The Gates of Athens

by Conn Iggulden

  5

  Xanthippus swallowed nervously as they rounded low hills on either side. ‘Marathon’ meant ‘overgrown with fennel’ and the plants did indeed grow well on the red earth. Crushed by sandals, he could smell the scent thickly on the salt air.

  The speed of the march increased almost imperceptibly, driven by the desire to get to where they were going. Pace by pace, the sky widened, green hills giving way to the plain of low scrub bushes, straggling trees like sentinels – and the dark sea beyond. They could see ships still swarming there. Every step revealed more detail, with the scouts and runners racing in and out, visibly excited. Word spread back down the line and the news brought jubilation at first.

  ‘No cavalry!’ Epikleos repeated in a shout when he heard.

  A cheer went up at that, spreading right along the column. The men of Athens had been in trouble when they’d fought Thessaly a few years before. Horsemen could not break a tight phalanx formation bristling with long spears, but neither could that phalanx advance at any speed. It led to little islands of hoplites, pinned down on the battlefield while their enemies roamed freely and arrows rained down, taking them one by one.

  The numbers they faced were another matter. Estimates were wild, as scouts tried to count moving men in different formations and marching lines. Xanthippus could hardly believe how many Persian soldiers were coming up from the beach. At that distance, they appeared as a city wall. He shook his head to free it of the image, narrowing his eyes and trying to think like a strategos. Were the Persian ships still landing forces, or taking them off? It was impossible to say, but he thought back to the description of cavalry from earlier that day. False reports were common, but it would be hard to mistake thousands of horses for anything else. He wondered if the quick march east from Athens had interrupted the Persians taking the army back to sea. There was no such thing as luck. For just such an outcome, they had sacrificed and made an oath to the gods.

  Xanthippus heard Persian ram horns blown and saw silken banners shimmer as they began to form up. The sight and sound stilled talk and nervous laughter in the ranks around him. Every man who had left home that morning knew the stakes. The Persian soldiers would be killing Athenian women and children that night, unless they were stopped in that place. There was no one else to do it, no other authority.

  Miltiades stepped out from his position in the line. His personal herald, Pheidippides, kept pace at his side. The herald had already run far that day, carrying orders and keeping the strategoi informed. The man shone with oil or perspiration, though he breathed long and slow. Two younger men carried banners of cloth bound to long spears, so that all others knew where the archon stood. Xanthippus felt his heart thump almost painfully as a jolt of fear and rage shot through him. The march had been no harder than a training run to that point. He was loose-limbed and warmed up, breathing well. What would come next had no equal, however. It would be the most exhausting, terrifying and exhilarating experience a man could know. Yet he would not have refused to stand there with his people, not for a kingdom.

  ‘Column to phalanx! Pha-lanx!’ Miltiades roared. ‘By tribe! On strategos! Column to phalanx formation!’

  He had the voice for it, Xanthippus thought. With the other strategoi, Xanthippus took up the order and elaborated on it, cracking out commands to the officers who answered to him. Every man of ten thousand represented the people of the Assembly, the city of Athena. The thousand hoplites who had come from Plataea would stand in their midst, accepting the command of Miltiades rather than fighting as independents. That had been the condition of joining the greater force. They wore the same armour and carried round shields, with different images painted on the skin. For all they were men of Greece, they could never be of Athens.

  Xanthippus sensed the mood darkening around him, men filled with earnestness and hate. Golden shields and greaves reflected the sun as they moved. Their shadows writhed before them on the ground, as if in submission. It was a good thought.

  ‘This is it, then,’ Epikleos said from the side of his mouth.

  Xanthippus came out of his reverie and dipped his head once, as if he made an oath. He and Epikleos broke rank with the others of the left wing, not a dozen yards from Miltiades himself. The column became a rabble in instants, men jogging to new positions and looking for strategoi to tell them where to stand. Xanthippus could hear Themistocles and Aristides bellowing to the mid-column, herding them into central squares. Their tribes of Leontis and Antiochis led a block of four as the unbreakable heart of the hoplite formation, eight ranks deep. On the right wing, another formation of three tribes matched the three on the left with the Plataea thousand. It was all slow and clumsy to Xanthippus’ eye. Yet when they were done, ten tribes and eleven thousand men stood in neat ranks, in wide battle formation, spears raised like the quills of a porcupine. It was hard not to feel the thrill of it as they lurched forward, though each step across the plain brought a clearer sight of the enemy host.

