Lion of Macedon (47 page)

“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 armor—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 dispatches today from Athens, and one is to be sent on to Mantias who commands the
hoplites
. They are to return home, I promise you.”

Philip nodded. “Then send your dispatch today, sir, and with some speed. For the day after tomorrow I march on the traitor.”

Antipater gathered the seven hundred 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 one hundred cavalry leading the force, and behind these almost a thousand
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 four hundred 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 four hundred 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 center 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 toward 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 six hundred of the enemy lay dead, with a further one hundred 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 one hundred drachmas to each. The crippled men will receive double that and a pension of ten drachmas 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 dispatched. But still the major enemies had to be met.

Where are you, Parmenion?

THE THRACIAN BORDER, AUTUMN, 359 B.C.

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. When he was satisfied the man was indeed alone, his gaze flicked down on the distant River Nestus and then up toward 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 gray, his beard curled in the Persian fashion, his eyes the color of storm clouds. He was wearing a long
chiton
of faded blue and a pair of leather sandals that 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 Persians understand it, although some of the
magi
will one day walk the paths I use,” answered the man smoothly. “Sit 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 a hundred and eleven 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 farther 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 toward a sheer rock face that shimmered as he reached it. The Spartan blinked. The stranger was gone.

“He’s a demon or a demigod,” 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 toward 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 halfway home.”

“Halfway 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 onto 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 center.”

“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?”