The Gates of Athens

by Conn Iggulden

  6

  Themistocles took his place in the front rank. The plume on the helmet his second handed to him was black and white, marking him out. He had considered wearing a cloak like the Spartans did, though of a different colour. He had not made the decision when the call had come to assemble and now he regretted it. The men had to see him; he understood that in his bones. If he ever hoped to lead Athens, his life had to be wagered first as a token on the board. That was simply the truth of it. He had no family wealth backing him like Xanthippus, nor could he make a fetish of poverty and the simple life the way Aristides did. Themistocles enjoyed his water and wine too much for that!

  As the two armies closed, he heard prayers muttered beneath the singing voices. They fell silent then, concentrating on perfect lines. Themistocles could not resist a glance at the strange pavilion that had been erected to one side of the Persian forces. It could only be their king, the position on a rising bluff of land giving him a good view. Perhaps a thousand men surrounded him there, so he was not particularly vulnerable. Any force turning to attack him would expose their flank to the Persian Immortals. Darius would watch without having to risk his own life, like the crowds who came to see dramas in the theatre of Dionysus in Athens. Themistocles felt his lip curl. On that day, the God-King was no more than an audience. They were the players.

  The Immortals readied swords, but Themistocles could already see fear in their twitching heads, looking back for new orders as they understood the threat coming towards them. The long spears had that effect when they came down together.

  ‘Ready, Leontis!’ Themistocles called to his tribe. He called further to those around him. ‘Ready, Athens  !’

  They were all his people. He did not care what some uncle by marriage to Xanthippus had decreed was his tribe. He was Athenian! He had run those streets as a boy and skipped over sewage trenches that overflowed whenever it rained. He had slipped and fallen in once or twice as well. He chuckled at the memory. He had trained every dawn for many years, learning by watching, growing so strong and fast that other men paled to see him step into the fighting rings. Boxing or wrestling was all one to him. He liked to fight – and everything he was had been made by his own hand. Themistocles felt pride soar in him. Aristides could keep his dignity and cold logic. Xanthippus could keep his sense of superiority, though he had married all his fortune. Themistocles was the new Greece – and he was strategos alongside them that day. He laughed aloud at the thought and the men around him responded with grins.

  ‘Look at their fear  !’ he called over their heads. ‘Ready spears! Ready pipers!’

  The new rhythm would drive the iron points forward, fast and vicious. It was one of the wonders of the age, how music affected the hearts and strength of men. To fight with music blaring raised the spirits – and guided the arm.

  ‘You see the enemy? Do you? Can you see their fear? Then charge!’ Themistocles called, baring his teeth.

  The other strategoi matched his bellow. The Greek hoplites broke into a run. The steady pace of before was lost as they closed. Arrows passed right over them as archers misjudged their speed.

  The lines crashed together and long spears punched through armour and flesh. Heaving them back bloody, the Greeks locked shields and roared, drummers rattling and pipes screaming high. Their spears stood out as far from the shields as a man was tall, thick as hairs. The Immortals tried to knock them aside, but iron leaves found them even so, stabbing relentlessly, jerking in and out of flesh, too many to dodge.

  The slaughter was instant and brutal. The long dory spears were driven with desperate strength, held by men who had trained to hit gaps no larger than a man’s fist. They jabbed at thighs, faces, anything they could see. Not every blow was aimed well, but they struck with the rhythm of dancers, of drummers and pipes, again and again. Their own shields were so wide they could be overlapped. The Persians saw no weaknesses, just helmets with trimmed plumes, then huge shields, with greaves of bronze stamping below.

  The long Immortal coats were not proof against spearheads that struck and twisted and withdrew to strike again, twice with every pace. The Persians fell back, lives spurting red from wounds, or just trying to find space to counter the forest jabbing at them.

  There was no respite. The phalanx formations drove on, giving the enemy no chance to breathe or counter. The Greeks pressed forward and if one of their number went down, he was passed over and guided to the rear, his space taken instantly by another. The pressure forward was crushing. As the advance slowed, the front ranks could hardly withdraw their arms to jab, so great was the weight of shields behind. They had to go on or fall – and Themistocles went with them.

