Eurybiades closed his mouth as Xanthippus looked from one to the other. Not only did Corinth have forty galleys, but they were one of the cities of the Peloponnese peninsula and either an ancient ally or ancient competitor to Sparta, depending on your view. The sudden involvement of Corinth had stolen the wind from Eurybiades’ sails and he floundered.
Xanthippus rose again to stand alongside the Spartan.
‘May I speak, navarch?’ he said.
Eurybiades frowned but inclined his head and took his seat. Xanthippus chose to calm them, to give the Spartan time to reconsider.
‘My captains have named two tactics that worked best today – “periplous”, or “sailing around”, and “diekplous”, the spear-thrust.’
He cut the air with his hands as he spoke, warming to the subject. All eyes were on him as experienced men evaluated what he had to say.
‘With the first, the aim is to flank an enemy, to bring our rams to bear on his stern quarter, where he is weakest. Like this, you see? Two ships on one can achieve it, while three on one can force the kill. Where one ship alone faces another, an alert trierarch and helmsman can always turn to present the prow. It is a chaotic, exhausting business then. Numbers matter – and flag signals can be vital to bring them to the right spot. What we have today is very crude, though I saw some successes. When this blue robe of mine is torn up, we’ll have another signal tomorrow.’
There was a chuckle in the room at that and he acknowledged it. A glance aside showed him Eurybiades was still looking like thunder as he went on.
‘Diekplous – sailing through,’ Xanthippus said, with a flat palm held outstretched. ‘Our broad line becomes a point. It is dangerous, as our first ships break through their line in column, then fan out to use the rams against their side planking. Both of these work better when the captains can see individual archons and act on group orders. The final tactic is one we have called “kyklos”, or the circle. It is the last throw of the dice, if we encounter numbers so great as to overwhelm us. In that case, we pull the line back in a hollow cup formation. Each trireme forms on the next as the withdrawal…’
‘Thank you, strategos,’ Eurybiades snapped.
It was a clear dismissal and Xanthippus sat. He had spent a day in fascinated experiment, just seeing what worked. He had come away with his blood seething in him, filled with excitement. Yet he knew Themistocles needed the Spartan, not just for his ships, but for the army his city could put in the field. Accordingly, Xanthippus bit his tongue and listened.
‘I have made my position clear – and you have spoken to counter it,’ Eurybiades said. ‘This is, no doubt, how the Assembly of Athens makes its decisions, yes?’
There was a bitter note in that, almost a sneer. Xanthippus waited, wondering where he was going. Eurybiades suddenly shook his head, as if he had weighed what he had heard and still could hardly believe it. To Xanthippus’ surprise, the Spartan began to pace back and forth. Even Themistocles settled back to hear.
‘On the field of battle,’ Eurybiades said, ‘Sparta has no need of counsel. Ours is a craft honed over centuries of study and labour. We have no equals. And yet…’
The Spartan took two quick short breaths, as if he was about to leap off something high.
‘And yet…’ he repeated, ‘at sea, our Spartan crews depend on the simplest of tactics. We draw close and board, overwhelming any enemy. The ship is a mere transport. The ram is for the rare occasion when an enemy hull has to be sunk, perhaps, or if they present their flank in an attempt to escape.’
He paused again and rubbed his chin. Not a man moved. It felt as if they were present at a birth, or some titanic struggle.
‘What I saw today seemed chaotic at times – a madness of ships, all rushing here and there without pattern. Yet what you describe has an obvious advantage. Three trained men will always beat one; two with less certainty. One against one, equally matched, goes on until both are exhausted. If the same can be said of our ships, bringing rams to bear, it should be… explored. I withdraw my objection, on all counts but one.’
Xanthippus felt his slowly spreading grin freeze on his face. Eurybiades turned to him.
‘What is the signal for withdrawal, this kyklos formation?’
‘Navarch, I thought it might be a black banner, but I have not practised it with the crews.’