  Dry-mouthed, Xanthippus stepped over a thick, crushed shrub, feeling stems crack like bones under his sandals. He licked his lips and looked for the water boy again, though he was nowhere to be seen. Why was his mouth always like cloth before a battle? He wished he had brought his own flask. His two seconds had fallen back with the baggage, of course, as soon as the enemy was sighted. No doubt they were drinking and idling back there. Some of the men carried pottery flasks on a single shoulder strap. Xanthippus tore his gaze away from those. It was poor form for a man who hadn’t brought any to ask for water from one who had.

  They walked loosely in step, falling into rhythm as pipers and drummers struck a tune. It was the ‘Theseus March’ and it brought its own memories, of youth and strength. Xanthippus felt fresh sweat break out, as well as an old ache in his right knee. He had dug a spear-point out from under his kneecap, a dozen years before. It had not seemed like much at the time, but the pain kept returning, something else to endure on a long march.

  There was marshland on their left-hand side, hills to their right, enough to limit the width of the Persian front. Xanthippus could hope for that, at least. For the rest, he could see a dark mass of slingers whirring their weapons, far out of range but loosening muscles ready for the fight. Perhaps they hoped to intimidate, he did not know. Archers, too, were unmistakable on the wings, black men striding back and forth without armour, bending bows in and out and waiting, waiting to send precious shafts down their throats. Xanthippus had never seen so many.

  Miltiades had not forgotten his overall responsibility, he saw. Just a few paces away, the man was glaring down the lines, checking and adjusting the phalanx formations as they formed. The men tended to cluster too tightly at first, so that they could hardly march without stumbling. It was just an instinct, but it had to be avoided while the enemy were two thousand paces away, closer with every moment.

  Xanthippus could see the archon biting his lip as he compared the length of their front with that of the enemy. The marshland had not constrained the Persians as much as they’d hoped. It was clear enough that with forty or fifty thousand on the field, the enemy would immediately overlap the Greek wings, as soon as they came into contact. Xanthippus noted how Miltiades was sweating in his armoured coat as he considered what to do. No answer was ideal and Xanthippus was not sure what the older man would order. He waited, his heart crawling slowly up his gullet with every step. Sixteen hundred paces – eight stades. Twelve hundred – six stades. He could just make out individuals in the enemy line as their banners rippled across the face of their army, an impossible number of them.

  ‘Strengthen the wings!’ Miltiades called at last. ‘Centre tribes rear four – ease right and left. Eight ranks deep on the wings. Four in the centre.’

  Xanthippus breathed, relieved a decision had been made. It had surely been the correct order, though it didn’t seem to please Miltiades. The very heart of their strength was that the tribes fought alongside one another in tight formation, standing with men they knew. Mal
e pride was a powerful thing to harness. The Spartans went even further, with each rank representing a year graduating from their training, so that young men stood behind the year ahead – and in front of those who looked up to them. They could not run. Shame was the other side of the same coin – and at least as powerful as pride.

  With just eleven thousand, Xanthippus knew they would always struggle to prevent the wings being overrun. The phalanx formations were bronze hammers – dense blocks with shields overlapping. They could not widen the lines without a cost, not without more men. All they could do was strengthen those wings to withstand the assault that would come. The long spears would hold them off. He nodded, accepting. At worst, they would be a golden stone dropped into a flood. It would be a hard day, but there was no turning from it.

  Xanthippus saw Themistocles send runners to query the order was accurate – the closest the strategos would come in battle to refusing. Miltiades sent those men back to their master with red faces and the centre formation shifted as they had been ordered. Themistocles looked furious, though Aristides seemed unruffled, as calm as ever. Xanthippus was proud of him, pleased a man he admired was acting with dignity. The battlefield was no place for petty emotions, nor the ego of men like Themistocles. Victory lay in cooperation and complete trust.

