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 600 of the enemy lay dead, a further 100 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 100 drachms to each. The crippled men will receive double that, and a pension of ten drachms 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 despatched. But still the major enemies had to be met.
Where are you, Parmenion?
The Thracian Border, Autumn, 359 BC
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. Satisfied the man was indeed alone his gaze flicked down on the distant River Nestus and then up towards 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 grey, his beard curled in the Persian fashion, his eyes the colour of storm-clouds. He was wearing a long chiton of faded blue and a pair of leather sandals which 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. ‘Set 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 111 men in the process. Remarkable.’