All was chaos and confusion now – the square broken, the Macedonians, tight and compact still, grinding their way towards Bardylis and his generals.
The old King stood firm, his own royal guard closing in around him. But the battle had now become a massacre, the Illyrian hoplites cut down in their hundreds by the advancing Macedonians.
Bardylis tried one last desperate move, ordering his guards to attack the line where Philip stood; but the regiments of Achillas and Theoparlis had closed in, stabbing at their flanks. Even so, four warriors hacked and cut their way through to Philip. The King killed the first with a stabbing thrust to the throat, his guards closing on the other three, scores of blades hacking them down.
Bardylis waited for death, drawing his own sword and hefting his heavy shield. But on a shouted order from Philip, the Macedonians drew back.
‘Come forward, Father,’ called the Macedonian King. Bardylis sighed. Sheathing his sword, he eased through the last line of his guards and walked to stand before his son-in-law.
‘I suppose you want me to kneel,’ said the old man.
‘One King should never kneel to another,’ replied Philip, returning his sword to its scabbard. ‘Was it not you who taught me that?’
‘What do you require of me?’
‘I want only my kingdom returned to me. All Illyrians and all of Illyrian blood will be moved to Illyria. The tribute will remain – save that it is you who will deliver it to me.’
‘You have travelled a long way in a short time, my son. And you fought well. What happens now to Audata? Will you throw her aside?’
Philip saw the anguish in Bardylis’ eyes and he moved to him, laying his hands on the old man’s shoulders. ‘She is dear to me,’ Philip assured him, ‘and she is pregnant. She has her own estate now, near the sea. But I will send her to you for a visit when the babe is born.’
Bardylis nodded, then turned to Parmenion who had dismounted and approached. ‘I might have need of you now, Spartan,’ he said, forcing a smile.
Parmenion said nothing, but he bowed deeply.
The old man turned away and walked to the surviving guards.
At that moment a tremendous cheer rose from the Macedonian ranks and Philip found himself hoisted to the shoulders of the guards and carried back from the field.
Parmenion stood and surveyed the battle site. Bodies were everywhere, men and horses; at that moment it seemed there were too many to count. Later he would learn of 700 Macedonian casualties, including Achillas and Petar. But 6,000 enemy warriors had perished on this day, the power of Illyria shattered beyond rebuilding.
‘Help me,’ came a voice from the ground by his feet, and Parmenion glanced down to see Grigery, his face a mask of blood. A sword had slashed across his brow, putting out both his eyes, and there was a deep wound in his groin. The lifeblood was pouring from him.
Parmenion knelt by the dying man, cradling his head.
‘Did we win?’ asked Grigery.
‘Yes, we won,’ said Parmenion.
‘Who are you?’ whispered the Illyrian, his voice fading.
‘I am . . . Savra.’
‘Oh gods, there is so much blood in my eyes. Wipe them clear. I can’t see.
‘Rest, my friend. Lie back. Do not struggle. There is nothing left for you to fight for.’
Grigery lay quiet once more, and Parmenion thought he had died. But he spoke again. ‘I… thought we … would lose. You know what they call. . . the Spartan? The Death of Nations. Destroyed his own city. Everywhere he walks . . . death follows. Not any more, though, eh, Savra?’
Grigery’s head sagged back, his last breath rattling in his throat.
Sadness hit the Spartan and he rose and gazed at the sky. Carrion birds were circling, waiting for the feast.
The Temple, Summer, 357 BC
Derae sat at Tamis’ bedside, waiting for the inevitable. The old woman had not eaten in over a week, nor spoken in days. When Derae took her hand it was hot and dry, the skin loose over bone. Tamis’ flesh had melted away and her eyes had a haunted, lost look that filled Derae with sorrow.