He turned his shield as the two galleys overlapped, then made his decision.
‘Boarders with me!’ he called.
It looked to be just a step, but he found himself leaping hard, straining every muscle rather than risk falling into the dark line below, where oars were still snapping like bones as the ships slowed.
He landed on a foreign deck and raised his shield to take the blow of a sword. He struck back while he still held the other man’s sword high, a solid blow to the man’s shoulder that ruined it. A second cut sent blood spattering across sun-whitened wood. This was battle as he knew it, Xanthippus thought. The hoplites formed up around him and growled as they went forward, a sound to chill the hearts of the enemy.
The Persian rowers were all slaves. Xanthippus could see them, naked and filthy, looking up at him from the hold, revealed in the bar of light from a central trench, not too different from the Greek design. He could smell them, a scent so thick as to coat the back of his throat. He hoped they would have the sense to stay down.
Persian warriors came running to attack the hoplites massing on the deck, with more climbing up from the hold. They rushed the Greeks with wild cries and Xanthippus found himself battered back a step. Yet his boarders had the numbers and they knew the discipline of the shield line. On a solid deck underfoot, they cut Persians down and tossed bodies into the sea in quick jerks. In just moments, the deck was clear again, though two men still clutched the grips of steering oars at the stern and gaped at strangers facing them with bloody weapons.
Xanthippus opened his mouth to give an order and snapped it shut as the hold erupted. Filthy, long-haired men heaved themselves up all along the trench. He thought for a moment that they were crying out for freedom, until one of them cut the throat of a hoplite and was stabbed through the chest by another. They came on like madmen, with grey teeth and screeching cries. The hoplites were forced back by sheer weight of numbers, unable to do more than punch swords through the scabrous mass of human flesh pushing at them.
Xanthippus found himself glancing back at the trireme still alongside. He saw his men hacking slaves down and reminded himself of his vow. There would be no retreat. Whatever those oar-slaves thought they were doing, he would not give them back their ship.
‘Kill them all,’ he ordered, his voice a weapon, so that some of them flinched from it.
His hoplites steadied their retreat and bent to the work, making the ship run red. It was brutal labour and when it was done and the ship was littered with the dead rowers, they were all panting hard. Xanthippus struggled for breath. He was no longer a young man.
‘Steady now,’ he told his men. ‘Rest your arms. Come back with me to ours, so we can sink this bitch.’
He saw Epikleos gesturing as he turned back. How long had it been? An hour? The sun seemed to be in the same place in the sky, which was impossible. Yet the battle lines were still plunging through, with only the Spartans on to their next attack. Ships had been upended in their wake, he saw, or drifted, manned by the dead. Line by line, the fleets would fold into one another, with every ship’s length forward bringing more danger on all sides.
‘Xanthippus! Come back!’ he heard Epikleos bellowing.
He looked up to see a Persian warship already turning, drawn to them in their helplessness.
‘Back! All of you!’ Xanthippus shouted.
He made the leap with forty hoplites, though two of them had taken wounds to their legs and missed the jump with shouts of terror. One went into the water and vanished in a stream of hissing bubbles. The other clung to the deck he had almost reached. When the two ships swung together, he was caught between them. Hands reached for him, but the pressure broke his ribs and his eyes glazed as they heaved. He fell away then.
‘Right oars! Back for your lives!’ Epikleos was yelling.
The prow began to swing out. He and a dozen men were heaving the first Persian ship away with spear butts, allowing the oarsmen of the left bank to take their seats below and rattle out the sweeps once more. The movement revealed Persian oars made stubs, all along its length. The sea moved with a slick of splinters and broken oar blades.
Xanthippus felt the ship tremble as the rowers heaved below. The Persians had seen an easy target in the Greek warship. He hoped the enemy captain could feel his stomach clench as that trireme began to turn to face him.
‘Oarsmen, ready!’ Xanthippus said, clapping Epikleos on the shoulder to signal he was back in command. ‘Give me half speed forward. Be ready to draw in!’
