Still, the Paidonomos remained reluctant to disgrace a youth who had been the victor at Artemis Orthia four years earlier. Furthermore, to permanently remove Brotus from his position as eirene would have denied him, an Agiad prince, his citizenship. So rather than humiliate Brotus outright, the Paidonomos ordered the Agiad twins to swap units. Leonidas became Euryleon’s eirene.
At first Euryleon and the others in his unit assumed that the twins would be similar and feared Leonidas. Euryleon still remembered vividly the way Leonidas had walked in and announced that he wasn’t his brother and didn’t want to be treated like him―and then suggested lunch at a perioikoi tavern down in Amyclae.
But this incident of provoking unprecedented insubordination had ruined Brotus’ army career before it even started, and he had always blamed Euryleon for that. Over the years, Brotus had hinted more than once that he would take his revenge on Euryleon when he became king ….
Euryleon was a full citizen and a popular choral master. He knew a king did not enjoy the same kind of power over a citizen that an eirene had over his charges. Still, Euryleon did not fool himself that Brotus was inhibited by the law any more than he was by conscience. Brotus was a man who believed that the stronger was always in the right and should do whatever he could get away with. Furthermore, Euryleon no longer had only himself to worry about; he had a son and a daughter. He did not want them at the mercy of a king like Brotus.
With a start, Euryleon realized he had lingered too long with his thoughts. The others would start to wonder where he was. He hastened to the hall, where his wife Mania was at her loom with the cradle beside her. She looked up anxiously, and before she could ask a question Euryleon explained himself. “I’ve just come for a lamp so I can get more wine from the cellar.”
Mania shoved back her stool and stood. “I’ll take care of that. You go back to your friends.”
Euryleon gratefully turned over the pitcher with a smile and a quick kiss. Euryleon had married very late, at age twenty-eight, and Mania was ten years younger than he, a plump girl who, like himself, had been a bit of an outcast. She was not particularly clever, certainly not like Gorgo, but she was fiercely loyal to Euryleon, protective of her children, and proud of her household.
Euryleon returned to the andron. As he entered, Nikostratos was reminding the collected company, “The law prohibits Council and Assembly meetings until ten days after the interment of a king. Meanwhile, assuming Crius reaches Leonidas by tomorrow night, which is reasonable, Leonidas can be back in Sparta in four days’ time.”
“Can―but won’t,” Kyranios countered. “No matter what is at stake, Leonidas will not abandon his post as commander of the army until the Persians have been engaged for better or for worse. Furthermore, we must face the fact that he could be killed or seriously wounded in that engagement.”
The others stared at the former lochagos for a moment; then Alkander answered for all of them. “What you say is true, but if Leonidas dies at Marathon, then we are all in Brotus’ hands regardless. The Assembly, as we have seen before, is not going to accept a child as king, and even if it did, Brotus would be named regent in the absence of Leonidas. Our duty is to ensure Brotus does not seize power as long as there is even a ghost of a chance that Leonidas will return.”
“Agreed.”
“So what is the mood in the Council?” Dienekes asked, his eyes directed at Nikostratos.
“Divided. Leotychidas supports Brotus―which has done the latter more harm than good, pushing some of the men who were undecided before to look more favorably on Leonidas. If you asked me to add up the votes today, I’d say there are ten men solidly for Leonidas, nine men solidly for Brotus, including Leotychidas, and nine men who are undecided.”
“Where does Epidydes stand?” Alkander asked about the former―and acting―headmaster.
“A critical question!” Nikostratos noted with a quick look of approval at Alkander. “Epidydes thinks highly of Leonidas and has no illusions about Brotus, but he is a conservative through and through. He believes in legitimacy more than expediency. He will not cast his vote for Leonidas unless he is convinced he is the legitimate heir. This is even more true of Polypeithes and Hetoimokles. The issue of legitimacy, not character or capability, is our greatest problem. If you were to ask the Council today who would make the better king, we would easily have a majority of two to one for Leonidas. But if you ask them who is the rightful king, the majority dissolves.”