‘And you will not. There will be no withdrawal, no retreat while I command the fleet. That is the limit of my authority.’ He glanced at Themistocles, who nodded, giving him the point. ‘That is what I say the limit is. Is that understood?’
Xanthippus felt Themistocles turn to stare at him, but he was not a fool. He bowed his head.
‘Of course, navarch.’
‘Very well. I will join your ship for tomorrow, to observe the signals and formations.’
Xanthippus smiled rather tightly as he agreed. The Spartan was trying, at least. Trying to overcome the stubbornness of his home city, the centuries of certainty that meant nothing at all at sea. Unfortunately, it seemed Eurybiades would be watching his every move from then on. Xanthippus shrugged off the worries that threatened to undermine him. He was an Athenian. He would just out-think the bastard.
* * *
The moon was yellow and huge on the horizon. The small ship crashed onto the beach in the twilight, hissing up shingle and tilting so far over it came close to rolling. The crew inside had rowed to the point of death to escape their pursuers. It had not been enough. Some eighty of them had floated her, then rattled out the oars while Persian sailors beat the water and chanted in time. That had been two nights before, with all their friends and colleagues murdered on the beach.
The second night had been spent at anchor, lost in darkness on an unknown shore without a single lamp lit. Even then, they’d barely slept, waiting for shadows to come out of the night. In that part of the sea, there were just too many shoals and sandbanks, ready to trap the unwary and leave them helpless. If the Persians had come close, hunting, they never saw them. Yet at the first grey light, three black galleys were there, far off on the cold waves, already turning to begin the chase once more.
That day had driven the crews to madness. They had rowed with their eyes closed, concentrating on just going on and going on, stroke after stroke, while the Persians drew closer. It was easier to pursue, always. Men were born hunters and it sapped the will to be chased down like a deer in the forest or fish in a net.
However long it had been, they had exhausted themselves, reached a limit. Four of them had burst their hearts and fallen still and tinged with blue into the hold, untended even by their friends. There were greater stakes.
They had discussed the best place to reach the mainland, with a dozen different choices. The only moment of joy that day had come when one of the Persian ships ran aground on a sandbank they all knew as The Nail. They had cheered then, hoping the others would break off to rescue or attach ropes to the unfortunate ones. They had not. Two ships had swept the sea behind them, relentlessly.
In the end, the choice had been made by their own weakness. A better cove lay further down the coast, but none of them thought they could reach it. Even the beaching speed they tried to bring about was feeble, so that the ship still rocked in the waves.
They tumbled out, collapsing onto the sand on hands and knees, while friends roared at them to get up and begin running. They helped each other, the strong dragging the weakest, while the Persians aimed at the shore and surged forward.
By the time the soldiers landed, they found only tracks heading over the dunes, inland. The officer walked to the top to stare out into the mainland of Greece, the first time he had set foot in the realm of his king’s enemies. He turned to his second in command, a friend, but also a man he suspected reported to the king’s spymaster. The officer looked into darkness, but there was no sign of the Greeks.
‘We’ll pursue them, of course. It should not be so hard to run them down.’
His companion made a snorting sound. He
hated to run. It was one of the reasons he served the Great King on board ship.
‘They’re on foot,’ he said with a shrug. ‘By the time they reach anyone, we’ll be raising a cup of wine in the ashes of this “Athens”. You and I will have a dozen new women to serve us fruit and wine, with little boys for pleasure. We’ll need every ship for all the slaves and gold, the way I heard it.’
The officer eyed his companion, wondering if it was deliberate temptation. There were listeners everywhere in the fleet, so it was said. He could not allow a whisper of uncertainty, or he’d find himself questioned with fire and iron, deep in the hold of the king’s flagship.
‘I’ll send men after them in the morning,’ he said. ‘With a couple of trackers to read their steps. When the king asks me if I did all I could, I will not be found wanting, my friend. Not this year, not if there are such riches to be had.’
