“Don’t I have a clean himation in that chest over there?” Leonidas’ voice brought Meander back to the present.
“Yes, sir,” Meander answered numbly, hastily going to the chest and opening it. His hands were shaking, which shamed him.
“Is there a chiton as well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then strip down and put the chiton on.”
“Sir?”
“Put one of my chitons on,” Leonidas ordered over his shoulder. He was already bending down to pick up Sperchias’ breastplate. Sperchias and Euryleon had been buried with the other dead in their cloaks, but he had kept their armor to take home to their wives and sons. It wasn’t going to get that far. It would fall into Persian hands one way or another, but first it could clothe Meander like a proper hoplite.
“Sir, you only brought red chitons with you.”
“I know. Hurry up. The Persians are overdue already.”
“But…”
“Meander, if you’re going to fight with me today, then you will do so as the Spartiate you are. So hurry up and put that chiton on. I think Sperchias’ breastplate will fit you well enough, and Euryleon’s sword is in good condition. We’ll get you a standard-issue shield and spear, and you can wear my spare himation―or take this one,” he pulled it off his back, “and I’ll wear the clean one.”
Meander gaped at him, dumbstruck, until he at last managed to whisper, “Are you serious?”
“This is no time for joking,” Leonidas answered, but he laughed nevertheless at the look of wonder on Meander’s face. It struck him as absurd that Meander was so pleased―as if dying in Spartan scarlet would be less terrible than dying in the clothes of a helot.
Then, because the other man was still stunned, he reached into the chest and grabbed one of the chitons himself. “Put it on!” he ordered, thrusting it at Meander. But because this was the last hour of their lives, he changed his mind, and pulled Meander into his arms to hold him for a second.
Meander clung to him, trying with his arms to express the gratitude and admiration he could not put into words. Then he nodded and pulled back.
Leonidas ducked out of the tent, leaving him to change into the clothes and armor of a Spartiate.
By the time Gylis, who had taken his post far up on the cliff above the Middle Gate, signaled that the Persians were mustering again, Meander was not the only helot in Spartiate armor. As Alkander made his way back to Leonidas’ tent, he recognized scores of other attendants moving about awkwardly and a little dazed in their new, if tattered, finery. His own man was not among them. Alkander’s man had a young wife and two small children. He had hesitated a seemly moment, but Alkander’s sincerity in urging him to go home had overcome his scruples. It gave Alkander a small sense of victory to know he had saved at least that young life, and he had taken the opportunity to send a last message, scratched on a shard of broken pottery, for Hilaira and his sons. That, too, was a comfort. With the departure of his attendant and that message, he had taken leave of home. All he had to face now was the short future that remained―starting with Leonidas.
He reached Leonidas as the latter emerged from his tent, jamming his helmet onto his head. Alkander knew Leonidas was angry with him for insisting on coming to Thermopylae and for insisting on staying. He knew he had miscalculated. His heart ached for Hilaira. He was sorry he could not be the surrogate father to Agiatis and Pleistarchos that Leonidas wanted him to be. But he could not regret his decision. His place was here. He met his friend’s eyes, bracing for the fury he expected to see in them, and was taken aback by a look of sheer affection. Leonidas had forgiven him. Alkander felt his tension dissolve in the morning air.
They had no need for words. They walked together through the abandoned camp and mounted the wall.
Leonidas called the commanders to him: Demophilus and Leontiades, and the Spartiates Diodoros, Dienekes, and Kalliteles. They formed a little circle, and he searched their earnest faces. The shock of what had happened was wearing off, and reality was sinking in. These men were starting to think about what their death would mean, not just to them but to their families, their friends. It was good that the Persians were mustering at last, because waiting could be far more demoralizing than fighting.
“We need one phalanx inside the East Gate, facing east to meet the Immortals whenever they arrive.” He paused and then looked at Leontiades. “Would you and your Thebans assume that position?”
