No Time Like the Past

by Jodi Taylor

  Men shouted. Trumpets sounded. Without waiting for the ten thousand Immortals bearing down on them from the rear, the roaring Greek army left the Middle Gate and charged full tilt at Xerxes’ light infantry and cavalry. Both sides met with a crash that reverberated off the cliffs. There was no battle plan. Everyone’s aim was simple. To kill as many of the opposing side as possible.

  The fighting was vicious. The Spartans were fighting for their country and the lives of their countrymen as well as their own. The Persians were driven forwards by their own officers wielding whips. There was no quarter – no mercy was shown by either side.

  The Spartans fought with their spears and when those were gone, they drew their swords. When they were broken or shattered, they laid about them with their shields. When they were gone, they threw rocks or fought hand-to-hand, using fists and feet. When they were gone, they used their teeth. When they couldn’t stand any longer, they fought on their knees. One by one they fell, bleeding from a dozen wounds, finally overwhelmed by the sheer numbers surrounding them.

  I watched one Spartan, helmet gone, hair flying behind him, run, roaring, full tilt at a group of fully armed infantrymen. He’d lost both hands, but he hurled himself on them, beating them about their heads with his bloody stumps, snarling and biting. Unstoppable. It took four of them to wrestle him to the ground and more than four of them to kill him.

  I didn’t see Leonidas die, but I did watch the desperate scramble to retrieve his body.

  As the Immortals approached from the rear, the few remaining Greeks retreated and took up position on Kolonos Hill behind the wall. There, they clustered into a rough circle, broken spears bristling. Waiting for the end.

  All right, they weren’t a pleasant race. Their lifestyle was ruthless. Mercy and compassion were a weakness that had long since been bred out of them. Their treatment of slaves and indeed, any non-Spartan was brutal. But they were the right people in the right place at the right time. As if History had prepared them for this one moment, and then, having no further use for them, discarded them. A few centuries later, they would be gone. But this was their moment. This was their bright, shining, blood-soaked moment.

  Xerxes, in his fury, sent his troops to tear down the Phocian wall and as it disappeared in a heap of rubble and even more dust, they moved in. Thousands upon thousands of Persian soldiers surrounded the tiny hill and even then, despite the whips of their officers, none would approach.

  Finally, the order was given and Persian arrows rained down upon them, wave upon wave, turning day into night, until every last Greek was dead and Xerxes entered the Hot Gates at last.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I sat back against a rock, drew a deep, shaky breath, and wiped the sweat off my face. My hands weren’t steady. I made myself take a moment and sip some water. Looking up at the sky, I could see the sun was beginning to go down. Hours had passed and I’d been oblivious.

  I suddenly realised I’d still heard nothing from Peterson or Markham. Should I try to contact them? No. There were Persians swarming everywhere and they shouldn’t be distracted. I should trust them to look after themselves. My job was here, recording events and keeping an eye on Ephialtes. There wasn’t a single thing I could do for either of them, so concentrate on the task in hand.

  Down below, the Persians were building huge funeral pyres to bury their dead. I watched with interest, because Xerxes, usually quite punctilious in observing respectful funeral rites for his enemies, would order that no such courtesy be extended to the tiny force who had withstood his magnificent army for three long days. Leonidas’ hideously disfigured head was impaled on a stake and left for the whole world to see. The rest of his army was simply left as carrion.

  The Persian funeral rites took all day. They lighted the funeral pyres at dusk and I lay and watched the fires burn all night. At around midnight, Markham called in. His voice was just a hoarse and dusty whisper.

  ‘Max. You OK? Is it over?’

  I closed my eyes briefly, took a breath, and made sure my voice was steady.

  ‘Yes. The funeral rites have been completed. I imagine they’ll move out at dawn.’ I tried to swallow in a mouth suddenly too dry to do so. I was almost afraid to ask. ‘Where’s Peterson? Is he alive?’

