the Macedonians.’
‘You know a great deal,’ said Parmenion softly. ‘I take it you also know a way to avoid these riders?’
‘Naturally,’ said the man, rising smoothly to his feet. ‘Follow me.’
Parmenion watched him stride towards a sheer rock-face which shimmered as he reached it. The Spartan blinked. The stranger was gone.
‘He’s a demon or a demi-god,’ whispered Mothac. ‘Let’s take a chance on the riders. At least they are human.’
‘Swords can cut a man faster than spells,’ said Parmenion. ‘I’ll take my chance with the magus.’ Taking the reins of the stallion in his right hand, he led the beast towards the rock-face. As he approached the temperature dropped, the rocks seeming translucent. He walked on, passing through them, feeling weightless and disoriented.
Mothac emerged from the wall behind him, sweating heavily as he drew alongside his friend. ‘What now?’ the Theban whispered.
They were in a huge, subterranean cavern, enormous stalactites hanging from the domed roof. From around them came the steady, rhythmic dripping of water, and there were many dark pools shining on the cavern floor.
The stranger appeared some fifty paces ahead of them. ‘This way,’ he called. ‘You are only half-way home.’
‘Half-way to Hades more like,’ muttered Mothac, drawing his sword.
The two men led their horses across the cavern floor to a wide natural opening, leading on to a lush green meadow where a small house had been built - the roof red-tiled, the walls smooth and white.
Parmenion walked on into the sunshine and stopped. The countryside was hilly and verdant, but there were no mountains to be seen in any direction and of the great River Nestus there was no sign.
Mounting their horses, the two men rode down to the house where the stranger had set a wide table with cold meats, cheeses and fruits. Pouring his guests goblets of wine, he sat in the shade of a flowering tree. ‘It is not poisoned,’ he said, as his guests stared at the food.
‘Are you not eating?’ Parmenion asked.
‘I am not hungry. But think on this: a man who can make mountains disappear is unlikely to need to poison his guests.’
‘A valid point,’ agreed Parmenion, reaching for an apple.
Mothac grabbed his hand. ‘I will eat first,’ said the Theban, taking the fruit and biting into it.
‘Such devotion,’ observed the stranger. Slowly Mothac sampled all the meats and cheeses. Finally he belched.
‘Best I ever tasted,’ he said. Parmenion ate sparingly, then moved to sit alongside the stranger.
‘Why were you waiting for me?’
‘You are one of the echoes of the Great Song, Parmenion. There have been many before you and there will be many after. But I am here to offer my help. First, though, how is it you greet my magic with such indifference? Has anyone else ever moved a mountain for you?’
‘I have seen the magi turn staffs into snakes and make men float in the air. And there is a magician in Susa who can make men think they are birds, so that they flap their arms and try to fly. Perhaps the mountains are still there, but you stop us seeing them. I care not. Now what is this Great Song you speak of?’
‘It is a war between dream and nightmare. An eternal war. And you are part of it. Homer sang of it, transferring the battles to Troy. Other nations sing of it in different ways, placing it in different times, through Gilgamesh and Ekodas, Paristur and Sarondel. They are all echoes. Soon we will see the birth of another legend, and the Death of Nations will be at the centre.’
‘I know nothing of this, and your conversation is plagued with riddles. I must thank you for your food and your hospitality, but let us speak frankly: who are you?’
The man chuckled and leaned back against the trunk of the flowering tree. ‘Straight for the heart, eh? Ever the general. Well, there’s no harm in that, my Spartan friend. It has served you well over the years, has it not? Me? As I said, I am a scholar. I have never been a warrior, though I have known many. You remind me much of Leonidas the Sword King. He was a man of great prowess, and had a gift for making men great.’
‘The Sword King died more than a century ago,’ said Parmenion. ‘Are you telling me you knew him?’
‘I did not say I knew him, Parmenion. I said you reminded me of him. It was a shame he felt he had to die at Thermopylae; he could have made Sparta truly great. Still, he also was a strong echo of the Great Song, 300 men against an army of 200,000. Wondrously brave.’
‘When I was in Thebes,’ said Parmenion, ‘there was a man who tried to teach me to catch fish with my bare hands. Talking to you reminds me of those days. I hear your words, but they slip by me, the meanings obscure. How can you help me?’
‘At this moment you do not need me, Spartan,’ said the man, his smile fading. Reaching out, he gripped Par-menion’s arm. ‘But there will come a time. You will be given a task, and my name will come into your mind. It is then that you must seek me out. You will find me where first we met. Do not forget that, Parmenion - much will depend on it.’
Parmenion stood. ‘I will remember, and once more I thank you for your hospitality. If we go back the way we came, will we see again the river and the mountains?’
‘No. This time you will emerge in the hills above Pella.’
The grey-haired man stood and offered his hand. Parmenion took it, feeling the strength in the grip. ‘You are not as old as you look,’ said the Spartan with a smile.
There is great truth in that,’ the man answered. ‘Seek me out when you have need. And by the way, even as we speak the Thracian King is dying, poisoned by one of Philip’s friends. Such is the fate of greedy Kings, is it not?’
‘Sometimes,’ agreed Parmenion, vaulting to the stallion’s back. ‘Do you have a name, scholar?’
‘I have many. But you may call me Aristotle.’
‘I have heard of you - though never as a magus. It is said you are a philosopher.’
‘I am what I am. Ride on, Parmenion - the Song awaits.’
The trench was more than 200 feet long, the fifty men digging with picks and shovels through layers of clay and rock, the sun beating down on their bare backs as they laboured. Other soldiers worked to clear the debris, which they threw on to the banks of the trench.
Philip drove his pick into the ground before him, feeling his shoulders jar as the metal edge struck rock once more. Laying the tool aside he dropped to his knees and dug into the clay, hooking his fingers around the stone and draggin
g it clear. It was larger than he had first thought, its weight as great as that of a small man. He was about to call for help when he saw several of the men looking at him and grinning. He smiled back, placed his arms alongside the rock and heaved it to his chest. With a powerful surge he rose and rolled the offending stone to the bank. Then he climbed out and walked the line of the trench, stopping to speak to the workers, gauging their progress.
At each end the trench turned at right-angles, the workers following the lines of ropes pegged to the ground. Philip walked back from the site and pictured the new barracks. It would be two storeys high, with a long dining-hall and seven dormitories housing more than 500 men. The architect was a Persian who had been trained in Athens, and Philip had demanded that the building should be completed by next spring.
The workers were all soldiers from the Pelagonia and Lynkos districts to the north-west, land currently occupied by Bardylis and his Illyrians. The men worked cheerfully enough, especially when the King struggled alongside them, but he knew they remembered his promise that they could return to their homes within three months of the victory against the Paionians.
That was five weeks ago - and still there was no treaty with Bardylis. Yet, looking on the positive side, Philip thought that was promising, for the Illyrians had not marched further into Macedonian territory and Bardylis was considering Philip’s offer to marry his daughter. As a gesture of good faith and ‘continuing brotherhood’ Bardylis had requested that the Macedonian King hand over to Illyria all the lands between the Bora mountains and the Pindos range; six districts in all including Pelagonia, rich in timber, with good grazing and fine pastures.
‘Ugly brides do not come cheaply, it seems,’ Philip had told Nicanor.
Now the King was ridding himself of tension by sheer physical labour. The trench would be finished by tomorrow, then the footings could be completed and he could watch, with pleasure, the growth of the barracks.
No simple structure of wood and mud-brick, the frontage would be carved stone, the roof clay-tiled, the rooms airy and full of light.
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