Atlantis Gate a-4

by Robert Doherty

  “I don’t—“”

  “Do it!”

  Cyra jabbed, point toward his eyes and was amazed to see he didn’t blink. She handed the dagger back to him. “How did you do that?”

  “Many, many hours and days and years of learning the discipline of the body. Of the fear muscles. I was hit many times around my eyes for many years before I learned the control of these muscles. And once I learned those, I was taught the others in the body until I could achieve aphobia.”

  “Fearlessness,” Cyra translated. They were halfway across the strait and Cyra could see the lead ships were already landing, scarlet-cloaked Spartans scrambling ashore, forming in ranks.

  “Not exactly. As I told you, I am afraid.”

  Cyra was surprised that Leonidas made no attempt to keep his voice down or showed any concern that the nearby warriors heard him.

  “What I control,” the king continued, “is my reaction to the fear. I don’t react to it.”

  “And that is what makes the Spartans the greatest warriors in Greece?”

  “In the world. Partly. There are other important factors, but I am afraid I do not have time to discuss them right now.” The keel of the boat hit the bottom with a grating sound and men began jumping off. “Watch and learn,” Leonidas said as he moved forward.

  Leonidas yelled orders as he passed through the troops. He halted at the front, looking up the slope at the city. He could see the helmets of soldiers lining the walls but the gates were still shut.

  As the rest of the Spartan army landed, the docks and warehouses were put to the torch. Parties of skiritai ranged out around the city and lines of smoke began to dot the air as they burned farms and houses.

  The rest of the Spartan army arrayed itself in formation. And waited as the sun rose along with the smoke.

  Cyra stood near the water, behind the army. She could sense the collective desperation rising from the walled city. Thousands of people watching their livelihoods being destroyed. Their homes in flames.

  Cyra felt despair. Most of those inside the walls had no idea why this had happened. The Spartans were here only on the possibility that the Persians might swing their fleet wide and pass through the strait behind her and threaten the Spartan homeland. She wondered if a person counted for anything.

  She was surprised to hear chatter and laughter among the Spartan ranks. Although their formations were perfectly aligned, the men were at ease. She could sense the fear among them, but at nowhere near the level she would have expected given the numbers involved. She noted that Leonidas was walking to and fro, stopping every now and then to talk to someone.

  The chatter paused as the gates to the city opened and soldiers began filing out. Leonidas’s ploy had worked and the Antirhonians were coming out to challenge the Spartan army. While the Spartans had aligned in less than ten minutes after the last troop was ashore, it took their foe almost an hour and much yelling and hands on positioning by officers.

  To Cyra’s unpracticed eye it appeared that the Spartans were outnumbered at least three to one. But even she could tell the difference between the two armies. The Spartans were silent now, their ranks perfectly aligned so that when she looked down a line, not only were the men shoulder to shoulder, their spear points appeared as one. The spear points in the Antirhonian ranks on the other hand, trembled and shivered as if a stiff breeze were blowing among them.

  Some among the enemy ranks began slamming the butts of their spears into the ground and smacking the wood haft against their shields. The racket increased, men yelling curses at the Spartans now. Still the red-cloaked lines remained deathly still and quiet.

  An officer moved to the front of the enemy lines. He had a high purple plume on the top of his helmet and the edges of the helmet were rimmed with gold. He was pumping his arm and trying to yell an order that went unheard among the blustering racket of his troops. Some of the men saw him and began moving, producing a very uneven start to the Antirhonian advance.

  Still the Spartans remained still.

  The enemy commander had his spear held parallel to the ground, dashing from side to side in a most undignified manner, trying to align his battalions. Looking at the Spartan lines, Cyra saw that Leonidas was now out front of his formations, leaning on his spear, watching the approaching enemy as if viewing a harmless parade.

