“Is your friend Gylis back yet?” Leonidas asked, causing the youth to start.
“My lord?”
“Gylis. That’s his name, isn’t it? The helot goatherd we sent to warn the Phocians?”
“Warn the Phocians?” The youth looked wide-eyed at him. Then he remembered his manners and looked down. “Gylis was sent on reconnaissance yesterday evening, but we haven’t seen him since.”
Leonidas didn’t like the sound of that. He took the ram between his knees and pulled its head back. The goat looked at him with light blue eyes filled with hatred and fury. Leonidas had his knife ready, but the ram was too defiant. He stepped back and let it go, harvesting a shocked protest from the helot, before the boy remembered who he was and who Leonidas was.
“Bring me a cock,” Leonidas ordered. “There’s no need to kill a ram so early in the day.”
“My lord,” Megistias said softly. “I was the one who sent for a ram. On a day like this, we need to pay particular attention to the Gods.”
“Can you not read a cock as well as a ram?”
Megistias hesitated, but then he bowed his head. “As you wish, my lord.”
The first sliver of sun was over the horizon, rolling out a carpet of glittering gold upon the surface of the sea. Somewhere out there, Leonidas thought, were two hundred Greek ships holding back a thousand Persian triremes.
Panting, the helot boy was back. He handed Leonidas a black cock. The cock was limp because the boy had carried it by the neck all the way here, half choking it to death. Leonidas took it to the improvised altar, laid it on the flat surface, and dispatched it. Megistias gasped, and his face froze in a mask of horror.
“That bad?”
Megistias licked his lips nervously, stepped forward, and pulled apart the skin of the bird to take a closer look. He closed his eyes and his lips started moving. The bird’s belly was completely invaded by worms.
“We are lost, my lord,” Megistias murmured, while on the side of the mountain something was moving and shouting.
Leonidas looked up and searched the nearly barren face of the slope until he found it. Something small was coming straight down the face of the mountain, falling more than walking, yet it zigzagged a little, too, and it kept making a sound, a high-pitched human sound. As he got nearer, the sound seemed to coalesce into words. Was it saying “Awake!” or “Alarm!”?
“Gylis!” The helot youth recognized him first.
Leonidas looked again. The boy was closer now. He was sitting on his bottom and sliding down the rocks, scrambling over scrub brush, hobbling around boulders. Leonidas felt compelled to meet him partway, so he walked down from the hillock and across the broad gully separating it from the face of the mountain.
“My lord!” the helot wailed from a hundred feet away. “My lord! They broke! The Phocians broke! The Immortals are coming down the track! The Phocians broke!”
The boy reached him, sobbing for breath and from terror. “I tried, my lord. I swear! But in the dark, I lost the track! By the time I reached the Phocian position, the Immortals were already upon them.” Leonidas just stared at the helot youth. He was covered with cuts and scratches. The soles of his feet were raw, his hands bleeding. If he had wanted, he could have just disappeared into the mountains―with or without warning the Phocians―let alone bringing word to him here. No one would have ever known. “You can kill me if you want, my lord, but I wanted you to know….”
Leonidas nodded numbly. They were all going to die. Today.
It had always been a possibility. He had taken that risk. Now it was a certainty. Chi, Euryleon, didn’t I tell you you wouldn’t have long to wait? But why Alkander, too? Why Oliantus? Why Maron and Alpheus?
The camp was waking up to a new day. Gylis’ approach had attracted the attention of others. Men started to converge on Leonidas. Men were asking Megistias what was wrong, what the signs had been. Isanor was beside him. “Do we need to reinforce the Phocians?”
Leonidas shook his head. “It’s too late. The Immortals have broken through.”
“What? And the Phocians didn’t even send for us?”
“They were asleep,” Gylis gasped out, still panting, “caught sleeping. I don’t think they―”
Demophilus arrived with several other allied commanders. “What has happened? What’s the matter?”
“The deserter was telling the truth,” Leonidas told them.