  ‘Dress that line!’ he shouted suddenly, looking displeased.

  He lunged his spear under the shield of the man on his right, feeling the solid thump and shudder that meant he had found living flesh. Good. With the lines so clustered he was not sure which of the bloodied Persians ahead had taken the wound. His line pushed on and when they reached Persian bodies, the ranks marching behind drew daggers and cut the throats of dead and still living alike. There would be no feigned death in that line, no mercy. These were invaders who had come to make slaves of Greece. Themistocles bellowed his next words just to be heard.

  ‘What, are you Thebans, to be so sloppy? Are you foreign metics? Are you slaves? I will not die of shame today, in front of these! Make a better show, would you? By Ares, would you embarrass your leader? Would you shame me in front of Aristides?’

  He knew he tended to rattle on when he was nervous. Themistocles was not sure his exhortations and criticism were any use to the men, though some of them smiled. He had heard himself quoted afterwards, though, by those who had survived. It was appreciated then, when their lives were not counted in heartbeats, spears slippery in sweating hands.

  It could not last; nothing could. Spears were wrenched from the grip of hoplites. Some snapped near the hilt or were hacked aside and weakened by some Immortal blade, so that they shattered on the next impact. The perfect bristling wall of spears sprang gaps as the Immortals fought to contain the advance. Their king watched from the shade of his pavilion, not even a mile from the heaving lines.

  Those Greeks who lost their spears drew swords and used them, standing alongside brothers in arms. The shields stayed locked in close formation, each man protecting the one to his left, protected in turn on his right. Blades jabbed out at anyone who tried to wrench that line apart.

  The Persians were used to destroying tribes who could not even stand against their archers, never mind hold a battle line. As individual Immortals struggled past the long spears, they could only hammer at shields and helmets of bronze, while all the time, men of Athens cut low and high, gashing them across the head and stabbing at their feet, anything vulnerable. The gold bands the Immortals wore seemed to attract high overhand blows.

  Despite terrible losses, the Persian lines settled and recovered. New orders were passed on from General Datis. Those who got inside the long spears ignored swords or wounds to strike on either side, cutting as many spears as they could before they were killed. It was an astonishing tactic and it cost them hundreds of men, especially when Themistocles saw what they were doing and growled new orders. Those Persians who stepped forward then to throw their lives away were killed the moment they turned to hack at shafts.

  The battle heaved and swung and the right wing held well with eight ranks, while Themistocles saw Persians streaming around on his left. The right flank was always weak where the shields ended. It made sense to keep it strong, even at the expense of the centre and left. That he could grudgingly appreciate. Yet how long had it been? He had no way of knowing. It seemed as if he had been fighting for an hour or more, but the sun hung like it had been painted.

  He cursed as a rattle of new stones and arrows brought cries of pain from the men of the centre. Where was Xanthippus, with his stern disapproval of everything that made life worth living? Where was Miltiades, with
his coat straining to cover his paunch? The left wing had been held back and the result was this boldness of Persian archers and slingers. They had withdrawn down to the shore as the main forces clashed. Seeing the Greek left holding back, they crept in again like flies to ply their trade. It was not yet the massed volleys of before, but every moment brought more of them into range.

  Themistocles blocked a high blow with his raised shield and risked his life to look over his shoulder. He could see the left wing waiting there, stopped – actually stopped on the sandy earth, while the rest of them fought and bled. In the image that flashed across his vision before turning back, he’d thought he had seen Miltiades standing like a whore on a corner, waiting for customers. Themistocles prayed then that they would come, or that he would survive the battle to bring them down. If Xanthippus had betrayed him, it would be because he feared a popularity he would never understand. If Miltiades had done… it would be for gold. There had always been greed in the older man, Themistocles knew it. There had been rumours of Miltiades losing his family wealth. Some men coveted power, some gold; Themistocles understood that much. The easy life was just too tempting, especially for those who had once known hunger. He had experienced more than his share of that himself…

  Themistocles lost his train of thought as his spear was dragged from his hand, wrenching his fingers. He swore and drew his sword.

