Dark Prince (3 page)

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 was 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 is 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.

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 toward 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 five hundred riders cantered out toward the woods, then swung his gaze to the hills.

The Macedonian formation would not have been hard to predict—infantry at the center, 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 fifty shields wide. The First Regiment—the 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 stay 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 center 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 armored 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 center, 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 toward 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 five hundred 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 center, 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 was once more cleaving 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 farther 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 is 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 five hundred 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 toward him with lance leveled. 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 sliced out his sword in a reverse cut that 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 countercharge. 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 center 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.

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 center and still achieve victory.

Parmenion looked to the left. A hidden force of foot soldiers had charged from the woods, but Nicanor and his five hundred 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 two hundred 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 eight hundred Thessalians drew their curved cavalry sabers and, screaming their war cries, hurtled after him.

The two forces crashed together on the hillside above the
surging mass of warriors fighting for control of the center 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 armored phalanxes, and no longer could a single bloom be seen on the churned earth of the battle site.

But Philip had long since ceased thinking 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 that 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 defense, and as Onomarchus turned to meet the attack, a
sarissa
pierced 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 onto 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 center of the deserted city. From there he watched the executions of the six hundred 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.