Leontiades nodded, glancing back toward the East Gate. It was quiet now. Empty. No bodies rotted on that side of the wall. The earth had been torn up by thousands of men passing to and fro, but not by fighting. It did not stink. At the moment, theirs was the easier task. But the Immortals were Persia’s elite troops. When they came, it would be a brutal fight―and an honorable death.
“Good. Then between us, Thespiae and Sparta, we have just short of a thousand men. What I propose is to―”
A commotion behind him made Leonidas stop and look over. Hobbling up the rear ramp, supporting one another, were seventeen wounded Spartiates and Eurytus, his eyes bound, led by his helot. Aristodemos was notably absent from the little group.
The sight of the walking wounded made Leonidas forget what he was about to say. He scowled. “I ordered you to return to Sparta with the perioikoi!” he growled.
“No one―not even a Spartan king―has the right to order a Spartiate to dishonor himself,” Pantesiadas replied calmly, leaning heavily on Exarchus’ shoulder. “Have you forgotten the answer you gave to me when I was serving in your syssitia as a boy?” Leonidas couldn’t remember the incident at all, but Pantesiadas reminded him, quoting: “Life is a gift of nature, and a natural death overtakes even the vilest creature. An honorable death, on the other hand, is something only an honorable man can choose.”†
There was no answer to that, and no time, either. A chariot was rushing toward them. It was a magnificent one, pulled by two matching bays groomed to gleam in the morning sun. The charioteer was dressed in tight-fitting striped trousers and a striped long-sleeved tunic, over which he wore a quilted corselet. The stitching of the corselet was gold, and the diamonds of the quilting were alternately yellow and green. He wore a tall turban of matching colored cloth embroidered with gold, which also covered his mouth―apparently against the stink. Beside him was a man in a tall headdress, wearing armor over bright purple and yellow cloth that was much baggier, looser, and finer. He wore gold bracelets on his wrists, gold cuffs on his arms, and a belt encrusted with coral. He had a long, curly beard and a staff of some sort. Unfortunately, with both Sperchias and Bulis dead, Leonidas had no one with him who might have cast more light on who he was or where he came from.
The charioteer pulled up and shouted: “King Leonidas of Sparta!”
Having watched the chariot’s approach, Leonidas turned back to his commanders and ordered, “Demophilus, deploy your Thespians to the left; we’ll stand on the edge of the cliff to the sea. Kalliteles, your company to the far right. Diodoros, your company next to the Thespians.
“Leonidas of Sparta! Are you still there? Or has the Spartan king run away?”
“Follow me down onto the field,” Leonidas ordered his troops. Then he turned and started down the central ramp onto the field before the Middle Gate.
The field had, as usual, been cleared of the dead during the night, by pushing the bodies of the enemy off the cliff into the sea and burying the allied dead. The vultures and other scavengers had followed the feast to the shoreline below. Nevertheless, Leonidas had to tread carefully, because broken pieces of equipment littered the earth. Broken spear and arrow shafts, broken swords and body parts, and―most dangerously―arrowheads and spearheads made the footing treacherous, although much improved since yesterday morning.
About a hundred paces ahead of the wall, Leonidas stopped and waited with his hands on his hips. “I’m Leonidas of Sparta. What does your master want now?”
“You have been betrayed. You will soon be
surrounded. You have squandered any opportunity for an honorable place among the Great King’s subjects. But the King of Kings is benevolent beyond measure. While your cause is lost, your lives need not be. The Great King offers you your naked lives, if you surrender your arms.”
“Come and take them!”‡ Leonidas flung back at him―loud enough for the words to reverberate beyond the Pass and into history.
The chariot wheeled and raced away, and immediately the sound of shouting erupted from beyond the West Gate. Dust started wafting up and blowing toward them, but still no Persians came through the West Gate. Leonidas looked over his shoulder, wondering if Xerxes was hoping the Immortals would take them in the rear and eliminate the need for another frontal attack altogether.
