On the stairs they met a pair of Spartans coming to meet them – one was young and wounded, an arrow jutting from the small of his back; the other was older, sightless even in Hades, and he held his companion up and covered them both with the bowl of his shield.
“Eurytus,” Leonidas said.
“We were coming to warn you when young Maron, here, took one in the spine.” Blind Eurytus moved his shield slightly to catch another incoming arrow. It struck the bronze face like a mallet striking a bell, causing the Spartan to wince. Leonidas reckoned he could hear the wind rushing past each arrow’s fletching.
Though unable to walk, Maron smiled. “I’ll be all right, my king! I can still skewer the bastards!”
Leonidas nodded. “Rest, lad. There will be plenty of killing to do in a few moments. Simonides!” The poet hustled to his side. Leonidas clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Take charge of the wounded. Keep them safe. Eurytus, here, will help you.” Simonides took the injured Spartan’s arm and helped him sit as their blind comrade provided cover.
Leonidas turned his attention to the ephors, noting Lykourgos’ absence. “Agis, kinsman, take the left flank. Noble Menelaos, you have the right. Brasidas, you and Lysandros are with me in the center.” The ephors, the Chosen of Persephone, did Leonidas’ bidding without complaint.
At the first hint of trouble, the Spartans had performed the task for which they had been bred, arraying themselves in a tight phalanx one hundred shields long and three deep. Now, they waited only for their king. Despite an enemy surging toward them, baying like wolves, Leonidas paused to speak to a few of his men; he strolled through their ranks as though they stood on a parade field, taking his Corinthian helmet from a squire even as he told a rude joke. Laughter rippled along the formation. The crest of Leonidas’ helmet was bright scarlet—a splash of color amid the ash and grime of war.
His battle priest, stern-eyed Aristandros, waited at the center of the formation, clutching a kneeling captive by the hair. Here, they had no goats to sacrifice, no oxen to offer the gods. Here, they had only the shades of the dead. This one was a slave snatched at the last minute. Simonides’ salpinx-bearer, Leonidas noted. No matter. He would serve their purpose.
Leonidas grasped an eight-foot long spear and thrust it aloft.
“Spartans!” he roared. All eyes turned toward him. “Lord Hades is our master, now! He has given us these dregs, these wretched Ataphoi, on which to whet our spears! They are not worthy of this honor, but Lord Hades’ will must be done! There is no Glory, here! There is no Glory in the killing of such miserable creatures! There is only Mercy! Come, my Spartans! Come, my ferocious Three Hundred! Show our enemy the Mercy of the Spear! All of this for you, Lord Hades and for Lakedaemon!” With little effort, he drove the blade of his spear through the slave’s body. Blood spattered the packed earth, hissing on naked rock. The omens were good.
“For Lord Hades! For Lakedaemon!” his men echoed. “And for Leonidas!”
“Advance!”
Pipers played a tune on their reed flutes as the hoplites stepped off in unison, spears upright, their strides precise and unbroken. Polished greaves and shield-faces flashed in the infernal light. Three hundred throats chanted the paean, a hymn to Hades:
“Theos Khthonios,
“Pitiless in heart,
“Dweller under the Earth…”
At stanza’s end, Leonidas bellowed a command: “Spears!” And with that the bristling hedge of iron dropped from vertical to horizontal, creating a threshing machine of slaughter.
Now fifty yards’ distant, the savage Ataphoi only increased their pace. They charged like a mindless mob, in knots and clusters that held no cohesion, moving as fast or as slow as their deformed limbs allowed. They did not spread out and try to envelop the Spartan line, but drove straight at their center, at the scarlet crest that marked Leonidas. Their archers drew and loosed with reckless abandon … and to no avail.
The heavy bronze armor of the Spartans shrugged off this barbed rain of arrows. The Three Hundred marched on, implacable.
Behind them came the battle squires and helots, joined by the folk of different nations allied against the Ataphoi. From their ranks came a barrage of javelins, arrows, and sling stones that scythed into the unarmored mass of the enemy.
Howls of rage turned to agony; blood spewed as riddled bodies flopped to the ground under the rain of Spartan missiles, where the heels of their fellow Ataphoi kicked and trampled them into the dust.
A dozen yards separated them, now. Leonidas saw a festering mass of creatures, the cast-offs and detritus of a thousand years of natural selection. The things barreling toward him could never have survived in the sunlit world of the living: they were denizens of nightmare, seething with jealousy and hate.