“The Council is made up of old men,” Dienekes growled back, “men who still remember Leonidas as ‘Little Leo’―the runt of the litter, the last born and least loved of Queen Taygete’s brood. In the Assembly―and it is the Assembly that will have the final say―the young men have a voice, and they are overwhelmingly in favor of Leonidas.”
“One man, one vote,” Kyranios agreed. “But add it up: there are not enough young men to outweigh the older age cohorts, and not all the young men are necessarily in Leonidas’ camp. A critical faction in the Assembly, as on the Council, is undecided―or worse, simply afraid to make a decision that might be in violation of the law.”
“Is there no way to make them see sense?” Euryleon asked, anxiously.
“I think there might be,” Dienekes answered, narrowing his eyes.
“Better still would be to convince them that Leonidas is the elder twin,” Alkander suggested softly.
For a moment there was stunned silence in the room. Nikostratos and Kyranios both looked shocked, while Euryleon was simply baffled. Everyone knew Leonidas was the youngest of the Agiads. But Dienekes understood instantly. He sat bolt upright. “Of course! We don’t have a moment to lose―or Brotus might forestall us.” Dienekes swung his legs down and reached for his sandals.
Euryleon, like a good host, got to his feet with him, asking a little plaintively, “You’re sure you don’t want to wait until morning?” Euryleon did not like doing anything in the dark if he could help it.
“By then it might be too late!” Dienekes answered, annoyed with the dithering Euryleon. He did not understand Leonidas’ affection for the choral master. He started across the courtyard, ignoring the weaker man.
Euryleon trailed him to the door, bringing him his himation, which had fallen unnoticed to the floor as Dienekes left the andron. “Dienekes!” He stopped the Guard commander as he went to open the door out to the street.
Dienekes looked over impatiently, his face betraying his contempt for this man who shared none of his virtues.
Euryleon was used to seeing disdain in other people’s eyes. It did not particularly surprise him. He ignored Dienekes’ expression and appealed to him from the depth of his heart: “Don’t dismiss me! I want to help. There must be something I can do!”
Dienekes was taken aback, abruptly ashamed of himself. He looked Euryleon in the eye, all his arrogance of a moment ago gone, and recognized that strength of character was indeed more important than strength of body. “Yes. There is something you can do,” he concluded. “Go to Phormio, Leonidas’ steward and the spokesman of the perioikoi. Tell him he must bring Kleta to Sparta.”
“Kleta?” Euryleon asked uncomprehendingly.
“He’ll know who I’m talking about. Be sure he brings her disguised and keeps her hidden until we send for her.”
CHAPTER 9
MARATHON
PANIC HAD SEIZED ATHENS. AS HE rode through the city, Kimon noted that in the poorer quarters families were hastily loading their movable chattels on handcarts and donkeys, while their howling children and frantic women got in the way. In the richer districts, wagons stood in front of more than one house, and although the slaves loading them worked more discreetly and efficiently, the intention was the same: flight.
It infuriated Kimon. Just yesterday, word had reached Athens that at Marathon the Athenians had attacked and defeated the Persians. This was an astounding victory, more than anyone had expected ten days ago when the Persians first landed. The combined forces of Athens and Plataea had be
en greatly outnumbered, after all, and although the Spartans had promised aid, they had not yet arrived.
Yet yesterday, the famous runner Eukles arrived on the outskirts of Athens, having run all the way from Marathon. Gasping for air and coughing up blood, the athlete struggled to deliver his message. “Victory,” he gasped out. “Victory … half … Persians … defeated … defenseless … traitors …”
Except for the first word, it was not entirely clear what Eukles meant to say, but by evening reports were flooding in from the southeast coast of Attica that a Persian fleet was sailing toward Piraeus. The best that people could figure out was that the Persians had divided their forces. The Athenian army at Marathon had apparently defeated only half the Persian force, and the rest―possibly the larger force―was approaching defenseless Athens.
