Dark Prince (45 page)

“What are his thoughts, sire?”

“I neither know nor care. Order the Korinthians to ride wide of the enemy and strike at Sparta itself. Let us see how their morale is affected when they see that their battle is futile. Then order the regulars and the mercenary units forward, as if to attack the Spartan center. When they are within fifty paces, sound the charge. Have the mercenaries veer to the left, two regiments of the regulars to the right. Storm the hillsides
and scatter the slaves. The regulars will then move on and turn to attack the Spartans from behind, while the mercenaries will assail them from the hillside. At that point I will order the guards forward, and we will have them encircled. But remember, I want Parmenion alive.”

“Yes, sire. Alive.”

The king turned to his chief priest, a bold hook-nosed man with deep-set dark eyes. “How are the omens for today, Pharin?”

“There will be a duel of kings, sire, and Philippos will stand triumphant with his enemy dead at his feet.”

“But I want him alive!”

“That will not be the way of it, sire. You will meet your enemy blade to blade, and you will kill him.”

Pharin’s talent was beyond question, but even so the king turned his head, the golden eye gleaming. “You would not lie to me?”

“I speak the truth, sire: this is the way it will be. A sea of blood, a mountain of corpses, but Philippos victorious.”

“You have never been wrong, Pharin. Not once.”

“Nor am I now, sire.”

The Makedones battle drums began to beat, the sound drifting across the battlefield like the heartbeat of some mythic beast of terror. Parmenion felt the fear of the slaves around him, saw them glance at one another, watched them wiping sweat from their eyes or licking dry lips with drier tongues.

“You are men of courage,” said Parmenion suddenly, his voice carrying over the shifting ranks, “and I am proud to stand here with you.” The slaves closest to him smiled nervously. “Do not let the noise concern you. Padded sticks against stretched cowhide, that is all it is. And those men waiting to march against you are only men like yourselves. There is nothing special about them; they will die, as all men die.”

He fell silent; there was little else he could say. He was no Philip, no battle king with amazing powers of oratory. Xenophon had called it heroic leadership, the ability of a single
man to turn fear into courage the way an armorer fashioned sword blades from ore. “There is within an army,” the Athenian had once said, “a single, invisible spirit, easily swayed from cowardice to heroism, from savagery to discipline. The right general, or king, understands this. He comes to know the nature of this spirit; he knows that it both feeds from and gives sustenance to the men of the army. This spirit is the seed of panic yet also the source of greatness. Some coax the best from it; others fill it with passion. But those who ignore it fail.”

Parmenion had always fed it before the battles, on training grounds, and during maneuvers—coming to know the men under him, filling them with confidence both in themselves and in their general. It was a time-consuming process, and in this new world there had been not enough days for him to work his quiet magic.

The enemy began to move, mercenary units and regulars marching out to the sound of the drums, linking shields and advancing across the flat plain toward the Spartan center.

“Gods, but I could do with a piss,” said Helm, his deep metallic voice breaking the sudden silence. Nervous laughter swelled up around him, and the release of tension was almost palpable. Parmenion chuckled. In that moment Helm had expressed the one condition known to all fighting men: a dry mouth and a seemingly full bladder.

His timing had been impeccable, and Parmenion glanced at the enchanted warrior beside him. Helm looked up and smiled, one bronze eye winking. “Thank you,” mouthed the king.

Parmenion cast his expert gaze over the approaching enemy. Five regiments were advancing, some fifteen thousand men. A dust cloud rose up on the extreme left, and the Spartan swung his head to see the Makedones cavalry outflanking them. “Daricles!” he yelled, and a tall young bowman raised his hand. “Fan your archers out in case the cavalry cuts back to attack the rear.” The man saluted, and Parmenion returned his attention to the infantry.

So far it was all going exactly as he had predicted, the cavalry
swinging wide—hopefully to attack the city—while the infantry had been left with the task of clearing the way.

Suddenly the enemy force split, veering left and right, breaking ranks to charge the flanks. War cries erupted in a terrifying wall of sound, and the pounding of feet on the dry plain drowned out the incessant beat of the drums.

Philippos watched the battle from his place at the head of the guards. He had observed with disgust the Spartan slaves moving into formation—men bumping into one another, shields being dropped—and he felt a lessening of excitement. Battles were usually full of savage joy and surging emotions, but this one left him dulled, almost bored. The chances were more than good that the slaves would break and run even before the regulars struck.

What followed would be slaughter.

Transferring his gaze to the red-cloaked Spartans, he saw them move smoothly from offensive formation—a solid phalanx 250 shields wide and twenty ranks deep—to the wider 500-shields line. Their raised spears dropped in a perfect line that sent a shiver of appreciation through the Makedones king. Now these were warriors!

The Makedones broke into a run, the force splitting and angling across the field to the left and right. Philippos smiled and peered through the rising dust to watch the dismay in the ranks of slaves. Arrows and javelins soared from the Spartan flanks, plunging home into the charging Makedones. Scores fell, and many more tripped over the tumbling bodies. But the charge was now unstoppable.

Excitement rose again in the Makedones king, and his hands began to tremble. The slave line on the right was breaking even before the Makedones reached them.

No, not breaking!

Changing!

At first the king could not believe what he was seeing. The slaves had expertly linked shields in the classic Spartan attack phalanx and were advancing down the hillside. In their haste to crush the enemy, the Makedones had broken ranks,
intent only on sweeping aside these pretend warriors. There were no battle formations now, only a dark horde racing toward the hills on either side. Philippos jerked his gaze to the right. Here also the slaves were advancing, in perfect formation, to meet the charge.

Madness, he thought. But a tiny sliver of icy fear began to grow in his mind.

