Lion of Macedon

by David Gemmell

  Attalus smiled. ‘You are taking to this business rather well, my friend. I thought you had no desire to be King?’

  ‘A man takes what the gods thrust upon him,’ Philip answered. ‘But it is vital that Cotys dies. Before the deed is done, seek out the pretender Pausanias and tell him you are disenchanted with me. Tell him you wish to serve him against me. I leave it to you how you kill him... but do it.’

  ‘I do not wish to sound like a Cretan mercenary, sire, but it would be pleasant to know that I will return to some honoured position in your service.’

  Philip nodded and took the tall warrior by the arm, leading him to a couch by an indoor pool of marble. ‘You do not need to call me sire when there is no one else present. You are my friend, Attalus, and I trust you as I trust no other. You are the King’s right hand, and as I prosper so will you. Do you trust me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then do my bidding.’

  Attalus chuckled. ‘Already you sound like a King. Very well, Philip.’

  The door opened and a servant entered and bowed. ‘My lord, the Athenian ambassador is seeking an audience.’

  Philip rose and took a deep breath. ‘Tell him I shall be with him presently.’ The King bade farewell to Attalus and then walked through to his bedchamber where he changed his clothes, dressing himself in a long pale blue tunic and a Persian cloak of fine dark blue wool.

  Then he sat, allowing his thoughts to drift over his problems, identifying each and preparing himself for the meeting. To remove Athens from the fray was an urgent priority - but it would prove costly. Once again the city was struggling to be the leader of all Greece. Since Parmenion had crushed the Spartans the real power struggle had developed between Thebes and Athens, both forming alliances in bids to secure supremacy. Perdiccas had favoured the Thebans, sending Macedonian troops to the independent city of Amphipolis in the east to aid them against Athenian aggression. Understandably this infuriated the Athenians, who had ruled Amphipolis. It was an important settlement, controlling all trade routes down the great River Strymon, but its people wanted nothing to do with Athens and had been fighting for independence for more than fifty years.

  But now the Athenians had despatched an army to remove Philip from the throne, and he had no force to oppose them. If they succeeded, Amphipolis would fall anyway.

  Placing a slender gold circlet on his brow, he walked out into the throne-room to meet Aischines. The man was short and stout, his face the unhealthy crimson of the weak of heart.

  Philip greeted him with a broad smile. ‘Welcome, Aischines, I trust you are in good health?’

  ‘I will not complain, sire,’ the man answered, his voice deep, his tones clipped and exact. ‘But I see that you are in the best of condition, like a young Heracles.’

  Philip laughed. ‘Would that I had only twelve labours to perform! However, I must not burden you with my problems. I have sent messages to Athens - a city I have always admired - and I hope our friendship will be lasting.’

  ‘Sadly, an attitude not shared by your late brother,’ said Aischines. ‘He seemed to prefer the Thebans and even -dare I mention it - sent troops against us in the battle to recover Amphipolis.’

  Philip nodded. ‘Sadly my brother did not share my view of Athens. He did not see the city as the father of democracy, nor understand the true nature of her greatness. I think he was dazzled by the exploits of Epaminondas and Pelopidas, and trusted our nation to prosper under the wisdom of Thebes. A great shame,’ said Philip, shaking his head. ‘But let us walk awhile and enjoy the cool of dusk as we talk.’

  The King led the way to the outer corridors and the royal gardens, pointing out different blooms that Simiche had planted grown from seeds sent from Persia. As they walked Philip’s mind was whirling. He needed Athenian acceptance, if not their direct support. An army financed by Athens was marching to steal his kingdom and place Argaios on the throne. As yet the Macedonian forces were unready for another major conflict; but could he be so rash as to surrender Amphipolis, a city so vital to the sea trade in the Thermaic Gulf?

  Tread warily, Philip! he cautioned himself.

  They halted by a high wall and sat beneath a tree heavily laden with purple blooms. Philip sighed. ‘I will be frank with you, Aischines,’ he said. ‘After all, your spies already know of my contacts with Thebes.’ Aischines nodded gravely, which amused the King since no such contacts had been made. ‘They wish to send me an army in order - as we are both aware - not to protect Macedonia but to stop Athens from regaining Amphipolis. I need no more lengthy wars fought on Macedonian soil, and I desire no new masters. Rather, I wish for friendship with the premier city of Greece.’

