‘I had not expected treachery,’ said Philip, keeping his voice low and sorrowful. ‘I trusted you, and I trusted Athens. Now you land an army at one of my ports. I have messengers ready to ride to Thebes, and I suggest with regret, Aischines, that you prepare to leave Pella.’
‘There has been some mistake, sire. Please. . .trust me,’ said Aischines, his face reddening. ‘I have sent many messages to our leaders, and I am sure the force at Methone will not advance into Macedonia. There was some confusion when they set out. But they will not make war on an ally – and that you are, sire. An ally.’
Philip stared long and hard at the man before he answered him. ‘Are you sure of this, Aischines, or are you merely hopeful?’
‘I received despatches today from Athens, and one is to be sent on to Manilas who commands the hoplites. They are to return home, I promise you.’
Philip nodded. ‘Then send your despatch today, sir, and
with some speed. For the day after tomorrow I inarch on the traitor.’
Antipater gathered the 700 horsemen and – despite what he had told Aischines – Philip led them that night on a lightning ride south, taking up a position at dawn on the slopes between Methone and Aigai, hidden from the road.
Two hours after dawn the enemy appeared in the distance. Philip shaded his eyes and scanned the advancing men. There were more than 100 cavalry leading the force and behind these almost 1,000 hoplites. The foot-soldiers were a motley crew, some sporting plumed helms and others wearing Thracian leather caps. The devices painted on their shields were many: the winged horse of Olynthus, the Theban club of Heracles, the crossed spears of Methone. But none bore the helm of Athena. Philip was exultant. The Athenians – as Aischines had promised – had not marched with Argaios.
Lying on his belly, Philip flicked his eyes left and right of the advancing enemy. They had no outriders and were moving in a straggling line stretched out for almost a quarter of a mile.
The King slid back from the peak, calling Antipater to him. ‘Send the Cretans to that outcrop of rocks. Let them loose their shafts as soon as the enemy is within range. You take 400 men, keep behind the line of hills and hit them from the north. I will wait to give you time, then come in from the south.’
Antipater grinned. ‘Do not be so rash this time, my lord. Stay with your men, and avoid charging single-handed into enemy ranks.’
The first volley of arrows from the Cretans decimated the leading horsemen, their mounts rearing in terror as the rain of death fell from the skies. The smell of blood in their nostrils brought panic to the horses, making them almost impossible to control.
Then Antipater’s 400 came galloping from the north, their battle-cries echoing in the rocks. The Macedonians smashed their way through the confused mass of the enemy cavalry, hacking men from their mounts, then thundered
into the milling foot-soldiers just as Philip’s force hit them from the south.
The mercenary infantry, having lost more than half their number before they could form a defensive square, locked shields against a second attack, but Antipater wheeled his men and charged again at the cavalry, who broke and galloped from the battlefield.
Philip also pulled back his riders and the Cretan archers loosed volley after volley over the shield wall of the mercenaries.
At the centre of the shield square stood Argaios, his helm knocked from his head, his golden hair bright in the sunshine.
‘Ho, Philip!’ he shouted. ‘Will you face me, or do you have no stomach for the fight?’
It was a desperate last throw from a man already beaten, but Philip knew the eyes of his men were upon him.
‘Come out! he called, ‘and then we will see.’
Argaios pushed his way clear of the shield wall and strode towards Philip. The King dismounted, drawing his sword and waiting. Argaios was a handsome man, tall and slender, his eyes the blue of a spring sky. He looked so like Nicanor that Philip could not help but flick his eyes to his friend, comparing them. In that moment Argaios attacked. Philip’s shield only half deflected the blow, which glanced from his breastplate to slice a narrow cut on his cheek.