He waited for the keleustes to pass on the order before speaking again. Their drills had beaten the first clash of oarsmen. They had to keep winning that race, until the initial clash was over.
He looked back only once to the crippled ship they had to leave behind. Someone else would pick it off and send it to the bottom, though the labour had all been his.
‘Ready, boarders!’ he shouted again.
The hoplites roared in response and Xanthippus found himself grinning, though there was a taste of metal in his mouth. He had a memory of his own shield knocked back against his face and paused to spit blood over the side. His teeth would be showing red, he realised. His crew had won a victory. Like a fire lit, they wanted more.
He looked left and right. Two Greek ships listed, the men within drowning as he watched. The sight was like a splash of cold water on his face. Yet on all sides, the Spartans had crashed through the enemy lines. He could see overturned Persian hulls, wider in the draught than the Greeks, as he judged it. Another Persian galley burned, giving off a great pillar of black smoke, while desperate figures leapt for the sea. Those crews weakened by the fighting would be picked off, one by one. Numbers would tell in the end.
One of the enemy captains had come in close to ram a damaged Greek trireme. His target looked adrift, the crew busy repairing damage. When that ship came back to life and turned sharply to face him, he tried to sheer off and go after a weaker target.
Xanthippus saw the move begin at the tiller, with the Persian officer jabbing orders and two men heaving at the great oars there.
‘He’s trying to turn!’ Xanthippus roared. ‘Give me ram speed, right now! Ram speed! Twenty beats!’
The keleustes echoed the answer and the ship sprang forward. The right banks of rowers were a touch stronger than the battered left, so that they drifted. Xanthippus did not call a correction as it helped them match the path of the fleeing Persian. He tried to continue the turn and head for safety, but there was neither room nor speed enough to save him.
The ram struck and holed the enemy ship, exactly as the Persian had intended to do to one of theirs. The hoplites cheered even as arrows rained down. Yet it was the sting of a dying wasp as water poured in below and terrified screams began to sound. Some of the Persian soldiers even tried to leap aboard the Greek ship rather than remain on a sinking vessel. They were cut down and the keleustes ordered all rowers to back oars and pull them clear. They heaved in a frenzy then. A sinking ship was a terrible danger, capable of taking them down with it.
They might have watched that galley sink, but the sea had filled with dozens of actions going on all around. Xanthippus swallowed blood in his mouth rather than spit once more and nodded. Themistocles and the second line had gone through. The third rank of Greek ships was approaching them, ready for battle. He raised an arm as they passed and the men cheered to see him.
A Persian ship steered closer, somehow unmarked and untouched. Xanthippus signalled the turn.
‘Mark that ship!’ he said, pointing. ‘She’s ours.’
His helmsmen heaved their charges over and the oars bit as the orders were passed on. The hoplites on deck hunkered down, ready with their shields and spears to go again.
44
Xerxes felt his heart beat slow and strong, as mountains grew before him. He was a warrior king, setting his face and his strength against his father’s final enemy. When the wind whipped around him and stirred the dust, he breathed in, hoping the
spirit of Darius could see his progress, or join him.
Xerxes had chosen to ride that day, wearing a cloak of imperial purple over a white tunic that left his legs bare. After so long at sea, he found his muscles had grown weak and he frowned as he rode along, unaware of how it put fear into the regiments marching south. The soldiers of his hazarabam thousands, even the officers of his Immortals, exchanged worried glances. The arrival of the Great King had changed the mood of the entire army under Mardonius, from the very instant Xerxes had set foot on land and stood amongst them.
His presence meant that a living god walked with them – and served as a reminder that they marched to war and faced a terrible enemy. To do so in the presence of the Great King stiffened spines and raised heads. If there was fear in them, at the thought of being reprimanded or punished, there was also pride, and love. They were far from home, but Xerxes was with them.
