‘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 were 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 centre. 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 centre 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 clove home, but now the Makedones reformed 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 axe 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 practised. Parmenion stifled a curse. ‘Rear six ranks follow me!’ he called again, pointing to the right. The lines began to move. ‘Re-form and attack from the right!’
The men began to run, following the King in his golden armour 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 200 shields wide. In the first rank Parmenion drew his sword, hefted his shield and led them towards 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 axe, 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 Makedonian Regulars, was making little headway. As with all battles the first to fall were the less skilful, 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 favour.
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 2,500 men under his command; just over 2,000 remained in a phalanx 200 shields wide, ten ranks deep.
Against them were ranged some 4,000 Illyrian irregulars in their red breastplates and horned helms. Tough, seasoned fighters, but ill-disciplined. Leonidas’ regiment was pushing them back, but the enemy were 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 was 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 centre 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 inwards. 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 counter-attack 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 further 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 giving no ground. ‘The King!’ yelled Leo
nidas 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 centre of his regiment, a bright sword in his hand.
All was chaos now, the battle no longer the standard parallel lines of opposing forces. By breaking the Spartan right Leonidas had gambled everything on crushing the enemy centre.
But here stood the Demon King. And he was invulnerable.
Even in the thick of the fighting, his sword-arm weary, Parmenion knew that the pivotal point in the battle had been reached. He could feel it, in the same way that a runner senses the presence of an unheard rival closing behind him. The Makedones were fighting furiously, but there was an edge of panic in them. For years they had fought and won, and s this battle was to have been their easiest victory. That expectation had ] been cruelly crushed, and their morale was now brittle and ready to “] crack.
Parmenion blocked a savage thrust, slashing his own blade through his attacker’s neck in a deadly riposte. The man fell back, and for a moment Parmenion was clear of the action. He swung, looking to the left where Learchus and his regiment were once more making headway against the Regulars. To the right and rear Timasion was urging his men forward into the Illyrians in a bid to reach the centre of the field.
All around the King the slaves were standing firm, though their losses were great, and Parmenion felt afresh the surging determination not to lose. These men deserved a victory.
But there was no place for strategy now. Amid the carnage of the battleground there was room only for strength of arm, allied to the courage of the human spirit. The Makedones fought only for conquest and plunder, while the slaves were fighting for their freedom and the Spartans battling for city, home and honour. The difference was significant as the two armies, their formations broken, fought man to man on the blood-soaked field.
A movement on the hilltops to the south-west caught Parmenion’s eye. The swirling dust made identification difficult at first, then the King saw the giant form of Gorgon moving down the slope. Behind him ^ came hundreds of beasts from the forest, some reptilean and scaled, others covered in matted fur. Many were armed with crude clubs of knotted oak, but most needed no weapon save fang and claw. Vores circled above them and, at a signal from Gorgon, swooped down over the Makedones ranks to hurl their poison-tipped darts.
The Makedones at the rear saw the monsters approaching - and panicked. Throwing aside their weapons they fled the battlefield. Others, with more courage, tried to link shields against this new enemy.
The forest creatures fell upon the Makedones with terrible force, their talons slicing through armour and chain-mail, ripping flesh and snapping bones like rotten wood. Nothing could withstand them.
The Guards’ defences collapsed.
One moment they were an army, the next a seething, frightened horde desperate to escape.
Gorgon, wielding two iron clubs, clove into their ranks, smashing men from their feet. His pale eyes glowed. Warriors in his path screamed and froze, their bodies stiffening, shrinking, crumbling to the earth, dry and withered.
Seeing the panic among the Guards, the Illyrians facing Timasion’s regiment turned and fled.
Now only a tight-knit fighting square surrounded the Demon King. Philippos drew his sword and waited, secure in his invincibility. Gorgon broke through the shield-wall, one huge club hammering down on the King’s shoulder. But the weapon bounced clear and Philippos leapt forward, his sword cleaving into Gorgon’s chest. The Forest Lord staggered back with dark blood gushing from the wound. Philippos advanced but Brontes hurled himself forward, dropping his axe and curling his huge arms around the King’s frame. The King struggled in his grip, trying to turn his sword on this new attacker, but Brontes pinned the King’s arms to his side, lifting him from his feet. Philippos screamed but could not free himself.
The last Makedones resistance crumpled, men throwing down their swords and falling to their knees begging for mercy. At first they were cut down despite their pleas, but Parmenion’s voice rose above the battle.
‘Enough! Let them live!’
A strange, unnatural quiet fell over the battlefield. To the south the once invincible army of Makedon was fleeing in disorder. Here at the centre the remaining Makedones laid down their weapons.
Brontes threw the Demon King to the ground, dragging back the defeated monarch’s arms and calling for thongs to bind him. An archer offered his spare bowstring. Brontes tied the King’s thumbs together and then stood, watching Philippos struggle to his knees.