Furthermore, people believed that Eukles’ reference to “traitors” meant that the Persians had allies inside Athens itself. People concluded, full of alarm, that Hippias’ friends and supporters were going to betray the city. In panic, men claimed that the landing at Marathon had from the start been a ruse to lure the army away from Athens. Hysterically they declared that the city was lost.
Kimon refused to believe that. He couldn’t afford to. His father, once a Persian vassal when he ruled the Chersonese, had burned his bridges behind him by joining the Ionian revolt. If he fell into Persian hands, they would flay him alive and stuff his skin with straw as they had the other rebel leaders.
But it would not come to that, Kimon told himself firmly. His father would bring the Athenian army back to Athens in time to defend it. All that was needed was for those who had remained in the city to prevent the Persians from landing until the army returned. It was just twenty-six miles to Marathon, a seven-hour march, maybe eight or nine since the men were exhausted from the battle yesterday. But they would come, Kimon was certain. It was just a matter of time….
Kimon’s colt stumbled on the rough cobbles, and Kimon pulled up, steadying the young horse. He slowed to a walk and patted the colt’s neck reassuringly. There was no point in endangering the colt or himself. Two minutes more or less were not going to make any difference to the fate of Athens, but the number of people streaming away from the port angered Kimon. Damn them all! Didn’t they see what was at stake? Did they want to become Persian slaves?
For half his young life Kimon had been, through his father, vicariously at war with Persia. The Persians had taken away the home of his birth and childhood, the Chersonese. His family had been forced to flee, packing their movable goods onto five ships, but leaving behind immeasurable treasure―and his mother’s heart. She had never adjusted to life in Athens―or to the loss of her firstborn son.
The Persian fleet was already blocking their escape when they set off in five ships from the Chersonese. Kimon’s older brother Metiochos had been nineteen, the same age Kimon was now. Their father Miltiades had allowed him to command one of the five ships. Kimon, who had been fifteen at the time, had been jealous and begged his father for a command of his own. He had been furious when his father ordered him to travel with his mother and sisters, as if he were a child. They had set out in convoy, with his father aboard their escorting trireme―but Metiochos, always a little rebellious and daring, put on more sail than the other four ships and soon disappeared from sight. At first Kimon was filled only with envy for his brother’s freedom, but soon they learned that Metiochos’ ship had been intercepted by the Persians. Metiochos had paid dearly for his independent command and impudent disregard of his father’s orders: he had been sent to Darius in chains.
Kimon sometimes still had nightmares about his brother’s capture, and his mother was convinced that her son had been betrayed by his faithless and greedy crew. Certainly the ransom Darius had offered for Miltiades and his family had been enormous. No doubt it still was, Kimon reflected nervously….
Kimon reached the waterfront. He was encouraged to find that barricades were being erected with anything that came to hand. Men were frantically rolling barrels over and even breaking up furniture. But then loud quarreling broke out and brought work to a halt. Apparently no one was in charge, and Kimon felt a new flash of frustration. Even now, when their very existence depended on it, the Athenians could not unite behind a single leader. They couldn’t just take orders. Everyone not only had an opinion, they had to express it!
“Kimon! Over here!” From the next quay someone was waving and shouting.
Kimon passed the men arguing about the best place to erect the barricade, and joined the other youths of his ephebe unit. They had been summoned here by their commander. As Kimon joined them, the old man growled, “What news?”
“There’s no sign of the army yet, but I’m sure―”
“I’m not interested in your opinion! I want facts. And that is one!” He stabbed his stubby finger in the direction of the harbor entrance. Persian ships were clogging the narrows at the mouth of the harbor. “And something is going on out there, too! A trireme arrived from the east, and now there is activity aboard every ship. They are preparing something. Look!” Kimon’s commander pointed to the coastline to the west. “Do you see?”
Kimon shook his head.
“Something’s moving along the coastal road. Either the Persians have landed troops to our west―or the Spartans are coming.”