He looked back over the sea then, to the single galley that dropped anchor even as he watched. He and his fellows were the scouts, the clearers of paths. The main fleet was behind, coming closer every day, like a mountain slowly falling. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the silence and the breeze. There was a certain peace just in being away from the eyes and endless rules of the king’s court, with a thousand men struggling for position and taking insult at the slightest provocation. It felt like drowning, sometimes. He shook his head, sensing the gaze of his ever-watchful companion. Some things would never be said aloud.
38
As dawn broke, the people of Athens were already filling the streets. They had gathered in darkness and silence, following priests of Athena and Poseidon and Apollo, as well as Ares and Hades, heading to the foot of the Acropolis. There had been no call to assemble, no horns blown. Word had flown around the city on dark wings the night before. Just two ragged sailors had made it back, bearing news of Persian galleys and the slaughter of their crews. On stolen mounts, they had reached the city walls and collapsed, trembling with hunger and exhaustion. The city had roused around them in the night.
It was time. The first wire of gold on the horizon revealed dense crowds, walking with heads bowed up to the temples on the highest point of the city, to make offerings there, to make sacrifice. A dawn bell tolled across Athens then and some of them clutched amulets and murmured prayers as they went.
Xanthippus walked hand in hand with Agariste, their three children at their heels. Epikleos had found them the night before, bringing the news they all dreaded. He climbed the sloping path alongside his oldest friends, making their way up the great rock of Athens, the most sacred part that sat above all. It had been the site of palaces and kings, long gone to dust. It was where all eyes turned when they were threatened, offering refuge. For those who laboured upwards, the Areopagus and the Pnyx were far below, made small by height and shadows. Under threat of war, this was the heart of Athens, in the silent faith of those who gathered there.
Epikleos suddenly had tears in his eyes, though he said nothing and only shook his head when Xanthippus looked over in concern. It would have betrayed the moment to explain, but to be there, on that morning, with his people all around, was something Epikleos thought he would never forget. It reminded him of dawn before Marathon, ten years and a lifetime before.
Even the slopes of the Acropolis could be filled. The people perched or stood, crammed together like bees come to rest in one great swarm, tens of thousands of his people, lit gold in the morning sun. Xanthippus heard his name whispered as he was recognised, with blessings called that became a multitude of voices. They had voted for him to be summoned home from exile and they felt responsible for him. He had sensed it in the weeks since his return, that he was known in Athens as he had never been known before. Perhaps it was just that they didn’t want to be wrong, but he felt the weight of their hopes on his shoulders. He had confided as much to Themistocles and, for once, the big man had only nodded and gripped his shoulder. Themistocles understood.
A narrow path remained open and Xanthippus walked through the crowds to the very top, where the ancient temple to Athena Pallas stood, goddess of the city. Alongside it, a new temple was rising, still unfinished – dedicated to Athena Parthenos, the virgin. Fine new columns and reliefs had been carved into the walls there, with precious gold gleaming. Statues of tyrant-slayers had been raised on that high rock, even a marble figure named for Callimachus, who had fallen at Marathon. The whole history of the city was remembered there. The gods watched.
Lamps had been lit in the darkness, spilling light down to the city below. As Xanthippus brought his family to stand with the rest, they were extinguished, one by one, replaced by the sun.
Themistocles was there, with a group of young men and women Xanthippus realised were his daughters and sons. The man’s second wife stood with him and, more than anything else, her presence made the hairs on Xanthippus’ neck rise. In all the years he had known Themistocles, he had kept his political and home lives apart.
Xanthippus felt his grip tighten on Agariste’s hand as he looked across the Acropolis and saw everyone he knew, all gathered in one place, to burn incense and pray to Athena, with war ahead. Aristides was there in breastplate and greaves, oddly warlike and strange without his ragged robe. His solemn authority showed in the hoplites who gathered around him. Cimon too had come, with his friends in a crowd by the temple wall. The archons of the Areopagus council were present, all the Eupatridae landowners come to stand together. Everywhere Xanthippus looked, he saw faces from his past, though some had aged and grown white-haired in his years away.