  ‘Hold the line now!’ he called to them. Aristides was somewhere on his left, with Antiochis tribe. They were edging back and, to his horror and fury, Themistocles saw his own men were wavering as well. They could not raise shields against arrows and stones and keep the formation intact. Fear swelled in them and they took hesitant half-steps back, shuffling. Themistocles cursed, so loudly it made someone laugh.

  ‘On my mark and not before!’ he bellowed. ‘We’ll take a breath – and we won’t leave one drop of our honour on the field, not to men such as these. Six paces back and re-form. On my mark and not before! I see you, Xias! Take one more step before I give the order and I will make your wife say please and thank you.’

  The threat was outrageous and yet it settled the retreating line. They held position and the rest of the centre anchored on them, with Themistocles at the heart. It was a moment he thought he would remember, the air like wine.

  ‘Six paces – now!’

  He counted aloud as they went. It kept them steady, though the Persians howled victory and drove them on, convinced they were winning.

  ‘And hold the line! Hold!’ Themistocles bawled. ‘Lock shields. Make them pay for those six, lads. Think of them marching into Athens and grabbing your daughters by the throat. Hold your nerve. Pick up spears if you find one. When you have settled, we will replace the front line. Epistatai ready? Well, are you? Second line! Those-who-stand-behind. Answer me, you lazy whoresons, would you?’

  The second rank of epistatai roared an angry response to him, right across the centre, as the fighting went on in a frenzy of noise and rage and terror. He grinned at them.

  Themistocles paused in the constant rattle of orders. The lines had steadied. Aristides had taken the opportunity to come back with him, he saw. It would have been that or be overwhelmed. The Immortals were every bit as determined as he’d heard. They should have been crushed by the phalanx line, but they’d somehow hung on. Athena alone knew how many of them had been killed, however. The ground was littered with dead Persians and stained in their blood, so dry it drank them in. Themistocles shuddered at the image. He did not want the ground to drink him in. He loved the sun too much.

  ‘Ready, epistatai second line! Ready, protostatai first line!’

  Themistocles was getting hoarse, but he heard Aristides copying the order. No doubt his tribe were as exhausted as the front rank of Leontis. Themistocles took a deep breath. The move was dangerous in the middle of a battle, though the rewards were high. Of course, if the Persians spoke Greek, there was a chance they were all about to be slaughtered.

  ‘First rank protostatai, fall back! Second rank epistatai, advance. Aaand… lock shields!’

  It was slower and more chaotic than he would have liked. In that moment, Themistocles was genuinely pleased the Spartans were not there to sneer at them. The Immortals heaved forward and killed some of those who dared to turn away from them and try to slip through the rank coming forward. Themistocles saw men he knew well hacked down, but then the front line re-formed, fresh and furious.

  ‘On my mark! Six paces back! Six paces on my mark. Ready spears,’ Themistocles bellowed over their heads.

  It was a hard order to hear. They did not want to step back again, not then. They fought in a frenzy, killing panting Immortals who thought they had been close to breaking.

  ‘Six paces… now!’

  With something like a shout of anger, they pulled back. The Greek line disengaged faster the second time, stepping away without looking behind, keeping their eyes on Persians who found themselves swinging iron through empty air in confusion. The hoplites drew clear as Themistocles counted off the steps. The shields came up – and some picked up spears from where they lay on the ground. The forest of thorns rose once more.

  ‘Now advance,’ Themistocles roared at the top of his lungs.

  No one stood in sword range of him, though the damned archers and slingers were taking their shots again, picking off his men, his people. Where was Miltiades? The Persians had no reserve, not beyond the royal guard. They’d thrown everything on that beach at the Greek formations. More, they were winning, a victory bought in gold and treason. There was no other explanation.