“It’s too soon for the Spartans,” Kimon protested.
“Well, I sure the hell don’t like the alternative!” the old man snapped back. “Instead of just sitting pretty on that fancy horse of yours, why don’t you take your ass over there and find out?”
Kimon drew a deep breath to protest such language, but the man had already turned away. Kimon swallowed his protest and turned his colt around to start working his way through the maze of streets toward the western road.
Finding his way occupied so much of his attention that it was only after he had left the congested part of the port that Kimon could focus on his task. Since there was no way the Spartans could be here in less than three days, he was preoccupied with the idea of riding to warn his father that Persians had landed to the west.
He drew up and looked along the coast, squinting in an effort to see better. He could see nothing―except the sunlight glittering on the blue waters of the bay, heat waves shimmering upward from the nearest fields, and dust drifting off to the north. The dust must have been stirred up by men on the road. He’d better find out more before he reported to his father, he decided, and kept riding. After another quarter-hour, he was convinced that a large body of troops was indeed approaching. Wasn’t that enough information? How much further should he go?
With a shock, Kimon recognized that he was afraid. He did not want to go any closer. He wanted to gallop in the opposite direction, and it was precisely this realization that made him urge his colt forward, his lips pressed together unconsciously. He kept his eyes on the coastal road until they watered from the strain. Then he blinked and wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his naked arm. Keep riding, he ordered himself, reminding himself that his colt was the direct descendant of one of the four mares with which his grandfather won the Olympic chariot race three times. The colt would bring him to safety.
But what if the colt stumbled? Or was killed by an arrow?
Or could it really be the Spartans?
It penetrated Kimon’s terrified brain that there were no mounted officers with the approaching troops. Persian noblemen never walked. These troops could be neither Persian nor Mede. Ionian allies of the Persians? But how could the Persians trust them not to join forces with the Athenians? Certainly if they were Ionians, it would be worth appealing to their patriotism. Kimon urged his horse forward a little more hopefully.
Abruptly he caught a wisp of what sounded like singing. He pulled up and held his breath, his ear cocked. When the wind fell away, it came again: men’s voices raised in song. The approaching troops were singing as they marched.
Spartans! Only Spartans sang as they marched!
He started cantering forward in relief.
The troops came to a sharp halt in response to a command, and the column stood still and silent. Kimon could see the faces of the men at the front of the column. One of them was dressed in a white linen corselet over a red chiton, and he said something to the man behind him. A helmet was handed forward, which he put on before he stepped forward to meet Kimon.
Kimon flung himself down from his horse and crossed the last few yards on foot to ask breathlessly for confirmation: “Sir? Are you … from Sparta?”
“We are. And Athens? Is it still free?” the Spartan inquired with a gesture toward the bay. Kimon looked over his shoulder and realized that from here, the harbor appeared clogged with Persian ships. From here it looked like Piraeus was already in Persian hands.
Kimon turned back to the Spartan, grinning. “Athens is more than free! We defeated half the Persian forces at Marathon yesterday. It is the other half that is―as you can see―threatening Piraeus. The army is returning even now to face them. Although it has not yet arrived, you’ll be able to hold off the Persians until my father brings the Athenian army back!” Kimon’s relief had turned into excitement.
Miltiades could hardly move. He doubted if there were any muscle in his aging body that had not been stretched out of shape and strained beyond endurance. The stiffness reached from his toes, which had pushed for relentless hours against the dirt of Marathon to keep him upright, to his fingers, which he had hardly been able to uncurl when he finally put up his sword. Yet it was unthinkable that Spartan officers be escorted to Marathon by anyone other than himself.
Kimon seemed to recognize his father’s state, because he stepped forward with a smile to help him mount. Kimon was a good boy, Miltiades reflected. Boy? Miltiades looked at his younger son again. He was still slender and had always been darker than Miltiades himself, but there was no question he was almost a man. He had grown up fast these last years.
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