  Ahead, Xanthippus saw the enemy halt and make ready. Eight hundred paces separated the two armies – four stades. The sea was behind the Persians. They had come up fast from the beach and found firm ground under their feet and room to manoeuvre. Xanthippus grimaced, knowing they would be wanting to use their missile men from as far back as possible. Slingers and archers were no more use than wasps in the churn and heave of battle. Their task was to ruin an enemy before he could ever get close enough for a spear-thrust. Yet they faced armoured hoplites, with equipment and tactics designed to counter their advantage.

  Xanthippus gave the order for his tribe of Acamantis to ready shields, which was echoed up and down the lines. He swung his own shield on its cord, from his right shoulder onto his left arm, gripping the leather and feeling the comfort it brought. His entire forearm disappeared into the deep wooden bowl with its bronze skin, so that it felt a part of him. The lion’s glare would be bright against the gold, he knew. He brought his spear low, held underarm, ready to stab with the men of his line. Sweat trickled down his face and he felt fear, but also a sort of joy. He was very strong. He was fast and fit and clad in bronze. He would kill the first man to stand before him that day. He would kill the second as well. What happened after that lay with the gods.

  The rest of the tribes brought shields to the ‘ready’ position alongside Acamantis, as if Xanthippus had ordered it. It was just a coincidence, but it was a good feeling even so, though he saw Themistocles watching him. The man took anyone else’s foot over his line as a personal insult. Xanthippus knew from training days that Themistocles was quite capable of approaching him with a complaint after the battle. If they both survived.

  On the left, Xanthippus saw Callimachus arguing briefly with Miltiades, before stalking over the field to join the right wing. The red-faced polemarch seemed to have found a shield and spear, at least. Perhaps Callimachus had annoyed the more senior man, Xanthippus could not tell.

  Behind him, left in sole command, Miltiades raised his arm. Xanthippus thought he might still order a brief halt, perhaps to make the enemy waste their first stones and shafts. It was a hard thing to endure, but the men knew how to hold shields. They had practised and drilled, so that the sudden bronze shade was something they all knew. Still, the reality was different. Men rarely died in formation practice.

  Instead, Xanthippus heard Miltiades bellow a different command.

  ‘Left wing… slow advance! Slow advance! Centre and centre right… engage  !’

  The order was repeated by Xanthippus at full volume, though he could not see the reason for it. The marching tribes on the left wing halved their pace immediately, as the centre and the right wing surged.

  ‘Steady! Steady, left wing,’ Miltiades roared over their heads. ‘We need reserves – and you are it. Slow pace now.’

  Xanthippus nodded. Perhaps it made sense against so many. He saw Themistocles looking back over his shoulder and gesturing for them to keep up, but that was the point of having one man in command. Miltiades was responsible for the entire field, not just the left. Xanthippus felt a cold spot appear in his stomach as he considered how it might look to Themistocles. Half his men taken away, the centre made weak, then one of the wings hanging back as he was sent in. It looked a lot like… Xanthippus shook his head, feeling sweat sting one of his eyes despite the cloth band beneath his helmet. No. Archon Miltiades was loyal. The alternative was to suspect everyone. Though it was said the Persian king spent gold like water and always, always rewarded those who pleased him. It was easy to imagine some who might choose wealth and comfort over loyalty and poverty. The Great King’s generosity was the stuff of legends. Could a man like Miltiades have been bought… ?

  ‘Epikleos!’ Xanthippus called.

  His friend ran to him, looking serious.

  ‘Yes, strategos.’

  ‘Give my regards to Miltiades and tell him Acamantis tribe stands ready to support the centre.’

  ‘Yes, strategos.’

  Epikleos vanished from sight as he went to pass on the comment. Xanthippus watched as Themistocles and Aristides crossed the invisible line that meant they were in missile range. The insect shine of the enemy shifted as thousands released some sharp thing designed to break or pierce. The Persians went too early in their eagerness, but then shot again and again, formations rippling like breaths. Their missiles flew too fast and high to be seen or dodged, whining in the air like the call of birds. That was the most terrifying thing. A piece of lead no larger than a finger could break a man’s shoulder when it came whirring down out of the clear air. An arrow could rip his life right out of him.