  ‘The Thebans,’ said Aischines carefully, ‘seek only the power of tyranny. They have no culture. Where is their philosophy? In the power of the sword? In the last hundred years they have known only two great men, and those you have already mentioned. When Pelopidas was slain in Thessaly and Epaminondas fell at Mantinea they had no one to replace them. They are a failing power. Athens is once more in the ascendant.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Philip soothingly, ‘but what choices do I have? The Illyrians have invaded my upper kingdom. Paionians are pillaging to the north. The Thracians are massing on my borders, seeking to install Pausanias. I am threatened everywhere. If Thebes is the only answer, then Thebes it must be - 5,000 hoplites would secure my throne.’

  ‘Only for Thebes, sire. Not for you.’

  Philip turned his gaze to meet Aischines’ eyes. ‘I have known you only a few moments, Aischines, but I see that you are a man I can trust. You are a fine spokesman for your city and an honest, noble man. If you tell me that Athens wishes friendship, I will believe you - and I will spurn the offer of Thebes.’

  Aischines swallowed hard. Neither man had mentioned the Athenian force marching with Argaios. ‘There is, still,’ he said, ‘the question of Amphipolis. As you are aware she is an Athenian city, and we would much like to restore her to the League. You currently retain a garrison there, I understand?’

  ‘It will be withdrawn the moment we reach agreement,’ promised Philip. ‘Amphipolis is not considered by me to be Macedonian. In truth, the citizens requested our aid and my brother - wrongly, as I believe - agreed to help them. Now, tell me, Aischines, what message should I send the Thebans?’

  ‘I see that you are a man of culture and wisdom,’ said the ambassador. ‘I can assure you that Athens respects such men - and desires only friendship with them. I shall send my report to the council immediately, and will return to you directly.’

  Philip rose. ‘It has been a pleasant meeting, my dear Aischines. I hope you will join me tomorrow at the theatre; there is a new comedy I have been waiting to see. The players are Athenians and it would be an honour for them -and for me - if you would sit beside me.’

  Aischines bowed.

  Philip accompanied him back to the palace and then returned to his rooms, bis face darkening with fury. Nicanor was waiting for him.

  ‘It did not go well with the Athenian?’ asked his friend.

  ‘Well enough,’ snapped Philip, ‘but if I give away much more of Macedonia I shall be the ruler of three trees and a stagnant pool. Tell me something good, Nicanor. Cheer me!’

  ‘We have gathered almost 1,000 men from the remnants of the army. But morale is not good, Philip; we need a victory somewhere.’

  ‘Is the gold still getting through from Crousia?’

  ‘Some, but I think the governor is holding back, waiting to see who is likely to win. He may already be communicating with Cotys or Pausanius.’

  ‘Then we can hire no mercenaries. So be it. A victory, is it? You have spoken to the officers so, tell me, which of them has the belly I need?’

  Nicanor leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. ‘Antipater is a good man. He kept his troops together well and they fought a tight retreat. I think he is respected. The others? There is no one special, Philip.’

  ‘Send him to me. Ton
ight!’

  ‘Who are we to fight?’

  Philip laughed then and spread his hands. ‘The one thing we are not short of is enemies. But it will be the Paionians. What news of Parmenion?’

  ‘He won a battle for the Satrap of Cappadocia. He is in Susa, being honoured by the Great King. But we have got word to him. I must say though, Philip, I cannot see why he should come. He must be rich by now. Why would he return to Greece? What can we offer him?’

  Philip shrugged. There was no answer to that.

  And the thought depressed him.

  The faint light of pre-dawn bathed the slopes of the low range of hills overlooking the River Axios as Nicanor gently shook Philip awake. The King groaned and sat up, pushing aside his blanket and stretching his back. Around him most of the 1,000 cavalrymen were still sleeping. Philip stood and rubbed warmth into his powerful arms, glancing up at the sentries on the ridge.