When his horse shied at something, Xerxes leaned over and cuffed the animal across its ears, then rubbed the same spot. The mount was skittish, but tall and very strong, a prince among horses. Xerxes looked around him, aware that he had been riding in a reverie, letting the land pass as if he drifted. He shook his head. He had eaten better in the previous two days than the month before. His stomach had awoken on land, so that even the simple bean slop his regiments endured made his mouth fill with saliva. He burped into a hand at the thought, but still felt hungry.
It took an effort of will to look up, knowing that his gaze would be met by men desperate to be able to say the king had seen them, that he had noticed them or spoken a single word they would treasure and repeat to their children. He had not appreciated before how many eyes would follow him in the camps, without walls and private rooms. Wherever he went, his men watched every step and exchange, as if they drank his image. He found it surprisingly wearisome, so that when he retired at last to the pavilion raised for him each evening, it was with a great sense of relief simply to be private. The evenings were drawing in, at least. The days were shorter than the height of summer, though the sun was still hot overhead and the skies as blue as a Persian lake.
Greece was a dry land, he had come to realise, though he had known deserts where each breath was a contest between life and death. Even so, his regiments had been found gasping before Mardonius refilled the water casks whenever they passed a spring or stream. They had not been able to leave food stores so far south and so they were already on half-rations, with supplies running low. Yet they were almost there. Xerxes and Mardonius and all the senior men had pulled off an extraordinary migration. Over three hundred thousand had marched all the way from Thrace to Greece, around the great arc of the coast. Mardonius had lost no more than eight hundred in that time, to accident, weakness, disease or execution. It was an incredible achievement, brought about by an empire’s wealth and organisation. Xerxes felt the pride of it swell in him.
The young king glanced over his shoulder and saw regiments of ten thousand stretching back and back, with the camp followers and carts bringing up the rear in a great cloud of dust that rose to the horizon. It made him realise the ground was sloping up towards the hills. He rode with the sea on his left-hand side, the great fleet accompanying him, with horses and soldiers ready to snap shut on Athens. They would be the anvil; he the hammer brought down. It was a fine thought.
He saw the mounted scouts raise a hand in warning, pointing to the sea. Xerxes swallowed against a knot of anxiety and kicked his mount to a trot. The path through the mountains took him close to the shore, which pleased him. He had grown used to watching the slow creep of his army while he sat on board the flagship. It was satisfying to mirror the same action on horseback, watching the fleet. That morning, they had kept station with him, heading for the great turn that his Greek allies said would take them south.
He did not trust the men of Thebes, for all they had offered him dust and water and sworn their lives to his care. Despite his father’s wisdom, Xerxes found it hard to accept a people willing to betray their own. He had viewed the queen of Halicarnassus, Artemisia, with similar suspicion – and she had some Persian blood and a closeness of culture that explained some of what she was. Still, the woman disturbed him, with her dark eyes and lingering gaze, so that he was happier for her to remain with the fleet, well away. Power was a dangerous thing for a woman, Xerxes suspected. It corrupted, made her less submissive. There was a reason men imposed obedience on them, from the palaces of kings to the homes of simple labourers. Women were happier with a master. As were men, he considered. A flock needed only one shepherd, after all. With an effort, he put Artemisia from his thoughts.
Xerxes did not know if the Thebans had heard of his maps or knew the extent of the campaign that ended at Marathon. He did not need their knowledge of the land to guide this particular arrow, but it helped to test their loyalty, even so. They had confirmed the existence of the pass that Artemisia said would take his army around the great crags. He would be able to watch the fleet as he marched along the bare shore of Thermopylae, with the great hammer of Persia at his back.
When he reached a low hill and reined in, his horse began to crop at the wild grasses there. Xerxes took a slow breath and peered into the distance. He brought one hand up and joined thumb to the other fingers, an old scout’s trick that focused his sight further.
