Marathon: Freedom or Death lw-2

by Christian Cameron

  I was perhaps five paces from him — one lunge of his horse, three strides of my legs — when I cast my spear.

  The point went into the breast of his mount and sank the length of my forearm, and the horse’s front legs went out from under it as if it had tripped.

  He cut at me anyway. But the gods put him on the ground at my feet, and my second spear rang on his helmet, snapping his head back. He tried to rise, and quick as a cat I stabbed twice more — eye slit and throat. The first rang on his helmet and the second sank slickly and came out red. And then I was past him, and the world seemed to burst into motion as the rest of his cavalry slammed into us or slackened their reins — confusion everywhere, but the Plataeans ran in among them.

  The Persians had balked, or most of them had. It happens to horses and to cavalry. Especially men who are riding strange horses. Many of them were just Greek farm horses, and they balked at the line of shields and the eleu-eleu-eleu shrieks from every throat.

  And then they broke. They wanted a shooting contest, not a toe-to- toe brawl with men in better armour. The noble Persians broke away from us, leaving their dead, having accomplished nothing.

  But we had. We were like gods now. We went after them, at their infantry, at the archers who had stopped shooting for fear of hitting their own.

  The gods were with us.

  I ran with a host of dead men — Eualcidas was there, I know, and Neoptolemus, and all the men who had died for nothing at Lade. I could feel their shades at my back, giving wings to my feet.

  But Persians are men, too. Those archers were not slaves, nor hirelings, nor raw levies. They were Darius’s veterans, and when we were ten short paces from their lines, they did not flinch. They raised their bows and aimed the barbed shafts straight at our faces, too close to miss.

  And then they loosed. I remember hearing the shout of the master archer, and the grunts of men as they let the heavy bows release — I was that close.

  I was in front. Men say that our front rank fell like wheat to a scythe. I know that the next day I saw men I loved with eight or nine arrows in them, men shot right through the faces of their aspides, through leather caps, or even bronze.

  But not a shaft touched me. Perhaps the shades kept them from me. Or Heracles, my ancestor.

  Nine paces from their line, I knew I would outrun their next volley.

  Eight paces out, and men in the front rank were as plain as day — tanned faces. Handsome men, with long, black beards. Drawing swords.

  Six paces out, and they were flinching.

  This was not the fight at the pass. I didn’t need to risk hitting them at full speed. I slowed, shortening stride, bringing my second spear up, gripping it short — just a little forward of halfway.

  Three paces out, and my prayers went to my ancestors. There is no Paean at the dead run, but to our right, the Athenians were singing, and I could hear it.

  I remember thinking — This is how I want to die.

  One pace out, the man in front of me wouldn’t meet my eye, and my spear took him while he cringed, but the man to his left was made of better stuff and he slammed his short sword into me. I blocked it on my aspis and then I put my shield into him. He had no shield, and I probably broke his jaw.

  My strong right leg pushed me through their front rank. Left foot planted, shield into the second-ranker and I knocked him back — Ares’ hand on my shoulder.

  The second-ranker was a veteran and he knew his business. He and the man to his right got their swords up, into my face, points levelled, and they pushed back at me together. Then a rain of blows fell on my aspis as they tried to force me out of their ranks. I took a blow to my helmet and I went back a step, and then Teucer — already at my shoulder by then — shot one, a clean kill. I pushed forward against the other man, chest to chest, and he stood his ground, and our spears were too long to reach each other, close enough to embrace, to kiss, to smell the cardamom and onion on his breath. I thrust over his shoulder at the man behind him. He pushed me back — he was strong, and I remember my shock as he moved me back another full pace, but he was so dedicated to pushing me by main strength that I had time to throw my light spear into another second-ranker. My sword floated into my hand and I cut — once, twice, three times — at his shield rim, no art, no science, just strength and terror and the last shreds of force from my desperate run, and he raised his cloak-wrapped arm and ducked his head, as men will, and pushed. My fourth blow came as fast as the first three, stooped like a hawk on a rabbit, bit through his cloak and into the naked meat of his arm, so hard that it cut to the bone and my sword snapped as I wrenched it loose — falling, because even as I cut him, his push overcame my balance. I fell, and the melee closed over me.

