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.’