  ‘He’s here, with me. We’ve taken cover. He’s been a bit knocked about, I’m afraid. You said that no one liked a traitor and you were right. They gave him a bit of a kicking and then left him at the side of the trail. I’ve been too busy lugging him to safety to call and there are Phocians everywhere.’

  I wiped my eyes and gave quiet thanks to the god of historians. ‘Do you need a hand with him?’

  ‘No, if you’re safe, stay where you are. I’ll get him down, don’t worry.’

  He closed the link. I shut my eyes.

  And opened them again.

  Shit! I’d forgotten about Ephialtes.

  He was awake. No, that’s not quite right. His eyes were open, but at that moment there was no one home. I squatted beside him, waiting, and gradually, some spark of intelligence came back into his eyes.

  I’d wondered how much he would remember and the answer was everything, because he uttered a cry, struggled to his feet, staggered heavily, sat down on a rock for support, held his head, and threw up. Great. More bodily fluids.

  Finally, his eyes cleared and he looked around, trying to establish where he was. I handed him a goatskin of water and made him sip it slowly.

  When I thought he could, I indicated he should get to his feet. I don’t think he had the faintest idea who or what I was, but he stood up, followed me to the edge of the plateau, and looked down at the fires below. He might have missed the last twenty-four hours, but he could see the Spartans had fallen. I wanted to see his reaction.

  He stood for a long time, looking down. Even in the moonlight, which traditionally drains all colour from the landscape and everything in it, he looked pale and haunted. Several times his lips moved as if he was struggling for words. Maybe he was praying to the gods, although I suspected there wasn’t a god on Olympus who would touch him with a barge pole after today’s events. He would be an outcast for the rest of his life. Albeit a rich one.

  I know it was unjust. He’d be reviled all his life for something he hadn’t done. On the other hand, he’d also be handsomely rewarded for something he hadn’t done. And he had planned to do it. Without our intervention, he would actually be the traitor History declared him to be. I wasted no pity on him.

  At last, he turned and looked at me. Perhaps he was looking for a word of kindness. Or of comfort. Or understanding. He stretched out a hand to me in silent pleading.

  I saw the Spartans in their brave, red cloaks, never giving ground. Heard the clash of metal as they raised their shields in the phalanx. Felt the ground shake as they stamped their defiance in the dust. Saw that one, last, armless Spartan, spitting, biting, and kicking as they took him down …

  I’d long since assembled the words I wanted to say. I drew myself up and turned from the scene below. Slowly and clearly, I said, ‘Ephialtes, your name will live forever,’ and I could see he understood exactly what I was saying.

  I couldn’t be bothered with him any longer. I walked away and began to gather up my belongings. When I looked back, he had gone. I never saw him again. I assumed he was off to the Persian camp to collect his reward.

  Bastard!

  At dawn, the Persian Army began to move. It was quite a sight.

  First to pull out was Xerxes’ enormous personal baggage train, escorted by several squads of infantrymen.

  This was followed by the Immortals, row upon row of them. Each anonymous and identical. Even after days of suicidally hurling themselves at the Spartans, their ranks were not noticeably depleted.

  Behind them came what I assumed was the sacred chariot of Ahuramazda, the Persian god, empty, but drawn by four snow-white horses. Gold and jewels glittered in the early-morning sun.

  Now came Xerxes himself, heavily escorted
. I strained for a glimpse of his face. I had set up three recorders in different locations and could only hope that one of them was able to get the details. He was riding a horse, not being carted around on a luxurious divan, and his only concession to luxury was the four mounted slaves carrying a sunshade over his head. He wore purple and that was about all I was able to get. I kept my fingers crossed that the recorders would get better images.

  After Xerxes marched the infantry, row upon row, throwing up so much dust that I could barely make them out. Their ranks went on and on forever. I sat up and chugged back some water. I disappeared round the back of a rock for a while and when I came back, the infantry were still marching past. I even think I might have dozed off for a few minutes. For God’s sake, don’t tell anyone that.

