Dark Prince (46 page)

Armed slaves clambered over the barricades and charged into the demoralized invaders, dragging them from their mounts, sharp knives and hatchets ripping and cleaving into flesh and bone.

The routed cavalry fought to escape, but the only route was back the way they had come, and the streets were choked with dead horses and men.

And the slaughter continued.

Cleander sagged back to the rooftop.

His vision darkened, the men around him fading and becoming shadows. Then a bright figure stepped into view, seeming to emerge from a glistening mist. Cleander rose, all
pain vanishing, and looked into the eyes of the shining man before him.

“I did not let you down, sire. The city is safe.”

“You did well, Cousin,” said Parmenion, king of Sparta. Cleander gazed down on his own frail body, lying forgotten as the fighting raged on. So thin and wretched … it was such a pleasure to be free of it. Then despair touched him. If the king was here, then …

“Did we lose, sire?”

“Not yet. The battle continues. Come, follow me.”

“I always have, sire. I always will. But where are we going?”

“To the field of blood, my friend. For there are many Spartans there who will need a guide before this day is over.”

THE FIELD OF BLOOD

Despite the carnage on either side, Parmenion felt detached from the battle, his mind focused entirely on the
feel
of the conflict. The Makedones had suffered a terrible reverse; their mercenaries, cut down in their hundreds, were on the verge of panic. Some were already running back, fleeing the combat. The regulars were still fighting hard despite appalling losses, but they were being forced back by the savage skills of the disguised Spartans.

The battle was not yet won or lost but was balancing on a knife edge. He looked to his right, where Leonidas and Timasion were leading the assault. The Spartans had formed a fighting line two hundred shields wide, and they were gradually turning the enemy back toward the center of the field. On the left Learchus was no longer making headway, the ground beneath his warriors covered with the bodies of the fallen.

Dust was billowing across the battlefield as Parmenion transferred his gaze to the enemy reserves, the elite Makedones guards. He blinked and narrowed his eyes.

They were advancing.

Cold fear swept through him. Next to the Spartans, these were the most disciplined fighting men of Achaea, victors of a score of major battles. On they came, a solid phalanx of fighting men in tight formation, twenty ranks at least. The combined weight of their charge would carry them deep into any stationary enemy line.

Parmenion silently swore. Had his troops been truly Spartan,
he would now sound the advance, moving out to meet the enemy head-on, matching their formation and relying on the strength of his soldiers to withstand the charge. But they were not Spartans: they were house slaves, messengers, gardeners, and servants with no experience of war.

In that dread moment a sudden realization struck him: He had no choice. If they stood still, they would be swept aside. Spartans or no, the
strategos
was left with only one option.

Attack.

Curiously, this thought swept away all his fears, and from some deep well of his being rose a savage lust for battle he had never before experienced.

“Attack formation!” he yelled.

The slaves had learned only two maneuvers during their few days of training, and this had been one, moving smoothly from a wide defensive line into a compact attacking unit.

“Drummers sound the beat!” shouted the king. “By the step three!”

Behind the battle lines, the ten drummers began to mark the time with a steady, rhythmic pounding.

Parmenion eased himself into the third rank as the men began to march forward to meet the enemy. The first rank carried shield and sword, the men in the second wielding long iron-pointed spears. Once close to the enemy, these weapons would be lowered to the vertical, the men in the front line sheathing their swords and helping to guide the spears home while the wielders, gripping the hafts with both hands, rammed them into the opposing ranks.

Against an ill-disciplined force or troops without formation, such a tactic was often decisive. But in the main, close-order troops would block the spears with their shields and the initial stages of combat would be down to the strength and weight of the two phalanxes as they clashed like two huge bulls coming together head to head.

“Level spears!” bellowed Parmenion, and the weapons came down in a ragged line, but the billowing dust prevented the enemy from seeing clearly how inexpertly the spears were
brought into position. “Drummers by the step four!” The beat quickened, like the thudding of an angry heart.

“Now we will show them,” said Priastes, moving alongside his king. But Parmenion had no time to answer, for the enemy was close.

The Makedones were not moving as fast as he had expected. In fact, they seemed hesitant, their line curving, wider at the flanks, concave at the center. For a moment Parmenion was nonplussed, then realization came to him.

They were frightened! The guards had seen what they thought to be slaves smashing their fighting lines, and now they believed themselves to be facing the finest warriors in the world. The men at the center in the first rank were holding back, fearful of the clash. This had the effect of compressing the Makedones phalanx, rank after rank closing and eliminating the vital fighting space between the lines.

“Drummers by the step five!” shouted Parmenion. The drumbeat quickened, the advance gathering speed. “Ready spears!”

The Makedones were hardly moving when the Spartans struck them. The second rank spear-carriers threw themselves forward, the iron points of their weapons hammering into the enemy. Tightly compressed as they were, the Makedones could not block them all, and the points plunged home between their shields. “Withdraw spears!” shouted Parmenion, and back came the blood-covered weapons, only to stab forward once more.

The Makedones line buckled as hundreds of warriors went down. But the formation did not break.

Again and again the spears drove home, but the Makedones re-formed and began to fight back. The slaves in the front rank drew their swords, and the fighting became hand-to-hand. The Spartan advance slowed.

Gaps began to appear in the front line.

Helm leapt into one breach, slashing his sword across the face of an advancing Makedones warrior. “Keep close, Brothers!” he shouted. His voice carried along the line, and
the effect was instant. The slaves gathered themselves, closing the gaps and fighting back.