They stared at him blankly for a second. Then Demophilus echoed Isanor: “Then we must reinforce at once. I’ll have my Thespians―”
“There’s no need, Demophilus.” Leonidas was utterly calm. In his heart he was already dead, and that made it easier. “The Phocians broke. The Immortals are already in our rear. The Pass has been turned. We must send word to Themistocles at once.” Leonidas was looking around for the helot boy who had brought him the ram, while around him the other commanders were cursing and questioning, doubting and denying. “Boy!” Leonidas had caught sight of him. “Fetch me the captain of the Athenian triaconter at once!”
“We must withdraw immediately!” the Corinthian demanded, seconded by the Mantineans and Tegeans and some of the Arkadians.
“Cowards!” Demophilus countered furiously. “The Pass is still defensible―we just have to defend it at both ends! We can hold the West Gate as we have up to now with a thousand men, and put another thousand inside the East Gate.”
“Yes, exactly!” the Theban supported him.
“What? All of us crushed together between the two Gates? We have nothing to eat in there! Nowhere to rest! No fresh water!”
Leonidas was thinking it through for himself. If they had two thousand men fighting at any one time, every man would be on the line every other hour. They might hold out for one day, but not the four they needed. He raised his hand, and the others fell silent at once.
“The bulk of the army should withdraw at once. The Immortals will close off your retreat in a matter of hours. You must pull out now and put as much distance between yourselves and Thermopylae as possible―enough so the Persian cavalry can’t overtake you. Abandon anything you can’t carry.”
His words were met with stunned silence. No one had ever expected the Spartan king to order withdrawal. But after they recovered from their shock, the Arkadian commanders did not wait to be told twice. The Corinthians and Mantineans were close at their heels. Isanor, Demophilus, and the Theban Leontiades, however, didn’t move. They stared at Leonidas, horrified, until Demophilus asked softly, “What about you? What about the Lacedaemonians?”
Leonidas felt weak, yet detached. His emotions were numbed. Kastor had told him he would know when his time had come. It had come. “Someone has to hold the Pass long enough to give the rest of you time to withdraw. Otherwise, as I said, the Persian cavalry will overtake and slaughter you out in the open, where you won’t have a chance.”
“But you have a city you can still defend,” Demophilus countered with dignity. “We do not. My Thespians will hold Thermopylae. Take the Lacedaemonians south so they can fight in the days and weeks ahead.”
Leonidas was moved by this offer. He reached out a hand in gratitude, and Demophilus took it. “You did your best, Leonidas,” the Thespian continued. “No one but you could have held them this long. But if Thermopylae is lost, so is Thespiae. We have no home to return to. We might as well die here.”
“And so will we,” Leontiades spoke for the Thebans as well.
Dienekes and Diodoros ran up. “The allies are spreading rumors and threatening to pull out!” Dienekes announced in evident outrage.
Leonidas shook his head. “They’re under orders to pull out―”
“What?”
“The Phocians broke. The Immortals are just hours away from closing off the road south. I’ve given the order to withdraw.”
Diodoros and Dienekes gaped at him, while Kalliteles and Oliantus trotted up. “Sir! Have you heard? The allies are packing up and pulling out. It’s total panic out there! We must…”
He fell silent and looked at the stunned, lifeless faces of the men standing around his commander. “What is it?”
This time Diodoros provided the explanation. Leonidas was staring at Oliantus. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed. “I’m so sorry.”
“What are you waiting for, Leonidas?” Demophilus urged. “There is very little time. Take your Lacedaemonians out, and we’ll make the Persians fight for the Pass and pay dearly for each of us. We’ll delay them as long as humanly possible.”
“There’s no hurry,” Leonidas answered with a glance toward the sun, which was now a copper disk already a hand’s breadth above the horizon. “I’m not going anywhere―and whether I like it or not, my Spartans are not going to abandon me.”
“You’re damned right, we’re not!” Dienekes confirmed.
“That doesn’t apply to the perioikoi,” Leonidas pointed out firmly, turning to Isanor. “Take all your men, the helots, and Megistias back to Lacedaemon.”
Isanor hesitated. “We’re still over eight hundred strong, my lord. We’d almost double your force.”
