The path the column marched took them close to the edge of the sea-cliffs before it began to wend its way back. Xanthippus tried to count more ships than he had ever seen before. His eyes were good, though the vessels shifted and blurred into the distance, making it impossible. It was like asking a boy to count soldiers, he thought wryly. How many of those tiny specks were triremes heading away from dropping armed men? How many were heavy-laden still? Were they landing horses for cavalry? Stone blocks for fortifications, weapons for the men? The ships moved, confounding every attempt to count them – and then the marching line was heading away from the sea, the sense of scale vanishing as they wound their way inland once again, step by step.
Xanthippus felt the drop in temperature as he passed through the shadow of the cliffs, but it went almost unnoticed. The chatter and nervous laughter in the column had fallen silent as every man there considered what such a vast fleet must mean. They were two hours or so from encountering the army those ships had dropped, fresh from victory and violence in Eretria, across the strait.
Xanthippus felt those around him looking over. Men needed to be reassured, or their nerve could fail. He considered his own dread. Perhaps he needed it too. It was one thing he had seen Themistocles do well. The thought made Xanthippus smile for the first time that day. No. He would not laugh and pound his friends on the back as Themistocles did. He would not call them appalling names that might have led to knives being drawn for anyone else. That could never be his style. Yet Xanthippus still sensed their eyes on him. He knew Aristides would have spoken to them, calming their nerves. They were not the golden automatons said to serve in Olympia, creations of metal made to cater to every whim of the gods. No, these were ordinary men, with fear coiling in their stomachs as if they had swallowed a viper.
‘I saw the Persians fight, in Ionia,’ Xanthippus said. He spoke clearly, making his words carry. He had a good voice, so Agariste had told him. She had called it rich and dark and strong as a man’s voice should be. He used it then.
‘They favoured the sling and archers, bringing large numbers of those – and as many foot soldiers. Their lords and generals are both clean and brave; I have seen it. The rest, though… they are poorly trained. They run, when a battle goes badly. They break, like rotten wood. I have seen the backs of those we encountered in Ionia. I will see their backs again today.’
He paused and was rewarded with an appreciative chuckle from men around him. It was not ideal – who gave speeches on the march, actually while moving? The noise of tramping feet and creaking armour meant that only the closest ranks could hear him. Yet he continued, seeing the effect. He raised his voice further, making it carry.
‘All those who serve the Persian king are slaves. Beyond his family and a few chosen favourites, the rest mean nothing to him. He spends them like they are worthless. Remember that. We are free men, of Athens. We are bronze – we are gold and silver. The greatest warriors in Greece, descendants of Theseus, beloved of Athena, who brought us the olive. Against us, no untrained slaves can know victory. We are fitter, faster, stronger than anyone they can put in the field. Remember that, when you are asked to hold the line. They will grow weary, like panting dogs – and we will be there, still standing, fresh and ready.’
It was true of him, true of all the strategoi. He was not certain every one of the hoplites of Athens had put in the hours in the gymnasia they had sworn to. Still, they seemed pleased. Not more than two in ten that day had encountered Persians before. Some of them were twenty years younger than him, just beginning their two years of army training after eighteen. If the veteran strategos said they could be beaten, it strengthened their resolve.
‘Those are fine words,’ said a voice to one side.
Xanthippus looked across and blinked in surprise at the sight of Themistocles, walking along the edge of the marching rank. Of course the man had not considered himself bound to remain in one spot, as Xanthippus had. The rules did not apply to Themistocles! In that, he resembled Agariste, Xanthippus realised. Her uncle had created the underpinning structures of Athens, throwing out centuries of traditions as he did so. A man of vision, his structures had been welcomed as binding threads that drew new men into the Assembly, to serve on juries, to decide their own laws. There was nothing like Athenian democracy in the world – and yet in private, Xanthippus knew his wife considered her family above the laws, immune from the will of the people in a way he could hardly understand.
Themistocles had the same strange confidence when it came to the rules of men. Xanthippus wondered if he even feared being ostracised – the ten-year exile that required just six thousand votes from the people of the city. It was designed to stop the rise of tyrants, but it would stop one like Themistocles just as easily.
‘Thank you, strategos,’ Xanthippus said, realising he had been staring in thought for too long.
‘You have the most experience of anyone, except perhaps Miltiades. You should be at his side, to advise him. That Callimachus will be no help at all.’
‘I serve in his wing,’ Xanthippus replied. ‘That is enough.’
Was the man trying to flatter him or just lead him into saying something that would be reported later? It helped that he did not trust Themistocles. Xanthippus took his manner from Aristides in that. He would not be tempted to smile or laugh, or be drawn into a rash opinion without considering it from all angles. His was a defensive style, but it stood as a wall against the quick mind of one who watched him with gleaming eyes.
‘Still, I am glad you have seen the backs of Persians,’ Themistocles said. He turned his head as he spoke, Xanthippus saw, including men of a dozen ranks as his audience. It was an interesting technique. ‘We will see such a thing again, perhaps before the sun sets today. You know, I was furious at first when I heard the Spartans were not going to march. To hear of them sitting there, waving their smoking myrtle branches, while we defend the coast? It was an insult! What festival could be more important than the mother of all cities? Will the Persians march by the Peloponnese because the Spartans are waiting for the new moon?’