  Cyra frowned as she noted that the Antirhonian line was sliding to the right and also becoming more uneven. Then she realized the rightward movement was an unconscious attempt by almost every man to get closer to the protection of the shield of the man to his right. The more brave — or foolhardy, Cyra thought — were moving to the front, while others held back slightly. She saw officers in the rear of the Antirhonian lines with swords drawn, smacking men back into line. She even saw one man cut down as he broke ranks and tried to flee. The ground was trembling at the approach of so many armored men. Their cries were louder, and, if her ears heard rightly, more desperate than threatening.

  Still the Spartan main body remained still and quiet.

  Leonidas made a gesture and Cyra saw several companies of skiritai begin moving on the flanks, swinging wide to get around the advancing enemy. The bravest of the Antirhonian troops were less than a quarter mile away. Cyra could see the sweat on the men’s face as they labored to advance against the dual hindrances of their fear and their heavy armor, which, unlike the Spartans, they weren’t used to wearing.

  Leonidas gestured for a second time, lifting his spear up high so the point was toward the heavens. A ripple ran through the Spartan lines. Cyra felt her heart beat quicker. Slowly, very slowly, Leonidas brought the spear down. She noted that the left foot of every Spartan was lifting at the same pace the spear lowered. When the King’s arm locked into place level and pointing at the enemy, the entire Spartan main body took a step forward, their heavy oxide battle sandals slapping the ground at the exact same time. The army was moving in rhythm, the cadence having been pounded into each man since his first day in the agoge. Sixty steps a minute, a slow march.

  The Antirhonians were less than six hundred meters away but Cyra could see the men were slowing, from both fear and exhaustion. She saw the wisdom of Leonidas, allowing his enemy to cover most of the ground, putting distance between them and the safety of the walls. The lightly armored had now flanked the enemy on both sides, but held their places, bows at the ready.

  Leonidas was walking in the lead, spear still held level, when he pumped his left hand once. The pace doubled to quick march, one hundred and twenty paces a minute. The ground thundered from the rhythmic march. The spears of all the men were in the three quarter position, angled exactly between upright and parallel to the ground.

  The Antirhonian King could no longer control his troops. The ranks broke as men lost all reason and charged forward all out, but much too soon. Cyra could see that more were trying to run to the rear, and there were more summary executions by the trailing officers. The front of the two lines were less than two hundred meters apart.

  Leonidas pumped his hand twice, the order mirrored along the rank by other officers. The Spartans increased to the charge, one hundred and eighty paces a minute. The King fell backward into his place in line, his spear in one hand, the shield handed him by Xarxon in the other, half protecting the man to his left.

  No command was given that Cyra could see for the next action on the part of the Spartans. She could only assume, like everything else she was witnessing, that it was something that had been drilled on until it was instinctual. With the Antirhonians at just one hundred meters away, the spear points of the Spartans snapped as one from the three quarter into the horizontal, glittering blades pointed directly at their foes.

  She could almost hear the moan of fear from the ranks of the enemy at this fearsome maneuver. At least half of those in the Antirhonian front rank stopped and tried to force themselves backward, but the weight of the ranks behind shoved them forward, many falling to the ground.

  Cyra knew the battle
was over already and the Spartans had yet to taste blood with their blades.

  Those who fell became obstacles to those behind, their spears tripping their fellows, their shields catching on others’ shields. It was chaos and then a massacre as the Spartan line smashed into the Antirhonians.

  It produced a sound unlike any that Cyra had ever heard in her worst nightmare. Metal on metal, metal on flesh, a sickening sound as spears punctured flesh, the mortal screams of the dying, and perhaps worse, the triumphant yells of the Spartans who finally let loose with sound as they struck with their spears.

  The Antirhonians were like ants under the wheels of a heavy oxen cart. Immediately upon reaching the enemy, the Spartans had shifted gears once more, again without a command, but by dint of their training, going from the charge to the slow advance. Eight-foot spears jabbed into flesh, puncturing and ripping. Given the length of the spears, the front three ranks of the Spartans all were engaged in the killing.

