“Sir!” He could hardly talk for being out of breath. “Come quick!”
“What is it?”
“Deserter! A Greek deserter! From the Persians. He’s―he has―intelligence.”
“I’m coming.”
A crowd had collected in front of Leonidas’ tent. All three company commanders were already there. Likewise Isanor, Demophilus, and the Theban, Corinthian, and Tegean commanders hovered anxiously, as did Alkander and Prokles. Of his closest companions, only Oliantus was missing―he was still beyond the East Gate, checking the inventory of spare spears, hoplons, helmets, and greaves.
Leonidas didn’t like the expressions on any of the faces before him, nor the tenor of their talk. “What is it?”
The other men looked over sharply, and then parted slightly. A half-naked man knelt on the ground with his arms tied behind his back. “This man was brought in by the sentries, sir!” Dienekes reported. “He claims to be a deserter from Xerxes’ army, an Ionian from Cyme, impressed against his will.”
“For such a patriot, you have given him a rude welcome,” Leonidas commented dryly.
“Sir, he’s just as likely to be a spy! He says Xerxes is offering a coffer full of gold to anyone who can show him a way around the Pass,” Isanor protested hotly.
“I see. And has anyone come forward?” Leonidas directed this question to the deserter.
“I saw a man, a Malian calling himself Ephialtes, being escorted to the Great King’s tent. He clearly wanted to claim the reward.”
“What time was that?” Leonidas asked sharply, his heart pounding so frantically in his ears that he spoke unnecessarily loudly.
“Late this afternoon, shortly after you rejected the Great King’s offer.”
“Bloody, f**king hell!” Prokles burst out. “If they―”
Leonidas gripped Prokles’ forearm so fiercely that even the battered marine felt the pain and shut up. Leonidas was staring at the deserter. “What happened then?”
“I don’t know. Nothing that I could see. He wasn’t a very reliable-looking man. Maybe the Great King didn’t believe him.”
“Why are you here?” Leonidas asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” the Theban burst out. “He’s trying to sow panic and alarm. He’s trying to make us betray ourselves!”
“Maybe,” Leonidas conceded without taking his eyes off the man.
“I say we torture him and see if he sticks to his story,” the Theban suggested next.
The Tegean shifted uneasily at this suggestion, and Demophilus sneered, “Now, that’s a Theban suggestion if ever I’ve heard one. When you’re not attacking virgins, you―”
“That’s enough!” Leonidas cut the Thespian off. He turned again to the deserter. “Who sent you here?”
The man glanced nervously at the others, then up at Leonidas and looked him straight in the eye. “Demaratus.”
“With what message?”
“Just what I said. That the Great King is offering a huge reward, and that at least one man has stepped forward to claim it. If there is a way around the Pass, the Great King will find it―if not today, then tomorrow or the next.”
“I’m going to warn the Phocians,” Dienekes decided on the spot.
“No! I can’t afford to have a company commander chasing around in the dark. Find someone to go in your place. Someone reliable, fit, and fleet―a helot goatherd, for example, who hasn’t been fighting for two days, isn’t wounded, and is as comfortable on a mountain slope as his charges. Oliantus will be able to recommend someone. Go ask him, send the boy on his way, then return here.”
Dienekes left at once.
“Shouldn’t we reinforce the Phocians at once?” Demophilus asked anxiously.
“That may be exactly what Xerxes is trying to get us to do,” Diodoros warned. “He may suspect there is a trail that outflanks us. He may be offering a reward for being shown it, but that is not the same thing as being on his way. He may hope that by sending this man here with this report, he can induce us to siphon off a substantial portion of our forces to defend a trail he has not yet found. If we are too weak here, he won’t need to find that trail: he’ll be able to break through. The weaker we are, the sooner we’ll break.”