  Imagine — I had killed him, or wounded him so badly he couldn’t fight, yet still he knocked me down. At my shoulder was Teucer, who had no shield. At my victim’s shoulder was a smaller man who hadn’t quite kept up — in a fight like that, a rear-ranker needs to be pressed tight to his front-ranker to help him at all, or his spear-thrusts are too far back. Teucer shot the next man, but the arrow skittered off his shield.

  Suddenly we were fighting their killers, their front-rank men, who were pushing as hard as they could to get to their correct places. By all the gods, the Persians were brave. Even disordered, they fought, and their best men weren’t finished.

  I saw it all from where I’d fallen backwards, my back against Teucer’s knees and my shield still covering me.

  I had never gone down in a phalanx fight before, and I was terrified. Once you are down, you are meat for any man’s spear. In falling, my chin had caught on my shield rim and I’d bitten my tongue — it may sound like a silly wound to you, thugater, but my head was full of the pain and I didn’t know if I’d taken a worse wound.

  ‘Arimnestos is down!’ Teucer called. He meant to rally aid, but his words sucked the heart out of our phalanx. The whole line gave a step to the Persians and Medes.

  I couldn’t get an arm under me. My left arm, beneath my shield, was wrapped in my chlamys, and I couldn’t get the rim of the shield under me — my right arm slipped on the blood-soaked wheat stubble and one of the enemy thrust at me. I caught a flash of his spearhead and turned my head, and his blow landed hard. His point must have caught in the repousse of my olive wreath, and I fell back again, this time on my elbows. My aspis bore two heavy blows, and my shoulder felt the impact as my left arm was rotated against my will — I screamed at the pain.

  Then Bellerophon and Styges saved my life. They passed over Teucer, their shields flowing around him in the movements we had taught in the Pyrrhiche. They stood over me, their spears flashing, the tall crests on their helmets nodding in time to their thrusts, and for a moment I could see straight up under their helmets — mouths set, chins down to cover the vulnerable throat — and then Styges pushed forward with his right leg and Bellerophon roared his war cry and they were past me.

  I got a breath in me. Teucer stepped over me, close at their shoulders, and shot — and there were hands under my armpits, and I was dragged back. I breathed again, and again, and the pain was less, and then I was on my back and my shield was off my arm.

  ‘Let me up!’ I spat.

  They were all new men — the rear-rankers — and they scarcely knew me. On the other hand, they’d been bold enough to push into the scrum and get my body. I finally got my feet under me and I rose, covered in blood and straw from being dragged.

  ‘You live!’ one of the new men said.

  ‘I live,’ I said. I pulled my helmet back and one of them handed me a canteen. I looked at the front of the fighting — just a couple of horse-lengths away. I could see Styges’ red plume and Bellerophon’s white, side by side, and Idomeneus’s red and black just an arm’s length to the right of Styges. They were fighting well. The line wasn’t moving, either way.

  I looked to the right. The Athenians under Leontus were into the Medes — but the fighting was heavy, and the Sakai in the rear ranks
were lofting arrows high to drop on the phalanx, where they fell on unarmoured men, many of whom had no shields.

  To my left, the Persian cavalry were pressed hard against the front of our shields, stabbing down with their spears and screaming strange cries.

  A new man — little more than a boy — handed me a gourd. ‘More water, lord?’

  I drank greedily, pressed the gourd back into his hands and pulled my helmet down. ‘Shield,’ I said, and two of them put it on my arm. My left arm muscles protested — something bad had happened in my shoulder. ‘Spear,’ I growled, and one of them gave up his spear — his only weapon.

  Behind me, the sound of battle changed tone.

  I had to turn around to look — once I had my helmet on, my field of vision was that limited.

  Beyond the Athenians fighting the Medes, something was already wrong. I could see the backs of Athenians — I could see men running. But they were two or three stades away — slightly downhill. It looked to me as if our centre was bulging back.