Some of the men laughed, but Xanthippus frowned, uncomfortable at hearing the other strategos skirting what sounded almost like blasphemy. The gods were too easy to offend, as he knew very well.
‘But then,’ Themistocles went on, ‘I thought of what a pleasure it will be to have those Spartans come late to a battle we have already won!’
At that, Xanthippus looked to Epikleos. The younger man was grinning to hear his earlier sentiment echoed.
Themistocles chuckled and shook his head.
‘I have spent the morning thinking what I might say to them in such a circumstance! Can you imagine their faces? I tell you, I would rather fight with my brothers around me, the men of Athens, our hoplites…’ His voice had hardened subtly and grown louder, bringing more and more of them in. Xanthippus found his heart beating faster, despite his reservations. ‘… our victory. I would not trade my place in these lines for a palace in Sparta, or anywhere else in Greece today. I swear by Ares and Apollo, the victory will be ours – the glory will be ours! We won’t share any of it with Sparta, Thebes or Corinth, not today. Because we are one. We are Athens. One people, one language, one culture!’
To Xanthippus’ surprise, the men actually cheered. He saw Themistocles glance in his direction, as if to see how a performance had been judged. Yet the man had provided something of value. They’d all felt a cold clutch in their innards at the sight of such a vast fleet darting across the waters like insects. Yet Themistocles had raised their spirits and put the spring back into their step. It was not a small thing, Xanthippus realised. He dipped his head in acknowledgement and saw Themistocles blink in surprise and something like pleasure at the response. Then the big man was off, clapping younger hoplites on the helmet with the flat of his hand, making them nod and laugh as he passed further down the line.
Xanthippus watched in silence as Themistocles spotted one of the other strategoi and did
the same thing again, completely unabashed that those behind could still hear. It might have been embarrassing, but Xanthippus saw men close by were smiling and craning their necks to listen. He shook his head in wry amusement. Themistocles was a vital part of their forces, but he could not like him, not when he was so easy to like. A man like that could never be trusted. Xanthippus wished briefly that Aristides would also come down the line, to show the men proper dignity. Of course, he would never do such a thing, so all the men would remember it had been Themistocles who walked at their side and spoke to them.
4
The wide bay was perfect for their purposes, General Datis thought. Gulls called overhead and the air was sharp with salt and the smell of the sea. Some of the other Persian officers detested deep waters. Datis could understand their fear. After all, it did not matter if you had learned to swim as a child or not. If a man in armour fell overboard, the weight of his kit carried him to the bottom, regardless of his efforts or his strength. No one who fell into the sea was seen again, until their bodies washed up somewhere further down the coast, borne by unseen currents. Yet General Datis had grown to manhood without ever seeing the great blue vastness, a thousand shades of movement and a sky as wide as the empire itself. Not that he would have dared say such a thing aloud. The empire could not be encompassed, so the priests of Ahura Mazda said. Its borders could not be walked in a lifetime, its scope beyond the imagination of mere men.
Datis breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of salt and seaweed. The king was said to be pleased with the campaign so far. The fleet had been purchased and built over two years. With a free hand from the royal treasury, anything was possible. The empire had made a mere province of Lydia after all, a kingdom that was itself a byword for impossible wealth. Gold, silver and gemstones were mined wherever the Great King was loved. It was as nothing to him to employ tens of thousands at a time, to build and craft and beat on the forge.
The Greeks had brought a pitiful little force to free the cities of Ionia from the empire. In burning Sardis, they had stung like an angry wasp and then gone home, believing they had mortally wounded their enemy. Instead, they had only awoken him. General Datis smiled at the image, wondering if it was safe enough to repeat at the officers’ banquet that evening. Probably not. Someone would decide the empire could not sleep and report him. He’d lose his pay or be docked a rank, or perhaps much worse if his enemies whispered poison in the right ear. The Great King Darius heard only a fraction of the news in the empire. His satraps were like little gods, acting in his name. No man who served was beyond criticism, not even the senior commander of the greatest sea invasion the world had ever known. Or rather, General Datis had reached his exalted position in part because he had a fine sense of when to say nothing.
A week before, the Persian general had landed the fleet at Eretria. It could not have gone more smoothly and Datis recalled the sack of the port with enormous pride. Darius himself had looked on, at first from the safety of his royal flagship, then later from an enormous pavilion raised on the shore.
They had killed male Greeks over the age of fourteen, as well as all the women who were past child-bearing, diseased or too ill to work. The rest had been herded onto transports and taken back to the coast of Ionia. From there, they would travel overland for months, to the heart of the empire. Those who survived would be sold as exotics, to rich men like Datis, who had never seen the sea.