All forward movement had ceased now, and the two forces stood toe to toe, shield to shield.

Parmenion looked around him. Everywhere the slaves were holding their ground, and his pride in them soared. Cold reality touched the
strategos
. The Makedones were still hesitant, but soon they would become aware of the lack of skill and advance again.

And in that moment he knew how his twin had felt at Mantinea, the sweet taste of victory so close to his tongue.

Another gap opened before him. Just as he was about to leap forward, the giant form of Brontes stepped into the breach, a huge ax in his hand. The blade slashed down, cleaving through helm and breastplate to smash a Makedones from his feet.

Turning, Parmenion raised his arm. “Rear six ranks wide formation!” he called. No one moved, men glancing one to the other, for this was not something they had practiced. Parmenion stifled a curse. “Rear six ranks follow me!” he called again, pointing to the right. The lines began to move. “Reform and attack from the right!”

The men began to run, following the king in his golden armor as he moved across the battle lines. “Re-form in wide defensive,” he ordered. This the men understood, and swiftly they grouped themselves in three ranks two hundred shields wide. In the first rank Parmenion drew his sword, hefted his shield, and led them toward the Makedones flank. There were no drummers now, and the dust was thick and choking.

At the last moment the Makedones saw them and tried to turn.

Parmenion knew the slaves could not break through, but he hoped that the sudden switch of attack would slow the enemy as warriors were forced to defend both front and flank.

To his left he could see the Minotaur still cleaving and hacking with his ax, the Makedones falling back before him and Helm, fighting now alongside Attalus in the front line.

A sword slashed for his face. Parmenion deflected it with
his shield and stabbed out his own blade in response, but this, too, was blocked. Dropping to one knee, the Spartan thrust his sword under the Makedones shield. The blade tore through the man’s leather kilt, slicing into his groin. Wrenching the weapon clear, Parmenion rose to block another attack.

All around him the slaves pushed forward.

But the Makedones held them off.

And the enemy line began to move inexorably forward.

Leonidas eased himself back from the front line and ran swiftly up the hillside, turning to look down on the battle. Parmenion’s plan had worked beautifully, but the weight of numbers was still against them. The Thracian mercenaries had fled the field, but the Spartan could see their officers desperately trying to regroup the survivors. Given time, they would return to the battle.

Squinting through the dust, Leonidas saw that Parmenion was leading his disguised slaves against the guards, while on the far left Learchus, hard-pressed by the Makedones regulars, was making little headway. As with all battles, the first to fall were the less skillful, the weak, the slow, the inept. Now only the real fighting men remained, and there was no question of the bravery of the Makedones. Stunned and demoralized by the early charge, they were now showing their discipline, and the battle was slowly beginning to turn in their favor.

The field was littered with corpses, the vast majority being the Makedones or their mercenaries, but Spartans had fallen, too, and Leonidas ran an expert eye over his fighting lines. He had begun with twenty-five hundred men under his command; just over two thousand remained in a phalanx two hundred shields wide and ten ranks deep.

Against them were ranged some four thousand Illyrian irregulars in their red breastplates and horned helms. Tough, seasoned fighters but ill disciplined. Leonidas’ regiment was pushing them back, but the enemy was far from either panic or retreat.

Leonidas was racked by indecision. The slaves could not
withstand the might of the guards, and Learchus on the left needed support. Yet if Leonidas were to send any troops to their aid, his own force would not be able to withstand the Illyrians.

Nevertheless a decision had to be made.

Then he saw Parmenion leading the flank attack against the guards. It was a courageous move but doomed to failure unless supported. His decision made, Leonidas ran back to the battle.

“Rear five fighting wedge left!” he shouted. “Formation ten!” The rear five ranks of his regiment moved smoothly to the left, re-forming ten ranks deep, fifty shields across, Leonidas at the center with two officers on either side of him. “The king!” he bellowed.

The men in the first rank hefted their shields and began to march, angling to the left. The Illyrians, screaming their battle cries, hurled themselves against the weaker right flank of the phalanx. This was the danger Leonidas had braved. Shields were always carried on the left arm, and when a regiment swung to the left, the right side of the phalanx was open to attack, for the shields faced inward. But he had no choice. To order a switch to the more standard fighting square would make forward movement almost impossible. The men on the right had only their swords to fend off their attackers, yet still they were Spartans, and the Illyrians suffered heavy losses as they tried to crash through the phalanx.

Worse was to come, Leonidas knew, for as they fought their way forward, the Illyrians would move in behind them. He could only hope that Timasion, with the troops left under his command, would see the danger and launch a counterattack to defend the rear.

“At the slow run!” shouted Leonidas. There were no drummers to sound the beat, but the Spartans responded instantly, the front line swinging farther left. Leonidas glanced back. Timasion had ordered his men to advance into the breach created by Leonidas, and the harrying Illyrians were now caught between two forces.

A gap opened before the fighting wedge, and Leonidas
could see Parmenion and his warriors battling to contain the guards. The huge Minotaur and the warrior with the metal face were now surrounded by the enemy but were giving no ground. “The king!” yelled Leonidas again.

“The king!” came the thundrous response from the Spartans.

He saw Parmenion glance back. Immediately the king ordered his men to pull aside, creating room for the charging Spartans to hammer home against the guards’ left. The enemy flank crumpled under the sudden assault, the Spartans pushing deep into the Makedones square.

For the first time Leonidas saw the demon king at the center of his regiment, a bright sword in his hand.