  Remember that we had been fighting for only two minutes — maybe less.

  I remember sucking in a deep breath and then plunging forward into the phalanx the way a man dives into deep water. I pushed past the rear-rankers easily — they were anxious to let me past. When I came to armoured men — our fifth or sixth rank, I suppose — I had to tap the men on the backplate.

  ‘Exchange!’ I called.

  Rank by rank, I exchanged forward. This is something we practise in the Pyrrhiche over and over again. Men need to be able to move forward and back. I went forward — sixth to fifth, fifth to fourth, fourth to third. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, I was behind Teucer, and I could see Idomeneus, locked in his fight with a Persian captain.

  They were well matched. And both of them were failing — their blows slowing. I’ve said it before: men can only fight so long — even brave, noble men in the height of training.

  I stepped to the right, cutting in ahead of Idomeneus’s second-ranker — Gelon. He knew me immediately.

  I tapped Idomeneus on the shoulder.

  He looked back — the merest flash of a glance, shield high to deflect a blow — but in that heartbeat he knew who was behind him.

  He set his feet, and I put my right foot forward across my left, and allowed my knee to touch the back of his leg. He pivoted on the balls of his feet and stepped to the rear. I pushed forward and launched a heavy blow into the Persian’s shield with my new spear, rocking him back.

  He was tired. I could tell he was fading from that first exchange, and he crouched behind his shield and thrust low, at my shins, but I was having none of it. I had caught my breath, and I was as fresh as a man can be in a phalanx fight. I powered forward on my spear foot, and Gelon came at my shoulder, pounding away at the noble Persian with high blows to his shield and his helmet.

  He gave ground.

  ‘Plataeans!’ I roared. ‘TAKE THEM!’

  I remember that moment the best, children. Because it was like the dance, and it was glorious — it was, perhaps, a taste of godhood. Enough men heard me — enough men in every rank heard the call.

  I was Arimnestos the killer of men. But in that kind of fight, I was only one man.

  But I was one Plataean, and together, we were that thing. I planted my right foot and around me every Plataean did the same, and though we had no pipes to call the time, every man crouched, screamed their war cry and pushed forward.

  Apollo’s Ravens!

  The Persian officer was gone — knocked flat, or exchanged out of the front rank. I lost him in the moments when we pushed, and my new opponent’s eyes were wide with terror. I swept my shield forward and caught the rim of his oval shield and flicked it aside, and Gelon’s spear robbed the man of life as easily as if he was a dummy of straw.

  Then we went forward. I had Styges at my left shoulder and Idomeneus was pressing up on my right. Gelon was at my back, and Teucer shot and shot from behind my left ear. We went forward ten paces and then another ten — the enemy stumbling away before us. They didn’t break, but suddenly there was less pressure on our front.

  Leontus and his Athenians were keeping pace, and the Medes were backing away almost as fast as we pressed forward, but they were not yet beaten men. In truth, it was the hardest fighting I had ever seen. By this time, we had been spear to spear for as long as a man gives a speech in the Agora — or more — long enough that the sun was suddenly high in the sky. I was covered in sweat. My face burned from the pressure of my helmet and the blood and salt against the leather of my helmet pad. My shoulder was lacerated by the damaged scales on my thorax, and my legs ached.

  The Persians flinched back again, and their front solidified. Men were calling to each other to hold their ground, and the Medes on our right got their spear-fighters into the front rank and locked shields, and we came to a stop, just a pace or two clear of their line.

  I looked around — we’d pushed them back a stade or more. And as they recoiled, they were pivoting on their centre, so that we were facing their ships in the distance, far away by their camp.

  All along the line, men breathed and stood straight, they switched grips on their spears, or dropped a broken weapon. Many exchanged, giving their place to fresher men.

  ‘You live!’ Styges said. He raised my shield arm — wrenching my shoulder as he did — so that the black raven on my red shield rose over the battlefield.

  Men cheered. That is a great feeling, daughter, and worth all the pain in the world. When men cheer you, you are with the gods.

  Opposite us, an officer called for the Persians to cheer and got a rumble — and no more.