The waiting was wearing on everyone’s nerves, and then Leonidas had an idea. “Dienekes, let’s try something different.”
“Different?”
“What if, rather than just driving them back toward the gate, we intentionally force them into the sea?”
“Pivot the line on the right hinge?”
“Yes.”
“Can the Thespians manage that?” Dienekes asked skeptically.
“If we take the Thespians between our three companies, it should work.”
“It might, but we’ll have to redeploy fast. The Persians will come at any moment.”
Leonidas left his position and walked rapidly along the front to Demophilus. He explained his plan, and Demophilus agreed at once.
Leaving Kalliteles’ company in position on the edge of the field by the sea, the other two Spartan companies pulled back. Demophilus split his Thespians into two units, and one closed with the left of Kalliteles’ company. Leonidas inserted his own company between the two halves of the Thespian force, and Diodoros took his company to the far left wing.
The redeployment was completed before Maron, who had insisted on taking his old position on Leonidas’ left, nudged him gently and pointed to Gylis on the slope above Xerxes’ throne. Gylis was waving wildly, giving the signal for “archers.”
Up to now the Greeks had waited with their helmets tipped back, their spears stabbed in the earth by their butts, and their shields at their knees. Leonidas pulled his helmet down over his face, picked up his shield, and took up his spear. The men to his left and right followed his example―so that without an order being given, the gestures rippled outwards and backwards until the entire phalanx was standing armed and ready.
Leonidas glanced along the front rank. By all the Gods, he thought, it was beautiful! Despite all the battering they had withstood. Despite the wounds, the aches and pains, the shallow breathing and twisted stomachs of the men behind the wall of bronze, it looked magnificent. Nothing moved except the horsehair crests. The shields, although dented, scratched, and torn, still caught the morning sun upon their battered surfaces and reflected it back, not in a blaze of polished glory but with a fractured yet quiet defiance that echoed his words. Come and take them, indeed, he thought with pride. Come and take them from us!
Then he ordered the advance. Leonidas had only one objective today: to sell their lives as dearly as possible. If he could push large numbers of the enemy over the edge of the cliff, so much the better. It would save his aching spear arm for the fight that was bound to engulf them when the Immortals arrived.
In order to carry out their planned maneuver, however, they had to spread their line thinner than usual. The objective was not a phalanx that could withstand a pushing contest, but a net. Furthermore, the left flank had to be in a position to connect with the far wall of mountain and then drive the enemy before it.
Leonidas considered Xerxes singularly unimaginative to have again sent in archers, but it made his task easier. As soon as the archers had gone down on one knee to start their barrage, Leonidas gave the order for his line to pivot. The burden fell on Diodoros and the Thespians to Leonidas’ left to cover the greatest distance, hitching up to the slope of the mountain at Xerxes’ feet, while the rest of the line adjusted to retain a single, straight front.
It was, Leonidas thought as he swung his head back and forth to assess progress, a ridiculously difficult maneuver. He was mad to try it at a time like this. At the same time, it was exactly what they all needed: something different from the senseless, mindless killing of the days before. It was also visibly throwing the enemy into confusion. Their targets were moving in a manner that appeared illogical. Some Greeks were getting closer and some receding, all without actually breaking formation. More and more archers stopped shooting altogether and kept looking around for orders, while their officers apparently argued with one another.
It helped that these subjects of the Persian king were armed with weak bows and wicker shields. They could see that their arrows had no effect on the men of bronze, who kept moving methodically in their ranks and files without even bothering to cower behind their shields. At the order to fire, the archers resumed the barrage furiously, but the Greeks responded as if the enemy weren’t even there. Leonidas could see archers wetting themselves, and it was only a matter of time before total panic seized them.
The moment he ordered the advance, the nerves of these woefully underarmed and poorly led enemy troops broke entirely. The men at the front sprang to their feet and tried to run away. The Persian cavalry deployed on the far side of the West Gate, however, were driving yet more archers onto the field. The fleeing archers collided with these reinforcements and were pushed back onto the field.