Though the distance was great, he could make out the fleets heading to meet one another. The Greeks had brought more ships than he’d known they had. He found himself holding his breath as the fronts met and drove through, as if his hammer had shattered the anvil it struck. The edges of the fleets blurred into one another and he saw ships overturn and plumes of black smoke rise. The battle went on and on until he could not be sure who had the best of it. There was no sound capable of reaching his ears, so that all he heard was the order to halt behind him, with the command rippling back on hundreds of voices until the entire army crashed to a stop. That noise of tramping feet and horses had filled his ears for days. The comparative silence was eerie, especially when he imagined fear and shouts of rage and pain going on, with choking, drowning men slipping slowly down away from the light. He shuddered at the thought.
Xerxes turned when Mardonius rode up with a dozen senior men. The older general would have dismounted to prostrate himself, but Xerxes held up a hand, turning back to the clash of fleets.
‘I cannot tell… whether we are winning,’ Xerxes said.
Mardonius gave a quick grimace, as if he had cracked a tooth on something he ate.
‘The numbers tell the tale, Majesty. Look further back and see how few of our fleet have even reached the battle. The grindstone turns at the front and we have… two or three times as many ships, more. With captains who know you watch them, who know they must drive through the Greeks to join you, to feel your imperial light fall on them once again.’
Xerxes dipped his head, though he was not a fool. He had endured flattery his entire life, from men who wanted favours, or who hoped to influence him or turn away his wrath. He was not immune to it, especially from those of his father’s generation, as Mardonius was. Yet he knew not to trust words alone. He glanced at his general and saw a stiff back and relaxed hands on the pommel of his horse. The man did look confident, Xerxes saw with relief. He realised it was in his gift to inspire others, not least his own general. The young king raised his head and tried to relax his own hands.
‘Lead us then to this pass, Mardonius, this Thermopylae. If it is as narrow as our Thebans claim, we’ll need to push on at speed to keep the fleet on our flank.’
‘As you wish, Majesty.’
Mardonius glanced at the sun, low down on the western hills. ‘It isn’t far now. We will make camp close to where it opens and go through in one push at dawn tomorrow. The fleet will have gone on by then, I have no doubt.’
45
The month of Boedromion brought shortening days. The sun still felt like summer, especially when a man had to fight under its lash. Xanthippus blessed Apollo for his clear li
ght and fortune in war, then blessed Athena when the Persian fleet pulled back before true darkness. Xanthippus had not known if they would continue to fight all night in their frenzy, though it would have been utter madness. Without light, both fleets would have been in danger of ramming their own ships. Just as important, the crews were all exhausted. Some of the rowers snored where they sat, leaning back with eyes closed in the creaking blackness below.
Without formal agreement, both fleets pulled apart in the twilight, seeking safe harbours for the hours of night. Xanthippus had watched for the half-moon to show, waiting for some scheme or trap to spring under its light. He hoped the Persian captains were just as nervous. It wasn’t until midnight was upon them that Xanthippus allowed Trierarch Ereius and his crew to seek shallow water and drop anchor. Even then, they risked running aground or tearing the bottom out on some unseen rock. Ships had settled on all sides and the little boats they towed had been drawn in. Xanthippus had been about ready for sleep when one of the small craft bumped alongside. The summons was for him, from the Spartan navarch.
Two sailors rowed him back across dark waters, saying nothing. When they found their own ship, Xanthippus heard the slap of rope against wood and reached blindly for it, lurching up the ladder to the deck above. A figure challenged him with a drawn blade and he gave his name, then waited for Eurybiades to be told he had come.
Clouds revealed the moon overhead while he stood there, making the sea glitter in a long line. The Spartan ship eased up and down at the prow, the motion almost restful. Xanthippus yawned suddenly and scrubbed a hand over his face, wishing the endurance of his youth hadn’t vanished like a dream. There had been a time when he’d thought nothing of staying up all night and fighting the next day if he had to! In his fifties, he preferred enemies to come at him only in the mornings.
He heard Themistocles come aboard when the man’s voice sounded a few feet away, making some dry comment that had the boatmen chuckling. Xanthippus turned to him in the darkness and murmured his name.
The Gates of Athens Page 35