  Then, to add to the mayhem, the skiritai began firing their bows, striking the rear ranks of the Antirhonians from the flanks.

  The Antirhonian line, not very solid to start with, broke and the slaughter rose to a new level. Cyra was beginning to truly understand the Spartan advantage in this type of warfare. Yes, the individual Spartan was a superior warrior, but it was the ability to work in unison that took their abilities to another level. Without order, the Antirhonians were nothing more than a mob, their shield wall non-existent, each man fending for himself.

  The Spartan advance picked up pace and the spear was exchanged for the xiphos. Shield and armor were designed to protect when the man wearing and holding faced the enemy. With backs turned as they ran, the Antirhonians were presenting the Spartans with flesh covered only by leather.

  Blood flowed and men screamed in agony. The ground was churned, turning into mud from the blood and urine let loose by frightened bladders. Cyra began walking forward and passed the first of the bodies. She was surrounded by Spartan squires who finished the work their masters had begun, slicing the throats of wounded Antirhonians while recovering the few wounded Spartans they found and marking bodies.

  She saw Leonidas, his armor splattered with blood, walking among his men. A large cluster of Antirhonians, the remainder of their army, was begging for mercy, tossing away weapons and armor. Leonidas was restraining his men from slaying them, speaking soothing words to his angry warriors who wanted revenge for slain comrades.

  The gates of Antirhon were open and now the Rhionians, whose troops had held back during the battle, surged forward. Cyra could feel their blood-lust against their ancient enemies. She saw that Leonidas sensed it also as he turned from keeping his troops from massacring prisoners, to intercepting the column of warriors heading for the gates. The King stood alone in the dusty trail, covered in blood, his shoulders slumped in weariness and held up his left hand.

  The Rhionians halted.

  Cyra move close to the front of the column.

  “Blood begets blood,” Leonidas said. “You can massacre everyone in the city—” he jerked his thumb at the open gate behind him. “But what of those who have hidden in the forests and the hills? Won’t they have children and tell them stories of revenge? And one day, your children, or your children’s children, will have their gate open and an Antirhonian army ready to enter and massacre them.”

  There were mutters of dissent among the Rhionians.

  Leonidas held up his xiphos, not in a threatening manner, but to show the blood on the blade. “This is what we have done for you. And it is Spartan blood that soaks this field as well as that of your enemy. Sack this city and do not call for our aid again.”

  * * *

  King Xerxes saw mountains ahead, filling the horizon. His army had crossed the Plain of Thessalia without any resistance from the Greeks living there. His fleet was off shore, something that made his admirals less than happy as the island of Euboea lay within site, meaning they were pinned between the mainland and island with little maneuvering room. But Pandora — and his spies — told him the Athenians weren’t moving.

  His throne was set in the center of the camp, a ring of Immortals guarding him. A cluster of generals waited on his orders. He signaled to one of the slaves, who brought forward a table with a jade top and placed it in front of him. Then he turned to Pandora, tapping the table. She had a tube in her hand, with stoppers on both end. She pulled one out and then retrieved a rolled document.

  She placed it on the table, laying small gemstones on each corner to keep it in place. The ‘paper’ was something none had ever seen, with a shiny sheen and impervious to water. It showed the known world in fine detail and so far had been valid during their march to the west.

  Pandora put a thin finger on a spot. “We are here.”

  Xerxes crooked a finger and his top generals came forward. No Persian army had ever penetrated this far into Greece, so they were on unknown ground. There were plenty of Greeks among the army, but Xerxes would not trust them this far into their homeland.

  “Is there room for us to move along the coast?” he asked Pandora.

  She ran her finger further south. “As you can see my Lord, the mountains ahead come close to the coast, here, at Thermopylae. But there is a pass through right next to the ocean.”

  “How wide?” Xerxes asked.

  Pandora leaned over and looked closely. She tapped the spot. “Almost a mile wide at the narrowest.”

  Xerxes scanned his generals. A mile wasn’t much room to push his army through.

