Dark Prince Read Free

the Boeotian stronghold of Orchomenus. He was a wily and instinctive leader, respected by those who served him. But more importantly to Parmenion, the man’s strategy invariably relied on attack. Yet here his infantry regiments were positioned defensively, only his cavalry sweeping forward.
    Something was wrong. Parmenion could feel it. Shading his eyes, he scanned the battlefield once more. Here the Crocian plain was virtually flat save for a low line of hills to the far right and a small wooded area a half mile to the left. There was no danger from the rear now that Pagasai had been taken. So then, he thought again, what is the Phocian’s battle plan?
    Parmenion’s concentration was broken as the Macedonian war cry went up and the regiments broke into a run, the gleaming
sarissas
hammering into the Phocian ranks. Now the screams of the wounded and dying could be heard faintly above the clashing of shields. Parmenion turned to the rider beside him, a handsome young man in a red-crested helm.
    “Nicanor, take five sections and ride toward the woods. Halt some two bow lengths back from the trees and send in scouts. If the woods are clear, turn again and watch for any signal from me. If not, stop any hostile force from linking with Onomarchus. You understand?”
    “Yes, sir,” answered Nicanor, saluting. Parmenion waited as the five hundred riders cantered out toward the woods, then swung his gaze to the hills.
    The Macedonian formation would not have been hard to predict—infantry at the center, cavalry on either wing. Onomarchus must have known.
    The infantry were now locked together, the Macedonians in tight phalanx formations sixteen ranks deep, one hundred fifty shields wide. The First Regiment—the king’s guards, commanded by Theoparlis—had pierced the Phocian lines.
    “Not too far!” whispered Parmenion. “Swing the line and wait for support!” It was vital that the four regiments stay in close contact; once separated, they could be enveloped by the enemy’s greater numbers. But the Spartan relaxed as he saw the king’s guards holding firm on the left, the right driving forward, the phalanx half wheeling, forcing back the Phocians. The Second Regiment had almost linked with them. Parmenion switched his concentration to the Third Regiment. It was coming under heavy pressure and had ceased to move forward, the fighting line beginning to bend back.
    “Coenus!” yelled Parmenion. A broad-shouldered warrior at the center of the reserve regiment looked up and saluted. “Support the Third,” the general shouted.
    The 2,500-strong Fifth Regiment began to move. They did not run but held to their formation, slowly crossing the field. Good man, thought Parmenion. With emotions heightened by fear and excitement, it was all too easy for a commander to lead his men in an early charge or run them hard to reach the battle. Coenus was a steady officer, cool under pressure. He knew that his heavily armored men would need all their strength when the fighting began—and not before.
    Suddenly, on the left, the Macedonian line bulged and broke. Parmenion swore as he saw an enemy regiment burst clear of the center, their shields tightly locked. He did not need to see the emblems on the enemy shields to know from which city they came: they were Spartans, magnificent fighting men feared across the world. The Third Regiment gaveway before them, and the Spartans moved out to encircle the guards.
    But Coenus and the Fifth were almost upon them. The
sarissas
swept down, and the phalanx charged. Suddenly outflanked, the Spartans fell back, the Macedonians regaining their formation. Satisfied the immediate danger was past, Parmenion swung his black stallion and cantered toward the right, the Thessalians streaming after him.
    The king and his companions were locked in a deadly struggle with the Phocian cavalry, but Parmenion could see the Macedonians were slowly pushing the enemy back. Glancing to the left, he saw Nicanor and his