Parmenion had always fed it before the battles, on training grounds and during manoeuvres — coming to know the men under him, filling them with confidence both in themselves and their general. It was a time-consuming process, and in this new world there had been not enough days for him to work his quiet magic.
The enemy began to move, mercenary units and Regulars marching out to the sound of the drums, linking shields and advancing across the flat plain towards the Spartan centre.
'Gods, but I could do with a piss,' said Helm, his deep metallic voice breaking the sudden silence. Nervous laughter swelled up around him and the release of tension was almost palpable. Parmenion chuckled. In that moment Helm had expressed the one condition known to all fighting men: a dry mouth and a seemingly full bladder.
His timing had been impeccable and Parmenion glanced at the enchanted warrior beside him. Helm looked up and smiled, one bronze eye winking. 'Thank you,' mouthed the King.
Parmenion cast his expert gaze over the approaching enemy. Five regiments were advancing, some 15,000 men. A dust-cloud rose up on the extreme left and the Spartan swung his head to see the Makedones cavalry outflanking them. 'Daricles!' he yelled and a tall, young bowman raised his hand. 'Fan your archers out in case the cavalry cut back to attack the rear.' The man saluted and Parmenion returned his attention to the infantry.
So far it was all going exactly as he had predicted, the cavalry swinging wide — hopefully to attack the city — while the infantry had been left with the task of clearing the way.
Suddenly the enemy force split, veering left and right, breaking ranks to charge the flanks. War-cries erupted in a terrifying wall of sound, and the pounding of feet upon the dry plain drowned out the incessant beat of the drums.
Philippos watched the battle from his place at the head of the Guards. He had observed with disgust the Spartan slaves moving into formation — men bumping into one another, shields being dropped — and he felt a lessening of excitement. Battles were usually full of savage joy and surging emotions, but this one left him dulled, almost bored.
The chances were more than good that the slaves would break and run even before the Regulars struck.
What followed would be slaughter. .
Transferring his gaze to the red-cloaked Spartans, he saw them move smoothly from offensive formation — a solid phalanx 250 shields wide and twenty ranks deep — to the wider 500-shields line. Their raised spears dropped in a perfect line that sent a shiver of appreciation through the Makedones King. Now these were warriors!
The Makedones broke into a run, the force splitting and angling across the field to left and right. Philippos smiled and peered through the rising dust to watch the dismay in the ranks of slaves. Arrows and javelins soared from the Spartan flanks, plunging home into the charging Makedones. Scores fell, many more tripped over the tumbling bodies. But the charge was now unstoppable.
Excitement rose again in the Makedones King and his hands began to tremble. The slave line on the right was breaking, even before the Makedones reached them.
No, not breaking!
Changing!
At first the King could not believe what he was seeing. The slaves had expertly linked shields in the classic Spartan attack phalanx and were advancing down the hillside. In their haste to crush the enemy the Makedones had broken ranks, intent only on sweeping aside these pretend warriors. There were no battle formations now, only a dark horde racing towards the hills on either side. Philippos jerked his gaze to the right. Here also the slaves were advancing, in perfect formation, to meet the charge.
Madness, he thought. But a tiny sliver of icy fear began to grow in his mind.
Something here was wrong. Yet could it matter? How could slaves withstand a frontal assault?
The dust rose now, thick and blinding. The golden eye gleamed as the Demon King's spirit soared out over the battle-lines. The first Makedones warriors reached the slaves — only to be cut down with consummate ease as swords clove into their flesh, the enemy shields locking like a dam against the surging Makedones tide.
Philippos looked to the main Spartan force. Still they stood their ground, making no effort to come to the aid of the slaves on either flank.
Now the charge was faltering, the field littered with Makedones dead. The slaves continued their advance, hacking and cutting, their swords dripping blood. Desperately the Makedones tried to re-form their lines, but the slaves gave them no opportunity.
Philippos watched the slaughter and confusion tore through him.
You fool! came the voice in his mind . Can you not see what is happening?
'Leave me be!' he screamed.
Parmenion has outwitted you. The slaves are the Spartans. They have exchanged cloaks and helms. You have attacked, in broken formation, the greatest warriors in the world!
'What can I do?'
All is not yet lost. Send in the Guards against the Spartan centre.
'How will that aid us?'
The Spartans will have to break off their attack and it will give our troops time to re-form. Do it now, or all will be lost!
Philippos jerked to awareness and drew his sword. 'Forward!' he shouted.
And 6,000 elite warriors, the pride of Makedon, grim-faced and cold-eyed, hefted their swords and shields and marched against the slaves who surrounded the Spartan King.
The City of Sparta
Much to his disgust, Cleander needed to be carried to the roof-top by two young servants as news reached the city that the enemy cavalry had been sighted. Cleander's ruined lungs had all but given out on him, and he had been forced to discard even his simple leather breastplate and helm, the weight being too much for him. His breathing was ragged as the servants reached the top of the stairs, lifting him to the roof.
A deep shuddering breath was followed by a racking cough which spattered crimson drops of blood to the white-washed stone. Cleander heaved himself upright and moved slowly to the low parapet around the building. From here he could look down on Leaving Street. To the left was the barricaded agora, the market stalls overturned and blocking all exits. To the right he could see the open plains and the distant dust-cloud that heralded the enemy.
Lifting his hand he summoned his manservant, Dorian, a young Kadmian born into his service. The youth carried a curved oxhorn which he lifted to his mouth, blowing a single clear note that echoed across the city. Cleander's gaze raked along the roof-tops as the hidden javeliners and bowmen showed themselves, raising their hands to acknowledge the signal; then they dropped again from sight.
Sweat dripped into Cleander's eyes and his face was ashen below the deep tan.
'Lie down for a moment, sir,' whispered Dorian, taking his master's arm.
'If… I… lie down… I shall die,' he answered. Instead he knelt by the parapet. Pain racked his weary oxygen-starved body, but he willed himself to go on: the King had entrusted to him the defence of the city, and Cleander would be true to his duty. Once more he ran through the strategy, wondering if any flaws remained to be discovered by the enemy. He had closed off all streets, bar the Avenue of Kings and the parallel Leaving Street. Both led to the open market-place, with its scores of alleys and side turnings; but these too had been blocked with stalls and furniture from surrounding homes. He pictured the unit leaders he had selected. Some concerned him, others worried him. But then the best of the warriors had marched with Parmenion, and it was pointless now to fret about the quality of those left behind.