  The cavalry followed the infantry. Endlessly. I had long since lost count of rows and columns and the dust was making my eyes sting. I could hardly wait to get back, review the recordings, and try for an accurate estimation of their numbers. I could easily see how anyone watching this lot pass by would have put their numbers in the millions.

  Then more Immortals. Cloned ranks stamping through the dust, making the ground shake.

  Even then, it wasn’t over. Bringing up what I suppose could be called the rear, were the support teams. Members of his court. Administrators and courtesans. Blacksmiths, armourers, cooks, spare horses, wagon upon wagon loaded with provisions – food, drink, firewood, spares for absolutely everything and everyone.

  Hours and hours went by. I ran out of water and still didn’t dare leave.

  Finally, the ranks began to thin. Here came herds of cows, sheep, and goats, all being driven along the same path as the army. And the camp followers, most of them on foot, bundles balanced on their heads, choking in the dust. Dogs ran around, barking.

  The sun was dropping in the sky, and still they came. I wondered how many miles there were between the head of the army and these last few souls bringing up the rear. Finally, the last figures were lost in the dust.

  I heaved a sigh in the sudden silence.

  The sun was a fiery red ball when I stopped off at the pod for more water and then scrambled carefully down the rocky hillside. My knee didn’t like it much, competing with my hand in the throbbing competition, and I had to zigzag around to find the easiest route. I was soaked with sweat when I finally arrived at sea level and looked around me.

  I’ve been at this job for years and sometimes, even now, I’m still overwhelmed. I stared about me, unable to believe I was actually here. Unable to believe I was standing at the Hot Gates. Not in modern times, as a tourist, but actually here – the site of the famous Spartan stand at Thermopylae.

  Not that there was evidence to that effect. Looking around, there was virtually no trace that any Spartan had ever been here. There wasn’t a body in sight anywhere. The Persian army had marched straight over the top of them. Their remains had been totally obliterated under the victorious tramp of Persian feet. There wasn’t even a grease stain across the path.

  Acrid smoke from the funeral pyres mixed with the settling white dust that covered everything, including – yes, there it was – off to one side. Leonidas’s head, still impaled on a leaning stake, stood under the long shadows of the cliffs. I drew closer and stood looking at the most famous Spartan of them all. It was impossible to see how he had once looked. His hair and beard were dark and that was about all I could say. Flies crawled across his one remaining eyeball.

  I heard a shout behind me, and whirled around, cursing myself for not having my pepper spray ready, but it was Markham, slithering down the slope from the opposite direction and supporting Peterson as best he could.

  I blinked a couple of times, swallowed, and then tapped my wrist, significantly. ‘You’re late. It was all over with hours ago. Did you get lost?’

  He lowered Peterson to the ground in the shade and leaned forwards to put his hands on his knees to ease his back. He looked appallingly battered and dishevelled, even for him. I passed him some water and knelt to take a look at Peterson.

  His face was a mess. Xerxes might well have offered untold riches, but the Immortals had obviously held him in complete contempt. Any soldier would.

  ‘Tim?’

  His voice was thick but he knew me. ‘Hey, Max. Did you get it?’

  ‘Yes, I got it all. You took them over the mountain, then?’

  ‘Yeah. Ungrateful bastards.’

  I helped him drink some water. His nose was broken, but his teeth and cheekbones were intact.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘You’re still pretty. Helen will still love you.’

  ‘Don’t see how she can help it,’ he slurred. ‘I’m a hero.’

  I hugged him. Very gently. ‘Yes, you are.’ I turned to Markham. ‘And you are too. Although a very dirty one. Did you seriously chase off a thousand Phocians?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he said, wetting his face with water and just spreading the dirt over a larger area. ‘I chased off the ten at the front. They turned and ran and then everyone else turned and ran too. It was easy. But I’m still a hero as well, right?’

  ‘Why can I smell asparagus?’ said Peterson, squinting at me.

  ‘No idea.’