Leonidas was shaking his head. “Whether we’re one thousand or five thousand, we’re about to be crushed. Take the perioikoi home with my blessings―I’ll put it in writing, if you like, to ensure no one at home tries to twist facts. I’ll also send a messenger to Brotus and Leotychidas to halt the march north at the Isthmus. Have we got a good long-distance runner?” Leonidas looked automatically to Oliantus.
“Yes, I have two runners we can send.”
“Good. I’ll write and seal the dispatches. And pass the word to the Spartiates,” he added to Diodoros, Dienekes, and Kalliteles, “to eat a hearty breakfast, as we’ll be dining in Hades.”*
It was astonishing how fast the allies managed to pull out, but it was not until the sun had lost its copper sheen and was starting to burn away the freshness of the morning that the perioikoi were formed up for departure. Leonidas was on the wall, watching for some sign of a Persian advance, when Oliantus sought him out. “Leo, Isanor requests you come back to Alpeni.”
“What’s the problem?”
“The wounded are refusing to go.”
Of course. He should have thought of that. Leonidas nodded and descended the rear ramp at a measured pace. He was stiff, his muscles hurt, his wound throbbed, and he needed to conserve his strength for the battle, which could start anytime―unless the assassins had succeeded after all?
He glanced at the sun again. It was higher than it had been on either of the previous days when the attacks began. Maybe something was wrong in the Persian camp that they could not see or hear from here? Or maybe Xerxes was just giving the Immortals time to get into position.
The perioikoi had formed up neatly in companies of one hundred, followed by the supply wagons containing the wounded. Isanor, recognizing Leonidas from a distance by his cross-crested helmet, trotted over to meet him halfway. “Sir! We have our wounded in the wagons, but all the Spartiates refused.” Isanor pointed to nearly a score of men standing in a bedraggled group beyond the wagons.
Leonidas walked over to them. They stood up straighter, squared their shoulders, and lifted their heads. The Spartans had buried thirty-one men here at Thermopylae; twenty-four had been killed outright, and the others had died of their wounds in the little field hospital. Before him were seventeen men with serious but not fatal wounds: Alpheus had a missing eye, Maron’s ankles were still massively swollen, Exarchus had lost his right hand and half his forearm, Naucles had a shattered left elbow, and Pantesiadas had taken an arrow through his knee ….
“Listen to me,” Leonidas spoke to them collectively. “Losing Thermopylae does not mean losing the war. The Peloponnese is still defensible, and Lacedaemon will continue to oppose the Persian invasion with our allies from the League. We will need every trained Spartiate we have. I’m staying here for two reasons. First and foremost, I’m staying because we have to delay the Persians long enough for the bulk of the defensive force to escape to fight in the future. Secondly, I stay because it is my destiny. My death here, today, is the sacrifice Zeus demanded in exchange for sparing Sparta itself. I will make that sacrifice. No one else’s life is forfeit. Your duty is to return to Sparta and raise your families to love our laws and our freedom as much as we have done.”
“With all due respect, my lord,” Pantesiadas spoke up, “our duty is to obey our laws unto death.”
“What law says you should throw your lives away here?” Leonidas countered.
“The law says we must follow our kings wherever they lead. What sort of example would we be to our sons if we abandoned you here? Who would even listen to us if we slunk home, leaving a Spartan king to die alone?”
“I have two hundred and fifty Spartiates out there,” Leonidas pointed to the East Gate and what lay beyond, “not to mention a thousand Thespians and Thebans. I don’t need a bunch of cripples. You’ll only get in the way of the fit men. Now get in those wagons and stop delaying the perioikoi! You have no right to stop them from getting out of the trap.” With these words he turned his back on them, to signal that this was his last word and he would tolerate no further discussion.
But he did not get far. Immediately behind the wagons with the wounded was one laden with cooking utensils, cauldrons, and tripods. It was driven by the helot cook Eudios.
Leonidas paused to smile up at the old helot. “That was an exceptionally fine breakfast this morning. Thank you.” He paused, thought about it, and added, “Thank you for everything.”
