With Olympias it was so different. No visions, no unpleasantness. Just love, first as sisters, then. .
The carriage lurched as the huge wheels rolled over a stone. Phaedra pulled back a curtain and stared out of the window. To the left was the glittering Lake Prespa, beyond it the rearing Pindos mountains separating Macedonia and Illyria.
Olympias yawned and stretched. Running her fingers through her flame-red hair, she sat up and smiled at Phaedra. 'Where are we?'
'Soon we will reach the plain,' answered Phaedra. 'There we will be met by the King's escort.'
'I am hot and thirsty,' Olympias complained, 'and this awful wagon is making me feel sick.'
Phaedra stood, opening the flap on the roof of the cabin and calling out to the driver. He hauled on the reins and Olympias stepped down into the sunlight. Immediately the Epirite captain of the guard dismounted, bringing a waterskin and filling a silver cup. Olympias smiled. 'Thank you, Herkon, you are most kind.'
Phaedra watched the young man blush. She did not need to touch him to know his thoughts. Stepping down alongside Olympias the vision struck her again, this time with awesome power. She saw horsemen thundering down the slopes, the wagon overturned, Herkon dead, his throat slashed open.
.
She screamed and fainted.
She awoke to see a man bending over her dabbing at her face with a water-soaked cloth. 'They are coming,' she whispered.
'Who is coming? What are you talking about?' Herkon asked.
The air was suddenly filled with the thunder of hoof-beats. For a moment only, Phaedra thought the vision had returned, but then Herkon lunged to his feet, his cavalry sabre hissing from its scabbard.
From the slopes of the mountains came hundreds of riders, bright cloaks streaming behind them like rainbow banners.
'Illyrians!' shouted Herkon, running for his horse. The fifty soldiers of Epirus drew their weapons — then the attackers were upon them. Olympias ran to where Phaedra lay, dragging the girl back under the wagon. Dust rose in choking clouds. Olympias covered her mouth with a linen kerchief and the two women huddled together, listening to the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying. A horse reared close to the wagon, the rider falling head-first to the ground, his face striking the wheel.
It was Herkon, his throat open, his dead eyes gazing at Olympias who turned away her head.
The battle seemed to rage for hours, but at last the dust began to settle. Shapes could be seen, men moving among the wounded Epirites and killing them with sharp daggers. Olympias drew a slender knife from the hidden sheath high on her thigh, and waited. Phaedra closed her eyes, unable to bear the terror any longer.
'Look what we have here!' called a warrior, squatting down to look under the wagon. Dropping to his knees he crawled towards the women, his hand reaching out. Olympias plunged the knife into his eye and he dropped without a sound, his head pinning the dagger firmly in the socket. Olympias struggled in vain to free it. But then a group of warriors took hold of the wagon, overturning it.
Olympias rose, her green eyes angry, her chin held high.
'You will die for this,' she promised them.
'No one will die,' said a tall handsome warrior with blond hair and braided forked beard. 'But Philip of Macedon will pay a fine price to get you back. If you are kind to me, princess, it may be that your short stay with us will be pleasant.'
Olympias' eyes swept the group, her contempt apparent. Then she glanced beyond them to the eastern hills. A line of riders appeared, and at their centre rode a warrior on a huge grey horse. The man wore armour of gleaming bronze and a helm with a white horsehair plume.
'I think you will find,' she said slowly, 'that Philip of Macedon has already set the price — and it is you who will pay.'
'Arcetas! Look!' shouted a man, pointing to the stationary riders. Arcetas swore. He scanned the Macedonian line, counting no more than seventy cavalrymen.
'To horse!' he bellowed. 'They are too few to stop us. Cut them down!'
The Illyrians mounted and galloped towards the waiting Macedonians.
'Watch, Phaedra,' whispered Olympias, dropping down beside the terrified seeress. 'Watch how my husband fights!' Phaedra opened her eyes to see the sunlight gleam from the bronze breastplate of the Macedonian on the giant grey. He drew his sword, holding it high.
And the Macedonians hurtled down to meet the charge, the grey rider forming the point of a wedge that clove into the Illyrian ranks, splitting them, destroying their momentum. Olympias saw the fork-bearded Arcetas straining to reach the grey rider. Dust swirled, but still she could just make out the fight that followed as their swords clashed. There was no question in Olympias' mind as to the outcome, no fear for the safety of the grey rider. She merely waited for the inevitable and leapt with joy as the gleaming sword swept through Arcetas' neck, his head lolling, blood fountaining into the air.
'That is the price, you whoreson!' she shouted.
The Illyrians broke and fled, the Macedonians reforming their lines and galloping after them. But the rider on the grey, followed by three officers, approached the women.
'Philip!' called Olympias, running to meet him.
'No, my lady,' he answered, removing his helm. 'It is I, Parmenion.'
They found a camping site in a grove of trees close to the River Haliacmon. Parmenion went to the wounded men, who had been placed away from the main group lest their cries during surgery should upset the women. The Macedonians had lost seventeen men in the battle, with seven hurt. The crushed Illyrians suffered more than eighty dead. Parmenion knelt by a young soldier who had lost three fingers of his right hand. The boy's face was grey with shock and pain, and shone with sweat.
'I am useless now,' he whispered. 'What shall I do?'
'The gods gave you two hands, Peris — you must learn to use the left. It is not so bad. You are not a foot-soldier, so you will not need to worry about forming the line. You are a cavalryman -
aye, and a good one. You have too much courage to let such a small wound overcome you."
'I am no good with my left, general.'
'We will work on it, you and I.'
Parmenion moved on to the next man, but he had bled to death. The general covered the dead man's face with a cloak and moved on.
The surgeon, Bernios, rose to greet him as he finished his rounds. 'We did well,' said Bernios, wiping the sweat from his bald head with a blood-stained towel.
'Had we been an hour earlier, there would have been no battle,' replied Parmenion. 'That would have been better, my friend.'
'Indeed it would, general. But,' the man shrugged and spread his hands, 'it could have been considerably worse. We might have been an hour later — and then the King's new bride would have been stolen from him. I believe Philip would have been mildly aggrieved.'
Parmenion smiled. Slapping the surgeon on the shoulder, he returned to the main camp. The women's quarters had been set back into the trees, where they could enjoy privacy, while the fifty-one surviving soldiers sat around four camp-fires. Parmenion called to Nicanor, signalling the young man to follow him.
'Are there scouts out?' asked the general.
'Yes, sir. Six men patrolling the hills. Three others are stationed north, west and east of the woods.'
'Good. You fought well today. The King will be proud of you.'
'The King long since ceased to care about me,' answered Nicanor with a shy smile. 'But I truly do not mind, Parmenion. Do not concern yourself for me. I was his favourite for a time. Now there are others. I am getting old, you see. I am twenty-seven now.' Nicanor shrugged. 'But Olympias is very beautiful, don't you think?'