  ‘Any movement?’ he asked Nicanor.

  ‘No, sire.’

  Philip lifted his bronze-reinforced leather breastplate and swung it into place, Nicanor adjusting the winged shoulder-guards and tying them securely. A black-bearded warrior walked through the gloom and bowed before the King.

  ‘The enemy have camped in a hollow about a mile from here, due north. I count they have almost twice our number: they were reinforced last night.’

  Philip wanted to curse. Instead he grinned. ‘You have done well, Antipater. And do not concern yourself with the numbers. Just remember that we are Macedonian and that the King rides with you.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’ The man looked away. Philip guessed at his thoughts. Only weeks before, another King had probably said something remarkably similar - and that enterprise had ended in massacre and disaster.

  ‘I am not Perdiccas,’ said Philip softly. Antipater looked startled, but Philip thumped his shoulder and chuckled. ‘Now we cannot consider two defeats in so short a time, can we?’

  Antipater smiled nervously, unsure how to take this curious man. ‘Do you wish to talk to the men, sire?’

  ‘No. Tell them I’ll give a victory speech later, and we’ll all get drunk.’

  ‘A speech before might bring better results,’ Nicanor advised.

  Philip swung on him. ‘Perdiccas was a good speaker, is that not right, Antipater?’ The warrior nodded. ‘And did he not fill the men’s hearts with fire on the night before the battle?’

  ‘He did, sire.’

  ‘Then tell the men exactly what I said. Now let us move; I want to be above their camp at dawn. You, Antipater will, take half the men. I will command the others. We will hit them from east and west. I want no prisoners. Hit them hard - and hit them well.’

  An hour later Philip led his 500 men up a steep hillside, where they walked their horses until they reached a ridge overlooking the enemy camp. There were scores of tents, and hundreds more men could be seen lying under blankets around dying fires. There were no sentries out, which in a strange way increased Philip’s fury. He drew his sabre and pointed to the right. The Macedonians mounted their horses and moved out to form a long line across the ridge. There they waited. The sun was still hidden behind the distant Kerkine mountains, but the sky was brightening. Shading his eyes, Philip saw Antipater and his force of 500 come into view to the east, a cloud of dust billowing under the thundering hooves. Paionian warriors rolled from their blankets, grabbing for sword, lance or bow. But then Antipater was upon them. For a while the Paionians seemed likely to hold, then their centre broke and they fled for the hills where the King waited. Philip lifted his sword.

  ‘Let them hear you!’ he bellowed, and the Macedonian war-cry went up, a rolling wall of sound that echoed across the plain.

  Philip kicked his black gelding into a run and galloped down the gentle slope. The Paionians were caught now between hammer and anvil, as they fled before Antipater directly at Philip and his riders. Panic set in and the tribesmen sprinted away in any direction that offered cover. The Macedonians bore down on them, cutting and killing. Philip dragged on his reins and saw a group of tribesmen some sixty or seventy strong, trying to form a square behind their wickerwork shields. Bloodlust upon him, he galloped his horse into their midst, hacking at men with his sabre. A spear glanced from his breastplate, a sword sliced his thigh, opening a shallow wound. Nicanor, seeing the King in peril, led twenty riders to his aid - and the square broke.

  What followed was a massacre. The Paionians threw away their shields and swords and ran, only to be hunted down by groups of riders intent only on revenge and the deaths of their enemies.

  By dusk, as Philip sat in the enemy leader’s tent, his thigh bandaged, almost 1,100 Paionians lay dead or wounded, for the loss of only sixty-two Macedonians - and one of these was killed when his horse stumbled and rolled on top of him. The camp was filled with plunder, gold and plate, silver coins, statues in precious metals. More than fifty Macedonian women had been held enslaved here, and so happy were they to be free that they gave to their rescuers with gusto the pleasures the Paionians had needed to obtain by force.

  Philip ordered the treasures to be loaded onto carts and taken to Pella, then he fulfilled his promise and gathered the men about him in a great circle.