  The three of us sat against the cliff and watched the setting sun turn the sky blood red. It was incredibly hot and still. I could hear the endless rhythm of the sea. There were a few broken weapons scattered around and the settling dust was turning everything white, including us, but otherwise, you could hardly believe so bloody a battle had been fought on this very spot.

  Markham was fishing around in his pack.

  ‘Have you still got it?’ asked Peterson, anxiously, trying to sit up.

  ‘Of course.’ He pulled out a flask of wine.

  ‘Come on,’ said Peterson. We helped him to his feet and stood for a moment. In this narrow place, the heat was stifling. Unbelievably, men had fought here for three days.

  We stood in front of King Leonidas of the Spartans and poured the first cupful for the gods. The ground was beaten so hard that it couldn’t absorb the liquid, which just lay in a red puddle on the dusty earth.

  We poured the second to appease any shades that might still be hanging around this place – Persian or Spartan.

  The third cup was for us. We shared. A few sips each. It wasn’t until I drank that I realised how thirsty I was.

  I sat on a rock and looked around me. No birds sang here. The only sounds were of the sea and the lonely wind. Markham was fishing in his pack again, coming up with a can of spray paint.

  I swallowed the last of my wine in a hurry.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Vandalising an important historical site.’

  He shook the can and passed it to Peterson. I could hardly believe my eyes.

  ‘You can’t …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peterson, with all the dogged intent of one at the end of his physical strength, ‘I can.’

  We helped him up and propped him up in front of the cliff. He unfolded a piece of paper, squinted at it carefully, and in flawless Greek sprayed:

  Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by,

  That here, obedient to their laws, we lie.

  The famous tribute to the Spartans that in various forms would be taken up by poets and storytellers and echo down the ages. Monuments would be erected here, including a fine statue of Leonidas himself, and another to the Thespians who died with them and are often forgotten. Everyone would remember the words that Tim had written here today; all the more poignant, because, of course, tragically, most of the Spartans didn’t lie here. A few would, but most of them were just something unpleasant on the bottom of their enemy’s sandals. They had deserved better and Peterson had given it to them.

  We stood, bareheaded for a minute, the hot wind ruffling our hair and then we turned to go. Markham pulled Peterson’s arm around his shoulder and I picked up their gear. They set off.

  I let them get a little a
head and then turned back to Leonidas for one last look. It must have been a trick of this lonely place, but for a moment, just for a moment, I thought I heard a faint echo of his voice, borne on the wind off the sea, urging his men onwards to glorious defeat.

  I said quietly, ‘Thank you,’ and my words were lost on the same wind. I like to think he heard them.

  I followed the others back to the pod.

  The FOD plod lasted half a day. That’s the Foreign Object Drop plod, when we have to make sure we haven’t left anything behind. It took half a day because our stuff was scattered everywhere. On the slopes of Kallidromus above the battleground. Down at the river where Markham had slugged Ephialtes. All around the pod. Just everywhere.

  We made Peterson stay inside out of the sun, so mostly it was Markham and me, and I was still limping so mostly it was Markham, but we got it done eventually.

  Back inside the pod, we had a hugely deserved cup of tea. The first didn’t even touch the sides, so we had another one, just to keep it company. We tried to tidy ourselves up a bit. Historians never go back looking scruffy. Apart from Markham who looked scruffy when he set out and had deteriorated somewhat since them. He sunnily informed us this was because he was beyond improvement.

  We fervently agreed.

  ‘So,’ he said, putting his feet up on the console. ‘Are you going to go through with it, then? I only ask because I have a vested interest.’

  ‘Go through with what?’

  ‘This wedding, of course.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, shortly. ‘You’ve been placing bets, haven’t you?’

  ‘No! Well, yes, but mostly I need to know because I’ve been elected Gatekeeper.’

  We stared at him.

  ‘Do you mean usher?’

  ‘I don’t think so. My job is to slam the doors shut once you’re inside so you can’t get out. Dr Black and Dr Foster will follow you up the aisle, ready to intercept any suspicious movements on your part, and we all hand you over to Chief Farrell. After that, of course, it’s up to him.’