  ‘Plataeans!’ I called, and Heracles or Hermes gave my throat power. ‘Sons of the Daidala, now is the time!’

  The spear came up again, and our cheer had the force of a crack of thunder, and we charged — not far, two paces, but the Persians were yielding before we reached them, their shields moving, so that every veteran in our line knew that we had beaten them — and with a long crash like the sound two boats make as they collide, the enemy gave way.

  The first-rank man opposite me was brave, or foolish, and stood his ground. I knocked him flat. I threw my borrowed spear at the next man and it stuck in his shield, dragging it down. Gelon put a spear-tip into the top of his thigh and I stepped on his chest and pressed forward, reaching for a sword that wasn’t there — a moment of fear — and I was into the third rank.

  This part I remember as if it was yesterday, thugater. I had no weapon, and the next man should have killed me, but he cowered, and my right arm shot out as if it had its own life in combat, grabbed the rim of his scalloped shield and spun it to the left. His shield arm snapped. He went down. He screamed, and his scream was the surrender of the Persians to panic.

  And the rest were running.

  The screaming man with the broken arm had a perfectly good spear, and the gods gifted it to me as he let go and it seemed to leap into my hand.

  I looked left — Hermogenes was coming into the flank of the Medes. No idea where the beaten Persian cavalry had got to, but the Persians were wrecked — men in front and the flank — and they ran, and the Medes started to run with them.

  All in as long as it takes to tell the tale. After an hour of endless pushing, we were winning.

  To my right, the Medes were backing fast, but they were not beaten, and their rear ranks continued trying to lob arrows high to drop them on our phalanx, and it was working. My men were still dying. But the Sakai had no shields, and our spears were hurting them.

  I was no longer in command. We were no longer a phalanx. Plataeans and Athenians were intermixed along two stades, and men were plunging into the front of the Sakai, in groups or alone.

  I remember that I stooped and picked up a Sakai axe and put it in my shield hand. Better than no weapon, I thought, if my short Persian spear broke.

  I could hear a Mede demanding that his men rally — and they did. The Persians tried to form on them —
they had lost many men. And the Persian cavalry came forward with a shout and a hail of arrows.

  Hermogenes’ men were still milling around, in no sort of order — but remember, he had twelve ranks of men behind him. The cavalry hit his front ranks, and they locked up — spear and aspis against horse and sword and bow. Our line moved back a pace, and then the men on my left ran at the flanks of the horses and started pulling the Persians from their saddles.

  The Medes — like lions — came forward to take advantage of our confusion — or simply to save the Persians — I have no idea.

  ‘On me!’ I roared. ‘Charge!’

  The Medes were shocked as we ran at them again. Some stopped dead, and others kept coming, and they had no more order than we did.

  That’s when the fighting was the worst — the fiercest. They were shamed from their brief rout and meant to have our heads, while we already thought that we were the better men and meant to have theirs. Both sides lost their cohesion, and men died fast. Blows came out of everywhere and nowhere, and the only hope was to be fully armoured, as I was. I must have taken ten blows that should have been wounds, on my arm and shoulder plates, on my scale shirt, on my helmet. Some must have been from my own men, in the confusion.

  Then, somehow, I was in among the Persian cavalry, not the Medes, though I have no memory of running at them, and that made my fighting easier — anyone on a horse was a target. Mounted men seldom have shields. I was like Nemesis.

  Idomeneus must have decided to stay at my shoulder, and I had Gelon at my back — and we killed them. Ahh, I remember Marathon, children. That day, I was a god of war. My armour flashed and shone, and men fell under every blow of my spear. I ripped men from their horses. Mounted men have to fight to the front — they cannot face to the flanks or rear. Not against two rapid blows, anyway.

  Idomeneus and Gelon were not much worse than me, though, and as the fight became looser, and ranks dissolved, we were more dangerous, not less. I had a simple goal — my usual goal in a melee — to burst out of the back of the enemy formation. So I killed and wounded, I knocked men off their mounts and stepped on them, and I kept going forward, and my little group stuck to me.