Leonidas looked at the older man, who had once been his company commander. He could not dismiss his concerns out of hand, even if his own first instinct was to reinforce the Phocians at once. The Arkadians had been weak fighters from the start, and today the Thebans and Corinthians had started to show serious deficiencies as well. The Tegeans and Mantineans weren’t much better. Under the circumstances, what Diodoros said made sense: before weakening their defenses in the Pass any further, they first had to be certain that the Persians had found the Anapaia track. Leonidas nodded agreement with Diodoros, adding, “Now, let’s give this patriot something to eat and drink and treat him like a guest.”
Dienekes found Oliantus beside the unhitched wagons with the extra spears. They had brought three thousand spares on the assumption that each man might go through a spear a day, and what they didn’t use would be waiting for the main army when it arrived. They had, in two days, gone through just over eight hundred.
“Oliantus?” Dienekes called to him.
“Dienekes! What brings you back here?” It was a valid question. Dienekes led from the front and took little interest in supplies and support.
“A deserter, allegedly sent by Demaratus, claims that in exchange for a huge reward someone may have betrayed the mountain track to Xerxes, just as we feared.”
“Already?” Oliantus was shaken. “But the main army can’t get here for another four to five days.”
“Leonidas wants to warn the Phocians to be on the alert and send for help at the first hint of the enemy.”
Oliantus nodded and remarked, “Of course.” He did not understand what this had to do with him.
“Leonidas suggested sending a helot goatherd, who is bound to be in better shape than any of us at this point and is used to climbing in this kind of terrain. He thought you might have a suggestion.”
“Oh. Yes.” Oliantus thought about it. “Gylis. He’s seventeen, half-goat by the way he moves, and he’s keen. He was the one who dared speak up to Leonidas yesterday. Come with me.”
Oliantus led the way from the supply wagons to the improvised pen in which the livestock, including the sacrificial animals, were kept. The goats and sheep were all hobbled, but otherwise they moved around freely, nibbling at what grass they could find.
The herd boys were bedded down around a small fire at the edge of the pen. There were about a dozen of them. They were sharing the leftovers from the Spartiate meal in shallow wooden bowls and passing a skin around that was presumably watered wine. They wore their chitons pinned at only one shoulder and had never known sandals in their lives, but they exuded health and energy.
Their conversation was lively, because several of these youths had found a way up the shoulder of the mountain to look down on Xerxes’ throne and into his mustering area. They had seen the Persian cavalry force the subject peoples to fight, and they had heard Leonidas reject Xerxes’ offer of a pan-Hellenic crown. They were very conscious of witnessing history, and were inured to the bloodshed because they were used to slaughtering animals.
At the sight of two Spartiate officers approaching, their conversation and laughter died, and they waited warily. It wasn’t fear. These youths had been serving with the army from the age of thirteen or even younger. Army helots enjoyed more independence and respect than the helots on estates, precisely because they were part of Sparta’s prestigious military apparatus and because they were not subject to the whims of any one master or mistress. There were arrogant bastards that could make their lives difficult, but there were other officers, like Oliantus, who were fair. Furthermore, they were all volunteers. Not one helot was here against his will. Unlike the Spartiates, however, the helots on this expedition were not required to be fathers of living sons, because they would not
be at risk. In consequence, most of the helots were the young and adventurous, youths without wives and children.
“Gylis!” Oliantus called out.
Gylis stood at the sound of his name. “Sir?”
“King Leonidas needs a volunteer.”
“What for?” Gylis asked warily.
“Does it matter?” Oliantus asked back.
Gylis shrugged. “I’m sick of dumping bodies in the drink, if that’s what he wants.”
At so much impudence, Dienekes caught his breath and frowned. “Are you sure he’s the right youth for this task?” he hissed at Oliantus.
“You’re right,” Oliantus answered loudly, so Gylis and the others would hear him. “Maybe he’s not good enough. Do any of you others want to undertake important reconnaissance on Kallidromo?”
“I can do that!” Gylis protested hotly, overriding the voices of more than one of his colleagues. “I’ve got the best sight of anyone. I can see in the dark. Let me go!”
Oliantus gave Dienekes an “I-told-you-so” look, and Dienekes shrugged. To Gylis, Oliantus simply said, “Come with us.”