Ten yards. Eight. Six….
Leonidas braced his shield, its rim scraping that of Dienekes’ on his right. Aristandros was on his left. Knowing his brothers, his kinsmen, his friends stood in such close proximity filled Leonidas’ heart with joy. He sang the paean:
Theos Khthonios!
Five yards, now. Four….
He singled out his first target: a naked, spitting thing with a misshapen head, sword clutched like a stick of driftwood in its gnarled fist. No Glory, only Mercy. Leonidas lined up his spear with the wretch’s center of mass. A swift blow, through the spine…
Three yards. Two….
Seconds before impact, through the eye-slit of his Corinthian helmet, Leonidas watched the front ranks of Ataphoi convulse. Perhaps their dull brains felt the first tendrils of fear; perhaps the prospect of facing an unbroken wall of bronze suddenly daunted them. Whatever the reason, their steps faltered and their braying slacked off, replaced by a keening dirge of dread. But their close-packed ranks could not turn aside. Momentum drove them into the flesh-grinding teeth of the Spartan war machine.
They struck with the sound of a melon meeting an anvil, a wet crack that drowned out the screams and the song and echoed over the plateau of Caeadas. Leonidas’ spear licked out, taking his first victim high, in the throat. Blood gushed from the hideous wound as the thing toppled backward….
Suddenly, Leonidas’ field of vision became a wall of writhing flesh, reeking of sulphur and feces and rich red gore. Sheer numbers pressed in upon him….
A sword bites low and deep, slipping between bronze and leather to skewer his hip. He stumbles. The enemy surges forward. A misshapen arm catches him off balance; a second sword shatters on the brow of his Corinthian helmet. “Theos Khthonios!” he bellows; faces loom over him—cruel-eyed Ataphoi with curled talons and blood-blasted fangs, lips peeled back in snarls of hate. They will pay dearly for this. Oh, yes! They will pay the butcher’s bill, a hecatomb of blood and flesh for every Spartan, Lord Hades! He falls to his knees, hears a deep voice whisper his name: “Leonidas.”
Time slows. He is at the Hot Gates, again. At hallowed Thermopylae. A tracery of clouds veil the face of the sun, creating bands of light and shadow across the stony face of Mount Kallidromos. He is not alone. A figure helps him arise. The Spartan sees a tall and perfectly formed being towering over him, his visage dark and brooding.
Lord Hades.
“Leonidas,” the Lord of the Underworld says, in a voice pitched to such sweet perfection that the dead king of Sparta must fight back tears. “You are mine, now, and you have served me well. Go, and serve me still: henceforth you are my champion, the Chosen of Hades! Remember your oath!”
Time’s flow resumes with a scream of rage.
Roaring, Leonidas surged upward. He flung creatures aside, bones snapping as his shield slammed into their faces, into their torsos. Though he bled from a wound in his hip, the dead king of Sparta was indomitable; his spear moved like a living thing, darting and biting. With each strike, another deformed shade lost its semblance of life. Blood slimed the stones, and steam rose from fresh pools of gore to wrap Leonidas in an infernal cloak.
The Ataphoi lines cracked against the bronze bulwark
. They showed the Spartans their backs and fought their own kind in desperation. They fought to get away. They fought to return to the welcoming shadows of their dread gorge: they fought to live.
And, true to his word, Leonidas slaughtered them like cattle.
The day drew on, and when the king finally called for an end to the butchery only a lucky few Ataphoi remained to slink and scurry back over the rim of the plateau; he doubted they’d number enough to fill the seats of a small theater. Leonidas leaned on the cracked shaft of his spear – his hip throbbed, but the bleeding had stopped – and surveyed the carnage in his wake. It seemed as though the Temple of the Ephors rested on a sea of corpses.
Dagger-wielding helots rooted among the piles of stinking dead, dispatching those they found yet clinging to life. Others salvaged the allied wounded. Leonidas spotted Simonides picking his way toward him. The poet looked ghastly. Blood caked his hands and arms to the elbow, and he held a knife loosely by his side.
“Simonides of Keos! You survived.”
The poet gazed in wonder at Leonidas, at the nimbus of hellish light seeming to wreathe him, and bowed. “Lord. We heard a rumor in the rear that you had fallen. I am pleased to see it was unfounded.”