Because the Greek line had pivoted, the only open space on which these increasing numbers of troops could spread out was along the edge of the field by the sea. Here they rushed forward almost to the wall in sheer animal panic, like terrified beasts fleeing into a trap.
Leonidas ordered the Greek line forward. They advanced with heads down to reduce the risk of arrows finding their eyes or necks, and they did not raise their spears in order to avoid the risk of arrows to their armpits. They could kill without touching a weapon. All they had to do was push with their shields.
The screams of the panicked enemy reached a fevered pitch. Frantic, they wailed and faded as one after another fell off the edge of the cliff, sometimes scores at a time. Leonidas was reminded of the screams of the Persian ambassadors as they were tossed down the well. It was a chilling memory, but the men today weren’t unarmed, accredited diplomats. They were fighting men abandoned to the slaughter by indifferent and incompetent commanders.
By the time the killing ended, the sun was halfway to noon, and Leonidas was streaming sweat. Every man was desperately thirsty, but there were no helots to bring them water. They pulled back before the wall to re-form, catch their breath, and see what the Persians would send in next.
Leonidas asked if there was any sign of the Immortals yet, but the Thebans sent back word that all was still quiet at the East Gate.
Ahead of them, however, the Persians were again deploying through the West Gate. These weren’t archers. Indeed, they were dressed far less flamboyantly than all the troops Xerxes had fielded up to now. Neither bright colors nor turbans adorned them. They wore leather caps with earflaps. They also wore leather trousers and boots and leather vests, but their arms were bare. They appeared to be javelin throwers.
Leonidas took one look at the way they were deploying and knew it would not be possible to carry off a pivot again. “We’re going to shorten and deepen the line, then go in straight,” he decided, and the word was passed along the line.
“Do we wait for them?” Dienekes asked.
“No,” Leonidas answered. It wasn’t a rational decision. He just had the feeling they had to get this over with. The Immortals were bound to arrive any minute now.
For Maron, walking was less painful than standing, and he was relieved when Leonidas took them forward. It helped to be in the front rank, too. Behind him seven men were pushing him forward, and that took some of the strain off his ankles. He glanced just once at Alpheus; his brother caught his look and answered with a smile. At
some place in his brain, Maron felt sorry for his wife, his son. But neither he nor his brother had any choice. Maron had been Leonidas’ man since the day Leonidas had stepped in to stop the senseless flogging of Alpheus during Artemis Orthia.
The javelins started coming in furiously, and Maron shouted at his brother, “Keep your head down! One blind man in the phalanx is enough!” An instant later, an axe was somersaulting through the air straight at him. He jerked his shield up to try to stop it, but the axe was too heavy and had too much momentum. With a horrible crashing scream, the hoplon shattered and the axe sliced through Maron’s forearm and then his neck. His brother howled in agony, but Maron didn’t feel a thing anymore.
Alkander stepped over Maron’s body and was shield to shield with Leonidas.
The axe that had killed Maron was not the last. They had come up against a whole body of men armed with them, and each thrown axe meant a dead Greek. Alkander felt as if men were dropping all around him. The line was staggered as one hole after another was torn in it so fast that the second and third ranks could hardly move into place. The line came to a halt and was on the brink of collapse.
“Forward!” Leonidas shouted. “Close the distance!”
Alkander put his head down and felt as if he were cowering in the shelter of Leonidas’ shield, just as he had when they were boys and only Leonidas’ determination had made him keep going.
Somehow they managed to close with the axemen, but at close range the axes were still lethal. They sheared the Greek spearheads from the spear shafts or snapped the latter in two like twigs. Alkander found his spear worthless before he could even deploy it. He reversed it to use the butt end and called for a replacement, but there was no time to wait for one. He drew his sword and used it to parry the next swing of an axe. The sword held, but it left his arm numb. Ares! Alkander thought. These men are monsters.
A Heroic King Page 59