Something here was wrong. Yet could it matter? How could slaves withstand a frontal assault?

The dust rose now, thick and blinding. The golden eye gleamed as the demon king’s spirit soared out over the battle lines. The first Makedones warriors reached the slaves, only to be cut down with consummate ease as swords cleaved their flesh, the enemy shields locking like a dam against the surging Makedones tide.

Philippos looked to the main Spartan force. Still they stood their ground, making no effort to come to the aid of the slaves on either flank.

Now the charge was faltering, the field littered with Makedones dead. The slaves continued their advance, hacking and cutting, their swords dripping blood. Desperately the Makedones tried to re-form their lines, but the slaves gave them no opportunity.

Philippos watched the slaughter, and confusion tore through him.

You fool!
came the voice in his mind.
Can you not see what is happening?

“Leave me be!” he screamed.

Parmenion has outwitted you. The slaves
are
the Spartans. They have exchanged cloaks and helms. You have attacked, in broken formation, the greatest warriors in the world!

“What can I do?”

All is not yet lost. Send in the guards against the Spartan center
.

“How will that aid us?”

The Spartans will have to break off their attack, and it will give our troops time to re-form. Do it now, or all will be lost!

Philippos jerked to awareness and drew his sword. “Forward!” he shouted.

And six thousand elite warriors, the pride of Makedon, grim-faced and cold-eyed, hefted their swords and shields and marched against the slaves who surrounded the Spartan king.

THE CITY OF SPARTA

Much to his disgust, Cleander needed to be carried to the rooftop by two young servants as news reached the city that the enemy cavalry had been sighted. Cleander’s ruined lungs had all but given out on him, and he had been forced to discard even his simple leather breastplate and helm, the weight being too much for him. His breathing was ragged as the servants reached the top of the stairs, lifting him to the roof.

A deep shuddering breath was followed by a racking cough that spattered crimson drops of blood to the whitewashed stone. Cleander heaved himself upright and moved slowly to the low parapet around the building. From there he could look down on Leaving Street. To the left was the barricaded
agora
, the market stalls overturned and blocking all exits. To the right he could see the open plains and the distant dust cloud that heralded the enemy.

Lifting his hand, he summoned his manservant, Dorian, a young Kadmian born into his service. The youth carried a curved oxhorn, which he lifted to his mouth, blowing a single clear note that echoed across the city. Cleander’s gaze raked along the rooftops as the hidden javeliners and bowmen showed themselves, raising their hands to acknowledge the signal; then they dropped again from sight.

Sweat dripped into Cleander’s eyes, and his face was ashen below the deep tan.

“Lie down for a moment, sir,” whispered Dorian, taking his master’s arm.

“If … I … lie down … I shall die,” he answered. Instead he knelt by the parapet. Pain racked his weary, oxygen-starved body, but he willed himself to go on: the king had entrusted to him the defense of the city, and Cleander would be true to his duty. Once more he ran through the strategy, wondering if any flaws remained to be discovered by the enemy. He had closed off all streets, bar the Avenue of Kings and the parallel Leaving Street. Both led to the open marketplace, with its scores of alleys and side turnings, but these, too, had been blocked with stalls and furniture from surrounding homes. He pictured the unit leaders he had selected. Some concerned him; others worried him. But then, the best of the warriors had marched with Parmenion, and it was pointless now to fret about the quality of those left behind.

The enemy was closing fast, and Cleander could see sunlight glistening on helms and lances. There were thousands of horsemen galloping toward the city, and fear leapt in the Spartan’s heart. Could they hold off so many?

“Father Zeus, give me strength,” he prayed. He glanced up at Dorian. “Get down, boy, and be ready at my signal.” Three men now joined them on the rooftop. Two carried bows and several quivers of long-shafted arrows; the third placed himself beside the twenty iron-pointed javelins resting against the parapet. The javeliner hefted the first weapon, testing it for weight and balance. “Not … until … the signal,” warned Cleander, and the man nodded and smiled.

I was a warrior once, thought Cleander. With helm and sword I would have been standing alongside my king, cutting down his enemies and glorying in my strength and power. Another spasm of coughing tore at his skeletal frame. Bright lights danced before his eyes, and he felt himself slipping sideways. Dorian seized him, holding him upright. Cleander’s vision was blurring, darkness closing in on him. With a supreme effort of will he fought it back, concentrating on the galloping cavalry. He saw the force separate and watched half the riders thunder toward Leaving Street.

In the distant past Sparta had boasted a strong wall, but Lycurgus, the legendary founder of the warrior race, had told
them that a wall of men was stronger than a wall of stone, and the city’s defenses had been torn down. Such was the pride of Sparta, such was the strength of its army that at no time in its history had an enemy ever come close enough to threaten the city.

Until now …

As the cavalry swept along Leaving Street, Dorian looked to Cleander, but the dying man shook his head. On they came, their white cloaks streaming out behind them. Many of the cavalry were Korinthians and wore little armor, carrying only lance or sword, their protection lying in the speed of their mounts and the small buckler shields strapped to their left forearms. Cleander waited until they were almost to the end of Leaving Street, the column strung out below him. “Now!” he whispered.

A long blast blew from the horn, and men rose up on every rooftop, javelins slashing through the air in a dark rain of death that ripped into the invaders’ ranks. Horses went down in their hundreds, spilling riders to the cobbled street. Then bowmen began to rake the survivors, who had nowhere to run. White cloaks and tunics blossomed with crimson stains, and the screams of dying men echoed through the city. Cleander watched the slaughter dispassionately, then turned to see the vanguard of the column riding into the
agora
. Here they were met with a storm of missiles.