Helm stepped forward and stood before Philippos, staring down into the King’s face. Then he staggered and seemed about to fall. Attalus leapt to his side, catching him.
‘Are you all right?’ the Macedonian asked. Helm did not answer and Attalus saw the bronze face stiffen and swell, becoming solid once more. The enchanted warrior lifted his hand to the helm he now wore; it was no longer part of his face.
Yet he did not remove it.
Parmenion moved swiftly to where Gorgon lay, his lifeblood draining to the churned ground. Kneeling beside the monster Parmenion took his hand, but could find no words for the dying Titan.
Gorgon’s eyes opened. ‘Surprised to see me?’ asked the Forest King.
‘Yes. But you were more than welcome, my friend. I think you saved us.’
‘No. They were ready to crack.’ Gorgon struggled to rise, but fresh blood gushed from the awful wound in his chest. ‘I cannot feel my legs. Am I dying?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Parmenion.
Gorgon smiled. ‘Curious... there is no pain. Will you promise me that my people will have their chance at the Gateway?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your friendship... carries... a high price. But...’ The Forest Lord’s head lolled back and his body began to tremble. The skin of his face seemed to shimmer, the snakes receded. Parmenion remained where he was as the body slowly changed, becoming at the point of death the handsome dark-haired man Gorgon had once been in life.
Weary and full of sorrow, Parmenion rose.
Brontes stumbled forward, kneeling by his brother. ‘Why?’ he shouted. ‘Why did you do this?’ Taking hold of Gorgon’s shoulders, he began to shake the body.
‘He cannot hear you,’ said Parmenion softly.
The minotaur looked up, his huge brown eyes streaming with tears. ‘Tell me, Parmenion, why he came?’
‘For friendship,’ answered the Spartan simply.
‘He did not understand the meaning of the word.’
‘I think that he did. Why else would he and his people have risked their lives? They had nothing to gain here.’
‘But... my own people refused to help you. And yet this... creature... died for you. I do not understand.’ Lifting his horned head, the minotaur screamed his torment to the skies.
The laughter of Philippos pealed out. That’s it!‘ he called, ’Wail, you pitiful monstrosity. I killed him. Release me and I’ll kill you. I’ll kill all of you!‘
Brontes lurched to his feet, gathering up his axe. Philippos laughed again. The axe-blade hammered into the King’s face, but the skin was not even marked.
Helm stepped forward, approaching Parmenion. ‘Let him loose,’ said the warrior. The Spartan turned to Helm. The voice was no longer metallic, the helmet now separated from the skin.
‘Your memory has returned?’ Parmenion asked him, knowing the answer.
‘It has. Let him loose. I will fight him.’
‘He cannot be killed.’
‘We shall see.’
‘Wait!’ whispered Parmenion. Swiftly he unclasped the necklet, stepping forward to fasten it around Helm’s neck. ‘Now he will not be able to read your mind.’ The
warrior nodded and moved away from the Spartan, drawing his sword. Brontes looked to Parmenion. ‘Release him.’ Brontes slashed the axe-blade through the bindings. Philippos staggered, then righted himself and swung to see Helm approaching him with sword extended.
The Demon King laughed. ‘The first to die,’ he said, gathering his blade from where it had fallen during the struggle with Brontes. ‘Come, let me arrange your journey to Hades.’
Helm said nothing but his advance continued. Philippos leapt to meet him, blade stabbing forward in a disembowelling thrust. Helm parried it, sending a reverse cut that sliced through the skin of the Demon King’s bicep. Philippos jumped back, gazing down in horror at the blood oozing from the wound.
‘I cannot be hurt!’ he screamed. ‘I cannot!’
Helm paused and, lifting his left hand, removed his helmet. Philippos reeled back, the light fading from his golden eye.
Warriors of both armies stood transfixed - for facing the Demon King was his twin, save that his eye was not gold but the colour of opal.
‘Who are you?’ whispered Philippos.
‘Philip of Macedon,’ the warrior answered.
The Demon King tried a desperate attack, but it was easily parried and Philip’s blade plunged into his enemy’s throat. Blood bubbled from Philippos’ mouth. ‘That,’ hissed Philip, ‘is for threatening my son! And this is for me!’ The sword slashed in a glittering arc, decapitating the Demon King. The head fell to the left, bouncing on the hard-packed earth. The body, spouting blood, pitched to the right.
‘Is that dead enough for you?’ asked Philip.
The aftermath of the battle proved long and mind-numbingly complex. The disarmed Makedones were herded together and Parmenion called their officers to him. They were, he told them, free to return to Makedon, there to elect a new King. But first they were obliged to swear sacred oaths that they would help to rebuild the ruined city of Kadmos. This they did. The baggage-train of the Makedones was captured, and with it the enormous wealth accrued by Philippos. This was taken by the Spartans, but Parmenion promised one-half of it to the victims of Makedones aggression, including twenty gold pieces for every slave who had fought alongside him.