  7

  Xanthippus watched as Themistocles and Aristides rallied the centre, pulling off a disciplined retreat and then re-forming the phalanx. It was well done, though they’d lost half the ground they’d taken in the first charge. Neither were they still fresh and unmarked. Both sides stood battered and visibly weary. Fighting exhausted the fittest of men. The sun had moved in the afternoon sky and the blood of hundreds had already been spilled. Yet the Persian forces still teemed and their king watched from his pavilion, his guards standing at perfect attention as if it was no more than a display and not a battle for the survival of a city – and a people.

  ‘See there?’ Epikleos said. ‘The Persian archers are coming back.’

  He stood in the front line with Xanthippus. They were all edging forward, straining to see every detail. The slingmen and archers had retreated as soon as battle joined, when their missiles were as much danger to their own as the enemy. Yet with the entire left wing drawn up and halted, they had begun to creep back. In full view of Xanthippus and Miltiades, they were loosing shafts and stones once more. It left the archers vulnerable and Xanthippus itched to charge them.

  His line shuffled another pace, as those behind pushed and craned to see what was happening. The shorter men could see hardly anything, from just a rank or two back. It meant they were shoving and swearing, more desperate with every passing moment.

  Xanthippus looked up in relief as Pheidippides came running across the face of the left wing, clearly aiming at his position.

  ‘About time,’ Epikleos said.

  The herald of Miltiades bowed his head. Xanthippus thought the man looked less urbane and relaxed than usual.

  ‘Gentlemen, Archon Miltiades asks that you dress your line. Your indiscipline has been noted. You will hold the position. He asks that each strategos acknowledge his orders.’

  Xanthippus did not reply. Instead, he stared at the long-limbed herald in silence, while the man’s brow creased in confusion.

  ‘Strategos?’ Pheidippides said, a little uncertainly.

  ‘Wait,’ Xanthippus said between clenched teeth.

  He looked past the man to the ranks of archers stealing back onto the battlefield, then further to the centre as it heaved with hoplites and Immortals, its left flank horribly exposed. In the end, Xanthippus stared along the lines to where Miltiades himself was watching him speak to the herald, the face of the archon dark with an
ger.

  ‘Tell Miltiades I accept his order to advance,’ Xanthippus said.

  Epikleos laughed and clapped him on the shoulder as the herald gaped.

  ‘Strategos?’ the man stammered. ‘Th-that is not…’

  Whatever else he might have said was lost as new orders cracked out along the lines. Epikleos roared one of them right next to the herald’s left ear, so that the man flinched and retreated.

  Ahead, a larger group of Persian archers came up at a run. They were keeping a sideways eye on the stationary ranks of Greeks, wary of them. They were the first to see the left wing jerking into motion, following Xanthippus and the Acamantis. The Plataeans came with them, relieved at last to be fulfilling the promise of honour they had made. Athens had saved them years before. They had come to pay their debts, not be witnesses to a tragedy.

  The Persian archers pivoted their attention and drew as a second group arrived. Xanthippus cursed. He hated archers almost as much as he hated cavalry. His attempt to confuse the order from Miltiades had resulted in real confusion. Not all the tribes on that wing were moving, and those that were marched in a ragged line. The forces around Miltiades seemed to be half-advancing, half-calling for orders. No doubt the archon himself was at the heart of the conflict, demanding to know what his strategoi thought they were doing.

  ‘Damn it!’ Xanthippus shouted. ‘Acamantis! Plataea! Ready shields!’

  The groups of Persian archers and slingers had become a flood, emboldened by the success of the first ones to return. If the Greeks did not move, they could shoot at will. It must have been too tempting for them, Xanthippus thought, as he strode forward. He gave up on those behind. His attention was on all the archers and slingers turning in his direction. He swallowed as the first ones let fly, a ragged volley. Every archer there knew he was exposed. They were all turning to face Xanthippus and the chaotic Greek advance.