What she saw sent a shiver through her and she fled back to her body, crying out as she woke.
'What is it?' asked Parmenion, dismounting and kneeling beside her, gripping her shoulder.
'Send the others south,' she whispered. 'Tell them we will join them later.'
'Why?'
'Trust me! You are about to walk a different path and you must send them on. Swiftly now, for there is little time.'
Parmenion called Attalus to him. 'You must travel on without me for a while, my friend. Take Alexander south — to the Gateway, if necessary. I will meet you when I can.'
'We should stay together,' argued Attalus.
'There is no time for debate. You must protect Alexander. Brontes has gone to prepare the way, and you will be safe in the south. I can tell you no more, for I know no more.'
Attalus cursed softly, then vaulted to his mount. 'Look after yourself, Spartan,' he called, as he led the company away to the south.
Parmenion returned to the priestess. 'Tell me all,' he said.
'Wait,' she advised. 'The battle is beginning.'
The strategos turned his attention to the two armies. At this distance they were just like the tiny carved models with which he had won his first encounter with his rival, Leonidas, thirty-three years ago in another world. They appeared as toys, glittering and bright, moving across the dusty plain. But they were not toys. Within moments living, breathing men would be cut down, swords and spears slashing and cleaving through flesh and bone. The army of Makedon, black cloaks and black banners swirling in the breeze, marched forward confidently, the cavalry to the left sweeping out to envelop the enemy flanks.
But then they were met by a counter-charge, warriors in blue cloaks and shining helms emerging from their hiding-places among the boulders at the foot of the slopes. Parmenion smiled. This was good strategy from the Spartan King. Straining his eyes, he could just make out the monarch standing at the centre of the Spartan phalanx, 300 men in tight formation six ranks deep, fifty shields wide. It was a defensive formation and had been placed at the centre of the field, with mercenary divisions around it. 'He seeks to hold the centre steady,' said Parmenion. 'See how they gather around the Spartans?' More allied cavalry rode from the right, but the Makedones swung their lines to meet the charge. It seemed to Parmenion that the Makedones' defence was moving into action even before the charge, and he recalled with sinking heart that Philippos could read the mind of his enemy.
Even so the charge carried through, pushing back the enemy. The Spartan centre surged forward and Parmenion watched as the King mounted a fine grey stallion and rode back to join the reserve cavalry on the left. The battle was fully joined now, a great heaving mass of men vying for control of the field.
'Now!' whispered Parmenion. 'Now lead the charge!' As if the Spartan King had heard him Parmenion saw the great grey horse thunder into the gallop, riders streaming behind with the sun glittering on their lance-points.
But on the far side of the battle the allied cavalry suddenly gave way, panic sweeping their ranks. Swinging their mounts they fled the field. The Makedones poured into the breach, moving out to surround the allied centre. Two mercenary divisions broke and ran, leaving a gap on the Spartan right.
'Sweet Zeus, no!' shouted Parmenion. 'He had it won!'
The Spartan King disengaged his cavalry from the attack and led his men in a desperate ride across the battlefield, trying to close the gap, but Parmenion knew the attempt was doomed. Panic swept through the allied army like a grass fire, and all but the Spartans threw down their shields and ran.
The Spartan phalanx closed, becoming a fighting square, moving back from the centre towards a narrow pass in the mountains. But the King led one last desperate charge against the enemy centre, almost reaching Philippos. Now Parmenion saw the Demon King riding forward on a giant black stallion, hacking and cutting his way towards his enemy. A spear slashed into the grey stallion and it bolted, carrying the Spartan King clear of the action as he fought to control the pain-maddened beast.
Now the King was riding towards Parmenion and Thena, pursued by a score of black-cloaked riders. Glancing back, he saw them and swung the horse up on to a scree slope, the beast scrambling on to a ledge. There was nowhere else to go and the Spartan King leapt from his mount as the first Makedones reached the top. The man's horse reared as the King ran at it, toppling his rider, but then the others arrived, leaping from their horses and advancing on the lone warrior.
Parmenion's heart ached for the man. He had come so close, only to be betrayed by cowards and men of little heart.
He longed to gallop down to fight alongside the King, but a gorge separated them and the King was but moments from death — before him a score of enemies, behind him a chasm. He fought bravely and with great skill, but at the last a sword gashed his throat and he fell back, teetering on the edge of the abyss. Parmenion cried out in anguish as the Spartan King toppled from the ledge, his bronze-clad body cartwheeling through the air to crash against the mountainside before pitching once more into space to be dashed against the rocks below. Parmenion groaned and looked away. 'So close — so near to victory,' he whispered.
'I know,' said Thena. 'Now we must wait.'
'For what? I have seen enough.'
'There is more, my dear,' she told him.
The enemy soldiers pulled baek from the ledge, seeking a way to recover the body. But the cliff was too steep and they remounted their horses and vanished from sight.
'Now,' said Thena. 'Before they can circle round from the north, we must get to the body.'
'Why?'
'There is no time to explain. Trust me.' Remounting, Thena urged her horse over the crest of the hill and down the gentle slope to the valley floor. Parmenion had no wish to gaze upon the ruined body of so great a warrior, but he followed the priestess on the long ride, coming at last to the blood-spattered corpse. Thena climbed down from her mount and moved to the body, gently rolling it to its back. The red-plumed helm lay close by, scarcely dented, but the breastplate was split at the shoulder, where a white bone could be seen jutting from dead flesh.
The man's face was remarkably untouched, his blue eyes open and staring at the sky. Parmenion moved to the body and stopped, heart hammering and legs unsteady.
'I am sorry,' whispered Thena, 'but you stand before the body of Parmenion, the King of Sparta.'
Parmenion could find no words as he gazed down at his own corpse. He had observed Thena's magic back in the forest when she had created the illusion of the group still sleeping around the camp-fire. Though in its way that had been almost amusing, causing a lifting of tension and fear. But this was real. The dead man at his feet was his twin, and Parmenion felt the anguish of bereavement. Worse than this, the tragedy brought him a sickening sense of his own mortality. The Parmenion lying here had been a man with dreams, hopes, ambitions. Yet he had been cut down in his prime, his body smashed, broken.
The Spartan took a deep, shuddering breath.
'We must move him,' said Thena, 'before the Makedones arrive.'
'Why?' responded Parmenion, unwilling to touch his alter ego.
'Because they must not know he is dead. Come now! Lift him across your horse.'
Parmenion's hands were trembling as he pulled the corpse upright, draping the body over his shoulder, transferring it to the Makedones gelding, then vaulting to the beast's back. The horse was strong, but even so could not bear the double weight for long. Parmenion turned to see Thena sitting upon a boulder.