Gylis handed his bowl to one of the others, wiped his greasy hands on the skirt of his short, ragged chiton, and combed his long hair out of his face. “Yes, sir!”
They moved out of hearing of the others.
Dienekes took over. “There is a track that leads up from Alpeni, over Kallidromos, and down to the Persian camp.”
The youth’s mouth dropped. He understood the significance of this fact.
“The Phocians are up there guarding it, but Leonidas wants them to be particularly alert tonight. Do you think you can get that message to them?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good. Follow me, and I’ll show you the start of the trail.”
By the time Dienekes and Oliantus reached Leonidas’ tent, a heated argument was raging among Leonidas’ closest friends. “For all we know, he’s a fake, a plant, a traitor,” Alkander was arguing.
“So what? He came out of Xerxes’ camp, and he knows where the bastard’s tent is.”
“But why should he lead you to it?”
“Because I’ll have a sword up his ass!”
“So he’ll lead you to Hydarnes’ tent, and when you’re surrounded by Immortals, he’ll squeal.”
“So what? Then I die sooner rather than later. What the hell difference does it make? But if I can get him to lead me to the Great Asshole himself, there’s a chance I could cut off the snake’s head. If Xerxes is killed, that whole anthill won’t be able to take another step!” Prokles was gesturing contemptuously toward the Persian positions. “They’ll be headless―or rather, all Xerxes’ brothers will be so busy fighting one another for the throne, they won’t have another thought for us. That’s the real advantage of their harems, you know: they produce packs of royal whelps who hate one another more than anyone else in the world.”
“And what do you propose to do? Stroll through the West Gate by the light of the full moon and say ‘cheers’ to the Persian sentries as you walk past?”
“You’re still a stupid little―”
“Prokles!” Leonidas cut him off and turned to Dienekes. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, an eager young lad by the name of Gylis is on his way right now. What’s this all about?”
“We have in the form of this Tyrrhastiadas of Cyme,” Prokles answered, “a man in our midst who knows the exact location of Xerxes’ tent. He could lead me to it. All I need to do is slip inside―”
“The unguarded, isolated royal tent―” Alkander mocked sarcastically.
Leonidas clapped his hands once sharply to shut Alkander up, and Prokles continued, “And cut his throat. Then the whole war, let alone this battle, will be over.”
Leonidas looked straight at Dienekes without a word.
“It sounds like a good idea to me. I’d say six men. No more and no less.”
“Why so many? They’d just attract attention!” Prokles protested.
“The idea is too good to put all our hopes on the likes of you!” Dienekes retorted bluntly. “We should send in two teams of three men each. One can take the path that leads up from the Hot Gates over the spot where Xerxes had his throne. The helots can show the way up, and our deserter can show them the way down. The other three can take a fishing boat around to the back of the camp,” he gestured vaguely toward the lights that dotted the dark stretch of coast beyond the Malian Gulf. “From there they can ask their way to Xerxes’ tent, which will hardly be a secret. Given the number of Ionian troops with the Great King’s army, no one will take any note of a trio of Greek hoplites. We should have thought of this days ago.”
“Choose the men, Dienekes―anyone but yourself,” Leonidas warned.
“For the three men to go over the mountain: Mindarus, Labotas, and Gallaxidoros. They’re all born mountaineers, used to hunting in the harshest parts of Taygetos. For the sea route: Prokles here, Bulis, who speaks some Persian and has seen Xerxes face-to-face, and…” he paused for a moment, thinking carefully, before deciding: “Temenos.”
Leonidas started slightly at this last choice, but he had told Dienekes to make the selection and had no grounds for calling his decision into question. “Fetch them,” he ordered Meander.
