The Field of Blood
Philippos sat upon his battle stallion and thought of his enemy, directing the gaze of his Golden Eye towards the distant figure of the garishly armoured Spartan King.
It galled him that the man had a protective amulet, not because he feared his pitiful strategies but merely because he always enjoyed the fear and rising panic that swelled from the emotions of an enemy facing defeat.
He remembered his last meeting with Parmenion, felt again the wave of anger as the Spartan had spoken of his skills with such contempt. A poor general indeed! He was Philippos, the greatest Battle King the world would ever know!
'I do not need the Eye to defeat the likes of you,' he whispered aloud. And yet… why rob oneself of the small pleasures, he wondered? What dread despairs were felt by Parmenion's generals?
His concentration deepened as he sought out Leonidas. .
'Are you contemplating your death?' whispered a voice in his mind, and Philippos jerked as if struck. It was the witch-woman who had pretended to be the goddess Athena. Closing his human eye, he sought out her spirit form; she was floating in the air some twenty paces from him.
'You cannot harm me, witch,' he told her.
'Nor will I need so to do,' she answered. 'Evil has a way of defeating itself. That will happen today.'
'Begone, woman! I have neither the time nor the inclination to debate with you!'
'Of course you have not,' she sneered. 'The Coward-King must first read his enemy's thoughts. He is incapable of planning a battle for himself. Go ahead. Do not let me disturb you. I would imagine the sight of all those farm-workers and slaves has unmanned you.'
Another voice cut in, a child's voice. 'He is not very impressive, is he, Thena?' Philippos swung his head to see the slim golden-headed boy he had hunted so long.
'I will find you, child. There is nowhere you can hide from me."
The boy looked at him, his expression sombre. 'I do not think you shall,' he said softly, 'but if you do I will kill you.'
Philippos laughed then, though the sound faded as he stared at the solemn face of the child. 'Nothing can kill me!
You hear me? Nothing!'
'I can,' whispered the boy, 'with one touch. But we are detaining you, coward. Shall we ask Parmenion to remove his necklet of power? Would that make it easier for you to destroy the slave army?'
The contempt in the child's voice stung the King with whips of fire and he started to reply, but the spirits vanished.
Furious now, Philippos rode along his battle-lines, summoning his generals and priests. The soldiers stood silently as he passed, spears held vertically, eyes on the enemy some 800 paces ahead.
The Makedones King hauled on the reins and turned his horse to stand facing south. The enemy battle-line was as he expected: the Spartans, in their full-faced bronze helms and red cloaks, holding the low ground between two hills; the slaves split into two groups flanking them on the hillsides. Behind the centre of the main force he could see bowmen and javeliners, awaiting orders.
'How many?' Philippos asked.
An officer moved his horse alongside the King. 'Five thousand Spartans, sire, and around the same number of slaves.
It is hard to see how many archers, perhaps a thousand.'
Philippos did not need to glance back to know the numbers of the Makedones. Directly behind him were the royal guards, 6,000 strong, standing in battle order twenty ranks deep and 300 shields wide, a vast black-garbed fighting square. They were the Bringers of the Storm, for when they marched their battle-cries rolled out like thunder and their swords were deadlier than the lightning bolts of Zeus. Flanking them were the 10,000 Regulars, powerful fighting men, highly trained, their helms and breastplates of polished iron gleaming like silver. On the right were the 5,000 mercenaries from Thessalia, Thracia and Illyria. Cloaks of many colours were worn by these warriors and, though they had little discipline, still they were ferocious in battle, having a lust for blood and death which delighted the Makedones King. Beyond them, on the right flank, were the cavalry — mainly Korinthian, numbering 7,000.
Twenty-eight thousand battle-hardened men were ranged against 5,000 Spartans and a motley mob of hastily-armed slaves and old men.
'His strategy is pitiful,' sneered Philippos. 'You can see through it like a gossamer veil. He invites us to attack his centre; that is why the Spartans are defending the easy way, the low ground.'
'But if we thrust them aside, lord, the slaves will break and run and the day will be ours,' put in the officer. 'Surely we must attack the Spartans?'
'You saw them at Mantinea. To attack them head-on is like hurling water against a wall. They are fine soldiers and they do not break easily. No. That is what he wants — to withstand the full force of an infantry charge, to break the spirit of the Makedones. Once morale is gone the difference in numbers counts for little.'
'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 centre. 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 bald 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 dryer 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 armourer fashioned sword-blades from base metal. '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.'