  ‘Today,’ he said, his voice resonant and deep, reaching every ear without apparent effort, ‘y°u nave enjoyed a victory. Your enemy lies dead in his hundreds, and the north will soon be free of his pillaging. That is today. That is the beginning. Do not misunderstand me - today was not a great victory. Yet it was historic. For it is the first of many and I promise you this - there will come a day when the battle-cry of Macedon will shake the foundations of the world! It will be heard across oceans, it will echo above mountains. There will not be a man alive who does not know of it and fear the sound. That is my promise to you, warriors of Macedon. That is the promise of Philip.’ He lapsed into silence and gazed at them. There was no cheering and the lack of sound or movement from them left him momentarily confused. Then he looked at them again, seeing that many had no breastplates and only a few sported helms. ‘I will give you weapons,’ he said, ‘bright shining armour, sharp swords, greaves, helms and lances. I will bring you gold and riches, and grant you land for your sons to grow on. But for tonight I give you wine. Now... let us drink!’

  There was polite applause led by Nicanor as the wine was brought out, and the men began to rise and move away to sit in groups around small camp-fires. Philip sought out Antipater.

  ‘Was it such a bad speech?’ he asked the warrior.

  ‘Not at all, sire. But most of these men are from Pelagonia and the valleys of the Pindos. The Illyrians now control their homelands, their wives and children are lost to them. If you could tell them about an expedition against Bardylis

  ‘But I cannot... and I will not lie to them, Antipater. Not ever. Tomorrow you will take your 500 and scour the north. Hit any tribesmen you find. Drive them from Macedonia.’

  ‘We will lose more men to desertion,’ said Antipater softly. ‘They will seek to go home.’

  In the morning Philip was again among the first to rise. He bade Nicanor gather the men once more.

  ‘Last night I made you promises,’ he told them, ‘Today I have something else to say. Many of you will be riding with Antipater - to push the Paionians from our lands. There will be those among you who will wish to return to your homes, seeking out wives and children. I understand that. What I ask of you all is this: choose from among yourselves a group of twenty men who will ride into the occupied lands, gathering news of lost families. Those men will receive full pay of twenty-five drachms a month while they are gone, their wages held in Pella against their return. The rest of you will be home within three months; I promise that also. But there will come a time when I will call on you and, if you are men of honour, you will come to me. Is that fair?’ Philip pointed to a burly, dark-bearded warrior in the front row. ‘You! Is that fair?’

  ‘If it is true, yes,’ answered the man.

  ‘I have no w
ay but time to prove my words. But you are the first of Philip’s warriors - and I will never let you down.’ His eyes raked the group, hovering on every face. ‘There will be decisions you do not understand in the early days, but know this, that I live for Macedonia -and everything I do will be to further her cause. I ask for your trust.’

  Spinning on his heel he stalked to his horse. Behind him the burly warrior climbed to his feet. ‘The King!’ he cried.

  The King! The King!’ shouted the others, surging to their feet.

  Philip bowed and waited until the roar had died down, then his own voice boomed out. ‘Macedon! Macedon!’

  The warriors cheered, and took up the cry as Nicanor moved alongside Philip. ‘A proud moment for you, sire,’ he said. ‘You have won their hearts.’

  Philip did not reply. Already he was thinking of the pretender, Argaios, and the Athenian army.

  In the days that followed Philip worked tirelessly, gathering men from the south, hiring a group of 200 Cretan archers at an exorbitant forty drachms per man a month, continuing his discussions with Aischines and waiting with ill-concealed tension the news from Thrace and Illyria.

  The treasury was running low, supplies of gold from Crousia in the east drying up, and there was now only enough coin to support a month of campaigning.

  Then news came that the rebel Argaios had landed at the port of Methone, two days’ march from Aigai. With him were 3,000 Athenian hoplites, a group of 800 mercenaries and more than 100 rebel Macedonians.

  Philip called Antipater to him. ‘What force can we muster against them?’ he asked the officer.

  ‘We still have 500 men in the north, under Meleager, harrying the Paionians. Another 1,000 are waiting in the east with Nicanor, against possible Thracian attack. We could recall either, but it would leave us open.’