  “Are there any alternatives to going through this pass?” he asked Pandora.

  “Here at Brallos to the west,” she said, “but then your army will be in the mountains. You will not have the fleet on your flank. The Greeks will have many places where they can ambush you.”

  Xerxes slapped his hand on the map. “We will go through this pass—” he looked at Pandora—“what did you call it?”

  “Thermopylae.”

  “Thermopylae. Move the army.”

  * * *

  The three hundred had marched hard, the land becoming more and more desolate and deserted as they got closer to Thermopylae. It never ceased to amaze the warriors how word of pending disaster could pass so quickly among people whose entire world consisted of their farm and the nearest village.

  At the very head of the column marched Polynices, in command until Leonidas brought the rest of the army. He did not march like an old man, indeed several of the younger warriors had complained among themselves about the brutal pace he set. They feared they would be too worn out to fight to which Polynices had loudly observed it would be better to arrive in time and fight tired, then to be too late and not have the glorious opportunity to fight. He told the warriors they could come at their own pace and that the rest would try to capture a Persian or two for them to spar with. After that, there were no more complaints.

  But they all felt the eyes of the countryside on them as they moved north. The people were hiding in the hills, afraid even to come when they saw the scarlet cloaks of the Spartans, which indicated an extreme level of fear and the strength of the rumor of the Persian strength. Usually all it took was the site of a Spartan and a Greek would feel they were saved.

  The road began to climb as the way narrowed. Polynices walked ramrod straight, a hundred and twenty pound pack containing his shield, sword and supplies on his back. They passed several hot springs. To the right they could see the Malian Gulf, to the left, the terrain rose abruptly leading up to a spur of Mount Oeta.

  “This is good!” Polynices spoke loudly, his voice echoing off the rock to the left. “Do you feel it men?”

  The road curved slightly left then right. Polynices finally halted. From the cliff to sea was less than fifty meters. A pile of stone lay ahead, the remains of an old wall.

  “I feel death here!” Polynices turned to face the small column of Spartans. “Do you feel it?” There was a murmur of assent and being the veteran of many campaigns that he
was, Polynices could also sense the unease among the men. This was a place of death. Any fool could feel it. “I think many Persians will see their last sunlight here,” he continued. “There will be so much blood flowing from them, the sea will turn red.”

  The three hundred had gathered round. Polynices was done with the attempt to raise spirits. They would fight when the enemy arrived. He detailed scouts to check the plain to the north to see how close the Persians were. Then he instructed others to begin rebuilding the rock wall, known as the Middle Gate.

  As the men followed his orders, the old man finally sat down on a boulder. Reluctantly he removed one of his ox-hide sandals. It was soaked in blood and he saw white where one of the bones on the top of his foot was exposed, the skin worn off during the march. He quickly wrapped the injury and then went back to supervising the preparation for defense of the Hot Gates.

  “Ah!” one of the men cried out. “Look at this.”

  “What is it?” Polynices walked over to the man who had rolled over a large stone.

  “Look,” the man pointed.

  There was a carving etched into the stone. A very old carving to judge by how the stone was worn down. There were warriors, spears in their hands. The points of the spears were pointing at an array of finely drawn creatures, most of which Polynices didn’t recognize but all appeared to be quite fearsome.

  “A great battle was fought here,” Polynices said.

  “Between who?” the man who had found the carvings asked.

  “Man and beast.” Polynices noted something else. Behind the beasts were a pair of figures, almost human, but with straight lines, almost above the battle. “And these, whatever they are.”

  “And who won?”

  Polynices laughed and slapped the man on the back. “What does it matter? It was a great battle.”

  * * *

  Cyra was praying over the bodies of the dead, Spartan and Antirhonian alike, when she felt such severe pain in her left eye that she wondered if she’d been shot with an arrow. She staggered back, hand reflexively going to the eye. She looked at her hand, half expecting to see blood, but there was just flesh. She went to her knees and bent over, eyes tightly shut.