  The barrage cast a flickering darkness across the Persian lines as they shot into the afternoon sun. Xanthippus hoped that was an omen – that they made their own defeat, their own shadow. It reminded him of the hornets’ nest in an oak tree he had disturbed when he was a small boy. On a dare, he’d thrown a bucket of rancid olive oil into the cleft and run. He hadn’t understood how many were still coming back or how they would hunt him. He swallowed in memory, pleased he was not in range. He’d thought the hornets would kill him that day in their rage and spite. They had filled the air with pain and followed him all the way home.

  Gold flashed as four ranks in the centre and eight more on the right raised shields overhead like scales. Stones and lead shot rattled in a great hail off the surface, though cries of pain sounded too. Some of the arrows passed through the skin of bronze shields to wound arms or shoulders beneath. One or two bodies appeared out of the back of the marching phalanx, twitching or trying to stand and rejoin. Xanthippus found he had chewed his lip bloody. He stopped only when he recognised the taste of salt and iron.

  The whole centre block under Themistocles and Aristides had pulled ahead of the left wing, easing ahead even of the right. Thousands and thousands of Persians were still pouring everything down on their heads, while the Great King’s centre readied themselves to meet them hand-to-hand. Iron swords flashed on the Persian side, catching the sun.

  The Immortals were all warriors in their prime, wearing long panelled tunics that reached past their knees. They wore beards in thick braids and clubs, folded and twisted up to make them harder to grab. Gold bands bound their brows, as if each man wore a crown. They used no helmets, but relied on armour and skill with swords. They were the elite soldiers of the empire, the best the Great King could bring to the field. On their own, they numbered as many as the Greek force. Xanthippus felt fear increase as their drums and strange horns began to rattle and whine, the tunes discordant and wrong for that place.

  Ahead of him, Greek pipe-players redoubled their efforts. They could not hope to match the volume of the Persians, yet
the tune they chose – ‘Athena’ – was taken up by thousands of voices. The Greeks began to sing the promise she had made when the city was founded. It settled and bound them as they trudged forward under a hail of stones and shafts. Xanthippus swallowed, his bloody mouth like sand. He could see more than a few faces turn to see why their left wing had abandoned them. Shields jerked as those in the rear gestured, calling them in.

  Epikleos returned to his side, looking flushed. The pace of the slow advance had not altered, so Xanthippus knew the answer before he spoke.

  ‘Archon Miltiades was unmoved, strategos. He says we are best used as the reserve. Wait for the order to halt and then hold position.’

  Xanthippus swore under his breath, surprising his friend. Before he could think of a proper reply, the order came down the line and the left wing was made to halt. Over four thousand stood with Miltiades, drawn clear of the battle as it began. Xanthippus said nothing, firming his resolve. Discipline lay in obeying the archon, in holding the line. Trust was accepting the orders of the one appointed by the Assembly to give them. He thought of his wife and what she would say. Agariste didn’t seem to understand his respect for senior men. She said Miltiades was a fool and that he had wasted a family fortune on silver mines in Thrace – mines that had been lost to the Persian king.

  Xanthippus and Epikleos watched in frustration as the Greeks under Themistocles and Aristides lowered spears and locked shields. All the Persian Immortals could see were men of gold: helmets, shields and greaves beneath, spears like a forest of iron leaves.

  Xanthippus stared at Miltiades, willing him to give the order to join the attack. With Callimachus absent, the older man stood as if enjoying a debate in the Agora, one foot slightly ahead of the other, his head tilted to one side as he leaned on a spear. His shield was still in the hands of a slave. Xanthippus told himself to wait, to be patient. The orders had been clear. Men of Plataea watched, frowning, not understanding why they had come so far only to stand apart. Xanthippus had to obey, or shame his deme, his tribe – and his wife. Agariste would never forgive him if he came home in disgrace. That much he knew. If the choice was losing his life with dignity and respect, or leaving his honour on the field, he knew she would prefer him to die. He growled under his breath, an animal sound of frustration.