The three fighting men hid in the bows of the little fishing smack as it danced across the waters, lit by the waning but still almost full moon. On deck the air was refreshingly cool. The sail strained happily against the rigging, bloated with wind, and the fisherman braced himself against the leeward side with the satisfied look of a mariner whose craft is sailing at her best. Below deck, the bouncing of the bow and the stink of dead fish made Temenos and Bulis so violently ill that they forgot their hatred of each other in their shared misery. They were puking on empty stomachs long before the boat came into the wind in the shelter of a tiny cove and the fisherman called out, “Fresh fish! Fresh fish for sale!”
The Spartiates were surprised by how readily the enemy splashed down to the shore and started bargaining with the fisherman. They were even more astonished by the outrageous prices he was able to charge. The Great King’s army evidently had plenty of spare cash, and Prokles quickly concluded that the fisherman’s offer to transport them across the bay had been prompted less by patriotism than by self-interest. In fact, he suspected that this was not the fisherman’s first trip over.
“Wine?” the fisherman asked.
The customers, who spoke Greek with the heavy dialect of the Black Sea colonies, nodded and pointed back toward the camp. The fisherman answered, “Help me beach this boat and I’ll come along.” He flung a line ashore, and a half-dozen men took hold of it. They pulled the fishing boat up onto the beach until it was halfway out of the water. Then the fisherman, his two crewmen, and the crowd of customers moved away, leaving the boat leaning on its side on the sand.
Prokles waited a good quarter-hour before he decided it was safe to slip over the side of the boat and make their way up the beach. The moon was shining down far too brightly for Prokles’ liking, but there were clearly no sentries of any kind, and once they reached the shore they stopped amid the pines to catch their breath and survey the scene.
Their landing beach was roughly two miles northeast of the West Gate. The bulk of the Persian force was camped on the plain ahead of them and along the coastline stretching back to the east. Xerxes’ tent, the deserter had assured them, was at the far western end of the encampment, beside the clean, cool waters of the Asopos. This was to ensure that the water used for his bath and cooking was not yet fouled by thousands of troops and horses. (His drinking water had been transported in amphorae all the way from Susa.) The first task of the assassins was to head west until they reached the part of the camp nearest the head of the Asopos, and then reassess the situation.
The three Spartiates, their hoplons slung across their backs, their spears at the slope, and their helmets shoved back, walked boldly through the camp as if they belonged in it
. As full citizens, they carried shields faced with personal blazons; not one bore the lambda of Lacedaemon. Nothing distinguished them from the Greek allies of Xerxes, certainly not in the darkness.
They soon passed beyond the campfires of the Greeks, however, and the babble of the other peoples was unintelligible to them. Laughter, of course, is universal, but that was scarce in Xerxes’ camp on this second night of the battle for Thermopylae. Once they came close to a group of men nursing a variety of wounds and looking irredeemably glum. Prokles gave them a wide berth―not for fear of being recognized, but out of a feeling similar to guilt. Although neither he nor his companions regretted causing so much injury, they nevertheless respected the grief these men were suffering.
After about an hour, the three Spartiates found themselves in a part of the camp where the tents were bigger and more luxurious. The smell from the cooking fires was overlaid with spices unfamiliar to them, and slaves moved about between the tents carrying water, tossing away rubbish, cleaning pots, and performing other chores. The sound of music―and laughter, too―spilled out of more than one tent.
Prokles paused in the shadows of some trees and cursed under his breath. “Too many damn princes! According to that deserter, Xerxes is here with three or four of his brothers. We’ll never be able to tell them apart.”
“I learned how to say in Persian, ‘I have a message for the Great King’ and ‘Take me to the Great King,’” Bulis announced. “If we tie Temenos up, we could pretend we are escorting him to the Great King because he was caught trying to desert.”
Before Temenos could protest, Prokles shook his head. “No, tie me up instead. That way, if they buy the story and I am taken to him by Xerxes’ bodyguards, I’ll still have a chance to kill him.” Even as he spoke, he pulled off a small cord he wore tied around his waist and handed it to Bulis.
Bulis secured Prokles’ hands together behind his back at the wrists, but rather than tie a knot, he handed the end of the cord to Prokles, who held it balled in his fists.
A Heroic King Page 56