force of foot-soldiers had charged from the woods, but Nicanor and his 500
were engaging them. From here it was impossible to gauge the numbers of men Nicanor and his troops were battling to hold, and the Spartan sent a further 200 men to his aid.
'Look!' shouted one of his Thessalians, pointing to the line of hills on the right.
Hundreds of cavalrymen had appeared on the crest. Philip and his Companion cavalry were caught now between hammer and anvil.
The Phocians charged . . .
Parmenion's arm swept up. 'Forward for Macedon!' he shouted. Drawing his sword the Spartan kicked his stallion into a gallop, heading for the Phocian flank. Behind him the remaining 800 Thessalians drew their curved cavalry sabres and, screaming their war-cries, hurtled after him.
The two forces crashed together on the hillside above the surging mass of warriors righting for control of the centre ground.
Onomarchus, seeing his cavalry intercepted, screamed out fresh orders to his men, who valiantly tried to form a shield-wall around him. But the Macedonians were pushing now on three sides: Theoparlis and the Guards at the front; Coenus and the Fifth forcing the Spartans back on the left; and the King, cutting and slashing a bloody pathway on the right.
Bodies lay everywhere, being trampled underfoot by the heavily armoured phalanxes, and no longer could a single bloom be seen on the churned earth of the battle site.
But Philip had long since ceased to think of the beauty of flowers. Mounted on his third horse he forced a path between the Phocian shields, hacking his blade down into a warrior's face, seeing the man disappear beneath the hooves of the Macedonian cavalry. Onomarchus was close now and the Phocian leader hurled a javelin which flew over Philip's head.
Suddenly the Phocians, sensing defeat was imminent, broke and fled in all directions. Onomarchus - his dreams of conquest in ruins - drew his sword and waited for death. Theoparlis and the Guards crashed through the last line of defence and, as Onomarchus turned to meet the attack, a sarissa clove through his leather kilt, smashing his hip and ripping the giant artery at the groin.
With the Phocian leader dead and his army fleeing in panic, the mercenary units and the contingents from Athens, Corinth and Sparta began a fighting retreat across the Crocus Field.
Philip dismounted before his dead enemy, hacking Onomarchus' head from his shoulders and thrusting the severed neck on to the point of a sarissa, which he held high in the air for all men to see.
The battle was over, the victory Philip's. A great weariness settled on the King. His bones ached, his sword-arm was on fire. Letting the sarissa fall, he pulled his helmet from his head and sank to the earth staring around the battlefield.
Hundreds of men and scores of horses lay dead, the numbers growing even now as the Macedonian cavalry hunted down the fleeing Phocians. Parmenion rode to where Philip sat. Dismounting, he bowed to the King.
'A great victory, sire,' he said softly.
'Yes,' agreed Philip as his one good eye looked up into the Spartan's face. 'Why did you not come when I sent for you?'
Other men - Attalus, Berin, Nicanor and several officers - were close by, and they looked to the Spartan, awaiting his answer. 'You asked me to watch over the battle, sire. I believed Onomarchus would have men in reserve - as indeed he did.'
'Damn you!' Philip roared, surging to his feet. 'When the King gives an order it is obeyed! You understand that simple fact?'
'Indeed I do,' replied the Spartan, his pale eyes gleaming.
'Sire,' put in Nicanor, 'had Parmenion come to you earlier you would have been trapped.'
'Be silent!' thundered Philip. Once more he turned to Parmenion. 'I will not have a man serve me who does not obey my orders.'
'That is a problem easily solved, sire,' said Parmenion coldly. Bowing once he turned and, taking his stallion's reins, stalked from the battlefield.
*
Philip's anger did not abate during the
were engaging them. From here it was impossible to gauge the numbers of men Nicanor and his troops were battling to hold, and the Spartan sent a further 200 men to his aid.
'Look!' shouted one of his Thessalians, pointing to the line of hills on the right.
Hundreds of cavalrymen had appeared on the crest. Philip and his Companion cavalry were caught now between hammer and anvil.
The Phocians charged . . .
Parmenion's arm swept up. 'Forward for Macedon!' he shouted. Drawing his sword the Spartan kicked his stallion into a gallop, heading for the Phocian flank. Behind him the remaining 800 Thessalians drew their curved cavalry sabres and, screaming their war-cries, hurtled after him.
The two forces crashed together on the hillside above the surging mass of warriors righting for control of the centre ground.
Onomarchus, seeing his cavalry intercepted, screamed out fresh orders to his men, who valiantly tried to form a shield-wall around him. But the Macedonians were pushing now on three sides: Theoparlis and the Guards at the front; Coenus and the Fifth forcing the Spartans back on the left; and the King, cutting and slashing a bloody pathway on the right.
Bodies lay everywhere, being trampled underfoot by the heavily armoured phalanxes, and no longer could a single bloom be seen on the churned earth of the battle site.
But Philip had long since ceased to think of the beauty of flowers. Mounted on his third horse he forced a path between the Phocian shields, hacking his blade down into a warrior's face, seeing the man disappear beneath the hooves of the Macedonian cavalry. Onomarchus was close now and the Phocian leader hurled a javelin which flew over Philip's head.
Suddenly the Phocians, sensing defeat was imminent, broke and fled in all directions. Onomarchus - his dreams of conquest in ruins - drew his sword and waited for death. Theoparlis and the Guards crashed through the last line of defence and, as Onomarchus turned to meet the attack, a sarissa clove through his leather kilt, smashing his hip and ripping the giant artery at the groin.
With the Phocian leader dead and his army fleeing in panic, the mercenary units and the contingents from Athens, Corinth and Sparta began a fighting retreat across the Crocus Field.
Philip dismounted before his dead enemy, hacking Onomarchus' head from his shoulders and thrusting the severed neck on to the point of a sarissa, which he held high in the air for all men to see.
The battle was over, the victory Philip's. A great weariness settled on the King. His bones ached, his sword-arm was on fire. Letting the sarissa fall, he pulled his helmet from his head and sank to the earth staring around the battlefield.
Hundreds of men and scores of horses lay dead, the numbers growing even now as the Macedonian cavalry hunted down the fleeing Phocians. Parmenion rode to where Philip sat. Dismounting, he bowed to the King.
'A great victory, sire,' he said softly.
'Yes,' agreed Philip as his one good eye looked up into the Spartan's face. 'Why did you not come when I sent for you?'
Other men - Attalus, Berin, Nicanor and several officers - were close by, and they looked to the Spartan, awaiting his answer. 'You asked me to watch over the battle, sire. I believed Onomarchus would have men in reserve - as indeed he did.'
'Damn you!' Philip roared, surging to his feet. 'When the King gives an order it is obeyed! You understand that simple fact?'
'Indeed I do,' replied the Spartan, his pale eyes gleaming.
'Sire,' put in Nicanor, 'had Parmenion come to you earlier you would have been trapped.'
'Be silent!' thundered Philip. Once more he turned to Parmenion. 'I will not have a man serve me who does not obey my orders.'
'That is a problem easily solved, sire,' said Parmenion coldly. Bowing once he turned and, taking his stallion's reins, stalked from the battlefield.
*
Philip's anger did not abate during the
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