Later, after Nicanor had left, Philip moved to the long window in the western wall and sat watching the sun falling behind the distant mountains.
He had not told Nicanor everything, nor would he.
The grand strategy had begun. First Bardylis, then Thessaly to the south, then Thrace to the east.
And then. . . ?
Ever since the first dream, Philip’s ambition had grown day by day. He began to see events in a different way, on a larger scale. For centuries the great cities had sought to impose their will on their fellow Greeks, but all had failed. Mighty Sparta, invincible on land; Athens, Queen of the Seas; Thebes, Lord of Boeotia. None had succeeded for long. They never would, Philip realized, for ultimately their dreams were small, bound to their own cities.
But if a nation should rise up strong, confident and far-sighted, then the cities would topple and all of Greece would be free to be united, to be led into battle by a single warrior King.
Then would the world tremble.
Philip shivered. What am I thinking? he wondered. Why has this ambition never shown itself before?
Because you are a King now, whispered a small voice in his mind. Because you are a man of power and insight, wisdom and courage.
By the time Parmenion arrived to give his report, the King had consumed several jugs of wine. He was in a merry mood, witty and convivial, but the Spartan sensed a tension behind the good humour. The two men lounged on couches and drank until near midnight; it was then that Philip asked the question Parmenion had been waiting for.
‘So tell me, strategos, are the men ready?’
‘For what, sire?’ Parmenion hedged.
‘To fight for the freedom of Macedonia.’
‘Men are always ready to fight for freedom. But if you are asking me whether we can beat the Illyrians, I don’t know. In another six months we will have 2,000 more men trained; then my answer will be yes.’
‘We do not have six months,’ said Philip, refilling his wine cup.
‘Why is that?’ asked Parmenion mildly.
‘I have cancelled the tribute. We have less than six weeks before the Illyrian army crosses the mountains.’
‘May I share your reasoning?’ enquired Parmenion.
‘I spent the money on armour and weapons, so there is nothing left for Bardylis. Can we beat him?’
‘It depends on what tactics he chooses, and on the terrain. We need flat ground for the infantry, and space for the cavalry to strike at his wings. But then, sire, it is down to the fighting soul of the army.’
‘How do you see the battle developing?’
Parmenion shrugged. ‘The Illyrians will begin confidently, expecting another easy victory. That will be an advantage for us. But when we push back, they will form the fighting square. After that it is down to strength, courage and will. Something will crack, break . . . them or us. It will start with one man turning to run, the panic spreading, the lines shifting and pulling apart. Them or us.’
‘You are not filling me with confidence,’ muttered Philip, draining his wine.
‘I am confident enough, sire. But we will be evenly matched – there is no question of a guaranteed victory.’
‘How is your hand?’ asked Philip, switching the subject.
Parmenion lifted his left hand, opening his fingers for the King to see the scarred flesh of his palm. ‘It has healed well enough, sire, for me to hold a shield-strap.’
Philip nodded. ‘The men talk of that day. They are proud of you, Parmenion; they will fight for you; they will not break unless you do. They will look to you – you will be the fighting soul of Macedonia.’
‘No, sire – though I thank you for the compliment. They will look to the King.’
Philip smiled, then laughed aloud. ‘Give me this one victory, Parmenion. / need it. Macedonia needs it.’
‘I shall do my best, sire. But long ago I learned the hazards of placing everything on a single race.’
‘You won, though,’ Philip pointed out.
‘Yes,’ said Parmenion, rising. He bowed and walked from the palace, his thoughts in turmoil.