There had been wealth, too, to be found in their temples. The offerings of centuries had been there for the taking. General Datis had not been able to interest his king in those spoils, but that did not mean they were left behind. Gold was gold and silver was silver, regardless of the image hammered onto it. Most would be melted down and recast, changed by the passage of fire – just as free men could be branded by hot irons and made slaves.
The general showed no satisfaction as the last of the horses were brought up alongside the ships that waited for them. The vessels had been rowed at speed straight onto the sandy beach, their keels cutting a trench as they came to rest, then leaning over. Dozens still lay like shells, though with walkways stretching down. The animals and their riders had been given a chance to ride and breathe on solid land again, after too long afloat. Datis was only too aware that the proud steeds could not vomit, no matter how they suffered. Instead, they grew sicker and sicker in the ocean roll, until their eyes blanked and they began to die. The same could not be said for their riders, he thought. It was wise to stand upwind of a cavalry ship after a week or two at sea.
Datis could see the grim faces of the men walking mounts back onboard, into foetid holds with their stalls and filth and rat-infested gloom. Yet they did not complain, nor hold back. The wide, flat beach surrounded by mountains and a marsh had been a perfect place to rest and ready the next strike. Invasion took a toll, on men and equipment alike. Still, they had sacked Eretria easily enough. Once the army had embarked and the ships had been towed out once again, they would sail round the coast to Athens, blockading the city and landing forty thousand veteran soldiers. It was a good thought. In oar-slaves alone, the Persians outnumbered the Hellenes. They would make a fine pyre of their Greek temples, just as those at Sardis had burned.
General Datis smiled as the last of the horse-transports began the laborious process of refloating. Ropes grew taut as they were carried out by small boat to other ships, ready to harness the strength of oars and men and drag the wooden keels off the beach into deep water. It was a delicate task and a nervous one. It was not unknown for entire ships to turn over in the shallows, drowning all those aboard. Datis looked down the sands to where the king watched from the shade and comfort of his pavilion. He sent a prayer to the angels to hold the last ship upright. The Great King was troubled by bad omens, so it was said.
Datis found he had been holding his breath until the last pair of horse-transports rolled precariously in the surf. It was not too far for him to hear angry voices raised amidst the whinnying of horses, but he breathed in satisfaction as the oars settled and began to sweep the ships out.
With the horse transports all safe, the task of embarking the waiting regiments themselves could begin. Sleek triremes circled like sharks, with decks that could be packed with men. Some of them were already coming in, their captains tired of waiting with just the creak of wind and wave and sullen oar-slaves for company. Datis felt himself relax as the first ranks drew up on the beach in formation, ready to go on board. That piece of coast was a perfect natural harbour, protected from the ocean waves that turned men’s stomachs. Datis had seen only gentle waters there since they’d landed the evening before. His men had eaten well and rested, checked equipment and weapons, tallied all they had taken from Eretria and sent back the new slaves. All in a single night, he thought. The empire was efficient. Datis wondered if the Great King would allow him to build a house there, when all Greece had been brought to heel. The view would make a fine prospect on waking.
His gaze was inland, to the plain that stretched away from the coast, blurring into mountains that rose against the horizon. As a result, he was one of the first to see a snake of gold and dust shimmering between the hills from the west. Datis shaded his eyes as he stared into the afternoon sun. He cursed softly as the lazy scouts caught sight at last of the marching force and blew their horns.
The men waiting on the beach grew still. Even the oars of the boats froze, so that waiting warships lolled and drifted closer in the surf, in danger of being broken to pieces. Datis saw his officers sending runners to where he stood. He had to make a decision, under the very eye of the Great King. Every moment of hesitation brought the enemy closer and reduced what he could achieve. His cavalry was lost; Datis saw that immediately. He could not call those ships back and land them, not before the enemy was in range to attack. Datis bit his lip as the first running slaves threw themselves to the sand at his feet, waiting for orders, chests heaving. He looked again at the forces stretching across the beach. He had twenty thousand soldiers, with t
he ten thousand Immortals as the heart and shield of them. As many archers and slingers again, men of Ethiopia who carried bows of great power. In all, forty thousand veterans of Persia stood on the beach at Marathon, ready for his word. He made his decision, even as the king’s royal herald came running towards him.
‘His Majesty, God-King and Father to the World, bids me ask what orders you will give the men,’ the herald said.
He did not prostrate himself, but merely bowed. Datis disliked the man, but liked his own life too well to risk offending him. He bowed in return.
‘Please tell His Majesty that my orders are for the men to advance and engage. I will not decline battle. There is no time to embark our army, not before these Greeks are close enough to harry the last of us.’ He rubbed his chin as he thought, then nodded to himself. ‘We cannot fight on sand, nor with the sea so close to our backs. The ground is dry and steady ahead. We will march and form up, to make ready for them. Archers and slingers on the wings, Immortals and other regiments in the centre. Please suggest to His Majesty King Darius that there is rising ground to the east of the plain. He might wish to find a place there to observe the battle.’
The herald smiled on one side of his face, as if something about Datis amused him. He bowed again without a word and jogged away, his footsteps vanishing beneath the smear of seawater, hissing white over the sand.
The Gates of Athens Page 4