“I did fall,” Leonidas replied. “But I arose again.” He gestured to the field around them. “Thermopylae looked much like this, on the eve of the first day. How many of my Spartans have fallen?”
Simonides exhaled. “Thirty, lord.”
“Thirty.” Leonidas shook his head. He looked up, again, to see Dienekes approach. “Is it true, dear friend? We lost thirty brothers?”
Though blood-blasted and limping, Dienekes’ eyes were alert. He nodded. “Mostly from the right. Alpheus, ’ere he died, told me that bastard Menelaos broke formation. Charged into the thick of them and left a hole in the front rank.”
“That son of a Mycenaean whore! Where is he?”
Dienekes gestured up at the temple. “Near death. Agis had a few of the slaves cart him up there.”
A dangerous light kindled in Leonidas’ eyes. “Follow me. Both of you.”
*
The trio threaded through the wrack of war, stopping now and again for Leonidas to speak in low tones with his brother Spartans. Though they exchanged smiles and jests, the malevolent gleam never left the king’s eyes. His men apprehended danger. By the time they mounted the stairs to the temple Leonidas’ cortege had grown.
He found the ephors in their accustomed place. Agis, Brasidas, and Lysandros sprawled wearily in their seats, still sticky with the blood of the slain. Pale and near death, Menelaos lay on a litter on the floor with Lykourgos attending to him. Near them, a pair of slaves held down a writhing captive: a naked Ataphoi glistening with sweat and blood, its hairless body deformed by a set of vestigial limbs sprouting from its back. Startlingly blue eyes pleaded with them to let it go.
“P-please …” it croaked.
As Leonidas traversed the interior of the temple, the creatures lurking in the shadows grew silent. Their wings ceased to rustle; their claws were still. Their screeches faded as though gripped by fear.
“Ephors!” he said, his voice booming. “We have won a victory!”
Before any of the others could so much as greet Leonidas, Lykourgos shot to his feet. The old man rapped his staff against the floor. “Victory? What price this victory, Leonidas? One of our own lies stricken!”
Leonidas crossed to Menelaos’ side and knelt. Swords and axes had dealt ferocious wounds to his torso, arms, and legs. It was a testament to his Homeric vitality that he still had enough essence to be counted amongst the living – or what passed for living – souls in war-torn Tartaros. The wounded man’s eyes fluttered open; he saw Leonidas’ blood-grimed face and smiled. “Rest easy,” Leonidas said. He glanced at the captive Ataphoi, then at Agis, among the seated ephors. “Did that thing tell you who armed them?”
Agis looked askance at it. “It blames Kharon.”
“Kharon?”
“F-ferryman,” the creature sobbed. “Ferryman … c-came among us! G-gave us hateful knives! Told us … told us to rip and slay!”
“Liar!” Lykourgos barked. He struck the thing in the face with his iron-shod staff. Bone crunched; blood spurted from its nose and mouth. “I know Kharon! He would never stoop so low!”
The Ataphoi wailed. “F-ferryman!”
“If it speaks again, I will carve its lying tongue from its head!” Lykourgos spat.
“Get hold of yourself, Lawgiver.” A grim smile twisted Leonidas’ lips as he apprehended the truth: a spare and leathery fellow who wore a ferryman’s coin on a thong about his neck. “I did not hear it accuse Kharon of any wrong-doing. In truth, I would wager this thing has never seen Kharon.” Leonidas snapped his fingers. “Look at me! It was not the boatman of the Styx who gave you weapons, was it, wretch? Was it?”
The thing shook its deformed head.
Brasidas frowned. “Then who?”
Leonidas gave a mirthless chuckle. “Earlier, did you not see a tight-lipped rogue with an obol, the ferryman’s coin, tied about his neck? It was Alexandros’ man, Nearchos. Though in truth, I expect it was Alexandros himself who gave the order. The young whelp will make a worthy adversary.”
“You have cause, now, Lykourgos,” Agis said. “Call forth the Erinys!”
“No,” Leonidas replied. “Alexandros is mine.”
Lykourgos rounded on the Spartan king. “Impertinent fool! You think fighting a battle on our very doorstep gives you the right to counsel us? We are the Chosen of Persephone! We, alone, will render judgment on Alexandros of Macedon! Go! Take yourself away from here and await our summons, as it pleases us! There is still a charge of impiety hanging over your head! Go!”