That was too much for the old cook. Tears started spilling down his round cheeks, and after another second he broke down altogether and started sobbing. “How did it come to this? Why? Where’s the army? Why do you have to die?”
Leonidas was surprised by this outpouring of emotion. He didn’t know what to say, and before he could think of an appropriate response, the other helots were pressing around him. Some seemed to want to touch him, others to bless him, still others were weeping openly, and here and there he heard someone call out reproachfully, “What is to become of us?”
“No one is going to blame you for what happened here,” Leonidas assured them, failing to understand that they feared not the immediate but the more distant future. They were afraid of a Sparta without his influence, of a Sparta dominated by his brother, his nephew, or Leotychidas.
Behind him he heard Isanor give the order to march, and the perioikoi set off smartly. He heard the crack of the teamster’s whips and the creak of wagons with the wounded as they started to roll away.
He stepped back and signaled for Eudios to follow. “Go! May the Twins guide you safely home!”
Eudios slapped the reins on the rumps of the draft horses, tears still running down his cheeks and soaking his graying beard. Behind him the cooks, cobblers, herd boys, and other support helots started filing past until only a handful remained, standing stubbornly with their arms crossed, looking sullen and defiant.
Leonidas went up to them. He recognized Gylis. “What is it? What do you want?”
“We’re not cowards like the Phocians and Corinthians. Don’t we provide the power that drives Lacedaemon’s triremes? Haven’t we stood by you here, tending your wounds and bringing you water at the very edge of the battle? You look down on us because you think we are farmers, not fighters. But if you would just give us weapons, we would prove you wrong!” Leonidas heard echoes of Mantiklos, his first squire, in the youth’s voice, and he hoped Pleistarchos would have the sense to harness―not repress―the spirit that lay latent in such young men.
In answer to Gylis, however, he replied by opening his arms and gesturing toward the field around them, littered with the rubbish left behind by the retreating army. “There are arms and armor everywhere. I cannot stop you from taking what you like and using it as you like. I only hope it won’t be to stab us in the backs.” He paused and added, “As for you, Gylis…” The use of his name surprised the youth, who had never dreamed the Spartan king knew his name, nor expected
to be addressed personally by such an exalted personage. “If you are determined to stay, you would help me best as a lookout, above the West Gate where you were yesterday. If you are there, you can signal when the Persians are coming, in what numbers, whether by horse or by foot. That would be more use to me than one more hoplite.”
Gylis looked down, fighting with his own emotions. He knew that the course Leonidas offered was one that would make him both a witness to history and a survivor. Part of him wanted to prove he was just as brave and selfless as any Spartiate, but the temptation to take the role Leonidas offered was great.
“Think about it,” Leonidas urged, and continued back through the East Gate, making a point not to look back and see what the helots decided to do.
Beyond the East Gate, the Spartiates were making their final preparations. In the warm morning air, they stripped down and changed into their best chitons, combed out their hair, and rebraided it firmly. Leonidas noted that many of his soldiers were having their hair combed and braided by their attendants, but there was no way of knowing whether these helots remained voluntarily, or out of fear of returning home if they abandoned their masters.
A moment later he caught sight of Meander, waiting patiently for him near his tent. Leonidas signaled for him to come inside.
Meander followed nervously. By staying, he had disobeyed orders, but when so many of the others had declared their intention to stay with their masters, he felt that departing would have been both craven and an insult to Leonidas. Ever since his father had chosen to pull him out of the agoge and let Aristodemos remain, he had doubted himself. Sometimes he defiantly insisted he was as good as everyone else; sometimes he sank into near-suicidal self-pity. Today, he didn’t know what to feel. His stomach was tied in knots. He was afraid of what was coming, but even more afraid to run away. He knew his brother Aristodemos, blind as he was, had been sent home with the rest of the wounded. He would survive, but how would he treat Meander, who was not disabled in any way, if he, too, scuttled for safety? Wouldn’t he say: “Our father was right. You would never have made a Spartiate! Other helots stayed. Why, even a goatherd like Gylis stayed, but you ran away!”
A Heroic King Page 58