He understood then why Epikleos had suddenly become red-eyed and stumbling on the path. It was all they were, all they had made from rocks and cloth and laws, as fragile as a child’s life or a gilded bowl thrown into the air.
The priests and priestesses of Athena came out to stand before the packed crowd. Others of the different temples bowed to them, giving Athena the honour of the day. The priest of Hades knelt in the dust. Even death would give way to her.
Her acolytes wore robes of white and bore daggers and sickles, as befitted the goddess of defence and the home. Xanthippus closed his eyes as they began to chant together, raising branches of amaranthus blossom. He felt his son Ariphron at his side, as tall as his father. Xanthippus put his free arm around him. Pericles and Eleni gathered in close and they stood, as one family, in simple awe and prayer as the appeal went on. Around them were his people, in hope and desperation, in faith.
A ram was sacrificed, its blood spilling onto gold plates. The service ended with Athena’s own words to them, her promise to protect the people of her city. She had vowed to arm them and teach them war. Her shield was in their will and strength. Xanthippus felt his breath come sharply at the power of it, until silence fell again and the people began to drift down to their lives and the city below.
When the service was over, he felt a weight lift and he found himself smiling at his children. He had tried not to look at the sea as he stood there. Pericles was already pointing to the dark line. Yet at such a distance, even the boy’s sharp eyes could not make out the shapes of Greek galleys waiting. Those ships were there at anchor, in the strait between Piraeus and the island of Salamis, waiting for their crews to return, waiting to be brought to life.
On the way down, Xanthippus pressed his wife’s hand, making her look at him.
‘Do you remember what I said to you on the morning before Marathon?’ he murmured. He saw Epikleos look up and then away rather than intrude on a private moment.
Agariste bit her lip as she considered her reply. He had asked her to kill the children, to save them from capture and slavery.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘They are no longer so young.’
‘I know,’ he replied, leaning close, so that their heads touched like two lovers walking together. ‘But if we fail, you must run.’
Her face hardened as she understood. Xanthippus felt his anger return as she shook her head.
‘You said nowhere would be safe
if they come,’ she replied.
‘Go west, with the house slaves to protect you. I have left a list in my study of Greek cities that refused our call. The Persians will favour them, I think. You and the children could begin again, far from here.’
She stopped suddenly, so that he stumbled on the dusty slope.
‘Do you think this place is yours alone, Xan? These people are mine as well. I love them, in all their talk and prayers and chaos. I love Athens, in my bones, in my womb. I cannot just… go somewhere else. Whatever happens, we’ll return here, to rebuild.’
‘Agariste,’ he said more firmly, ‘if the fleet fails, if the army cannot stop the Persians on the land, Athens is gone. They are coming to make an example of us, do you understand? There will be nothing left. If you see Persian soldiers marching from the north, or their ships in the port, you must gather the boys and Eleni and just go. Promise me you will. I cannot leave otherwise.’
‘That is a lie,’ she said, smiling through tears. She raised herself on her toes and kissed him. He smiled, flushing. Agariste gestured at the crowds around them. ‘You will go out with the ships,’ she said, ‘because the people ask you to. Because you love them.’
He might have argued, but she kissed him again, stopping up whatever he was trying to say.
At the base of the hill, the fleet crews were embracing their own families and setting off to the port in a great stream. They walked with heads high and Xanthippus saw Epikleos shifting from foot to foot, impatient to join them. Xanthippus wiped a tear from his wife’s cheek and kissed her once more. She held him with her head buried in his shoulder, as the children came around, seeking the reassurance of closeness.
Xanthippus found himself chuckling, though tears stung him. One by one, he embraced his sons and daughter.
‘How proud you make me!’ he told them. His daughter blinked her own tears away and hugged him so hard it stole his breath. ‘How beautiful you are, how perfect! You must be good for your mother now. Keep her safe, so that I don’t have to worry about you.’
The Gates of Athens Page 31