But Leonidas did not move. He knelt there beside Menelaos, one hand stroking the fallen giant’s sweat-slick brow. The air in the temple grew chill despite the infernal heat. “Simonides, you told me earlier that the Kore chooses only Spartans as her ephors. Correct?”
The poet of Keos shivered. “That is true, lord.”
“There must be some mistake, then, for noble Menelaos is no Spartan born, is he Simonides? He is a son of Mycenae, is that not true? The mantle of kingship over Sparta does not a Spartan make.”
“You are correct, lord.”
Leonidas snatched a handful of Menelaos’ damp hair and levered his head up. “And that’s why thirty of my men have returned to the Darkness, to begin the journey anew! Because you are no Spartan, you Mycenaean swine!”
Despite his wounds, Menelaos struggled to rise; his lips peeled back in a bloody snarl as he spat at Leonidas. “D-dog!”
“Find me when you return, you miserable cuckold, and we will settle accounts like men!” With that, Leonidas ripped a broad-bladed dagger from Menelaos’ own belt and plunged it into the Mycenaean’s chest. Agis and the other ephors leapt to Menelaos’ defense, only to be beaten back by spear-wielding Dienekes.
Leonidas twisted the blade.
Menelaos shuddered, his eyes rolling back in his head. To his credit, he uttered not a sound.
Into that gaping wound Leonidas thrust his hand; when he drew it back, slick with gore, it clutched Menelaos’ still-beating heart.
Forgotten, the captive Ataphoi howled with mirth, its blue eyes aglow.
King Leonidas of Sparta staggered to his feet and slung that gobbet of muscle into the shadows, where things could be heard scrabbling over it, hissing and biting. He stared at Agis, Brasidas, and Lysandros. “I have no quarrel with you.”
After a moment, Agis shook his head. “Nor we with you.”
Lykourgos, though, strode forward in a towering rage, oblivious to the spear leveled at his breast. “You are judged, Leonidas son of Anaxandridas! In the name of Queen Persephone, I pronounce the Doom of the Erinys upon you! Arise, wrathful daughters of Ouranos! Arise and slay!”
Like a prophet of old, the lawgiver stood with his arms upraised and his eyes closed in divine ecstasy. Perhaps he expected the s
hadows to roil and flow over the offending Spartan, to hear his screams as the bronze claws of the Erinys tore the flesh from his bones. Perhaps he expected cries of mercy or of repentance as the bat-winged sisters swept down on Leonidas.
But what he got was silence.
Nothing stirred.
He opened his eyes and met the king of Sparta’s gaze. There was no trace of mockery in his visage, only a grim sense of brooding majesty.
“I … I am the Chosen of Persephone! I judge you!”
“No,” Leonidas said. He turned away, motioned for Dienekes and Simonides to leave the temple, for the slaves to haul the captive Ataphoi out of his sight. The three remaining ephors joined them, leaving Lykourgos alone.
“I am the Chosen of Persephone and I judge you, Leonidas!”
“No.” The king of Sparta stopped; he turned back to face Lykourgos. “No, for I am the Chosen of Hades and I am your master! You are a coward, Lykourgos, called the Lawgiver, and I judge you unfit to wear the mantle of a Spartan! By Theos Khthonios, god of the underworld, the dread Lord Hades, I cast you into the shadows!”
“You are nothing! Nothing, do you hear?” Lykourgos rapped his staff on the marble floor. “Attend me, ephors! Denounce him!”
Leonidas merely shook his head. He resumed his path from the temple, and with his every step the umbra of hellish light surrounding Lykourgos shrank.
“I am the … the Chosen of Persephone!”
Leonidas crossed the threshold; behind him, the temple’s interior was plunged into darkness. Wings rustled. Brazen claws clashed on marble and tore flesh. And hissing voices rose in volume, drowning out Lykourgos’ screams….
Erra and the Seven
By
Chris Morris
Divinity of hell!
When devils will the blackest sins put on,
They do suggest at first with heavenly shows,
As I do now.
– William Shakespeare, Othello
When Lysicles awoke, the light hurt his eyes. So white and bright blazed this light, he could see nothing else. Tears were streaming down his face; he could feel them on his cheeks. He rubbed his face and his hand came away sticky. Around him he heard moaning and groaning. Then the moaning and groaning stopped; perhaps it was his.
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