The Spartans killed silently, but the Argives were screaming, shouting, and cursing furiously. Furthermore, because they had returned to the camp they had used during the night, they were tripping over scattered equipment, screaming as they stumbled into the still-burning coals of their own fires, and tearing down tents as they fled. The deeper the Pitanate Lochos penetrated into the disintegrating Argive ranks, however, the less cohesion the Spartan regiment could retain. Tents, cooking pots, and campfires blocked its path, too, tearing a hole in the line and forcing it to spread out.
The Limnate Lochos on the left, on the other hand, had neatly turned to one side in an evident effort to stop the Argives from fleeing to the safety of a nearby wood. But beyond the camp, some Argives were reforming into a compact phalanx about 150 across. Leonidas glanced around for Kyranios, but didn’t spot him. He hesitated only a second, then gave the order himself by simply tapping the shoulder of the nearest enomotarch and pointing to the Argives falling into formation. That was all. The order rippled through the ranks. The phalanx pivoted slightly to advance directly toward the Argive formation, each man adjusting only as much as was necessary to retain the solid, unbroken, and unbending line now aimed directly at the Argive phalanx.
As they came nearer, Leonidas could hear the enemy shouting orders. Behind the Argive front rank, spear tips waved and men jostled one another as they moved into position or changed their slots. Leonidas looked again for Kyranios, but could not spot him. By now they were committed to this fight, and Leonidas had no intention of breaking it off unless he received a direct order to do so.
The enemy was still apparently adjusting their lines—trying to strengthen the center, perhaps? Or perhaps some men were just losing their nerve. As on Kythera, some of the Argives started to shout insults. Leonidas could see their open mouths, red and black holes framed by bared teeth between the bronze of their cheek-pieces. Their eyes were lost in the dark holes cut away in their helmets. Their noses were protected by the bronze hanging down between the eye sockets. The open mouths were the only part of their faces that was still human. Shouting like this, however, made them look bestial. Meanwhile, the Argive rear ranks were beating their spears against their shields, creating what they evidently thought was a threatening clamor. It reminded Leonidas of the chattering of giant teeth—and suggested that the rear ranks were not pressing in as closely as they should.
“Ready spears,” Leonidas ordered. The first three ranks reversed the grip on their spears and raised them to shoulder height.
The Argives could take no more. With a wild roar they started rushing the Spartan line, screaming inarticulately with rage and to give themselves courage.
Although running robbed the Argives of their cohesion, a body of heavily armored men could still run over almost anything in their path. To stop from being bowled over, Leonidas ordered his own men to pick up their pace and lean into the attack. After that order, it was up to the front ranks. He dropped back to advance with the fifth rank, and it was from here that he heard the crash of shield on shield in an uneven, ragged crunching noise that staggered many men on both sides.
The Spartans recovered first. They put their weight behind their shields, thrusting their left shoulders forward as they drew their spears back, and then started jabbing downward at the enemy’s second line. The length of the spears meant that men in the front rank aimed for the enemy’s second or third rank, while the men in the second and third ranks aimed for the men in the enemy’s first and second ranks. Three deep, the spearheads sought eyes and throats, while the Argives pushed back, grunting and thrusting their spears, likewise seeking Spartan flesh.
The clash had ended all forward momentum, and the supporting ranks pressed up close behind the front ranks, the entire formation compressing. Here and there a man went down, and the man behind had to step into the gap, over the dead or wounded body of the man ahead. Elsewhere spears broke. When this happened in the Spartan ranks, the disarmed man defended himself with the splintered remnants until the man behind could hand forward his own spear. This man, in turn, received a spear from the man behind him, all the way to the back, where the man in the last rank could shout to the helots for a spare.
The Argives did not seem to have a similar system. When their spears broke, they tossed them away and drew their swords. Argive swords were longer than Spartan swords, but this only encouraged false hopes of reaching the enemy. One after another Argive hoplite was killed trying to use his sword, and in so doing dropping his shield guard enough to allow Spartan hoplites to spike him fatally.
The killing had been going on for almost a quarter-hour, and what had been dry earth with sparse, scratchy grass had slowly turned into a morass as blood, urine, and shit soaked into it from the dead, dying, and wounded. Leonidas looked over his shoulder for Kyranios without really expecting to find him. If he’d been here, he would have already given the order. So he nodded once to the piper and ordered the advance.
At once the rear ranks lowered their heads, leaned forward, and pushed, their shields jammed into the backs of the men in front. They dug in their feet and started shoving forward as if they were pushing a wagon mired in the mud. The impetus from the back moved the front ranks forward without them having to exert a great deal of effort. Leonidas knew. He’d been there. The rear ranks carried them forward much as a wave lifts a ship onto a beach, while the front ranks concentrated on the grim business of hammering down the enemy with their spears.
The Argives were giving ground at last. Not a lot. They were resisting hard. But their front rankers were shouting again—this time with alarm. Leonidas saw a man at the outside edge of the Argive formation glance back and start to shout something—probably an order for the rear ranks to close up—but a spear pierced his throat, cutting off his words. His head, heavy with the helmet, flopped back, and then the body crumpled. The Spartan who had killed him stepped forward over the body, and the men from the middle and rear ranks, one after another, stabbed downward with their spear butts until the corpse was left behind in their wake as they continued forward, a lifeless, bloody rag.
They had advanced almost ten paces now, and Leonidas moved forward with the line, abreast of the middle ranks, the youngest five cohorts of active-service rankers. He looked left and right. Kyranios seemed to have disappeared into thin air. He noted, too, that the Pitanate Lochos was not recognizable as a body anymore, but the Limnate had clearly pinned down a large body of Argive troops before the woods. Then Leonidas realized that the Amyclaeon and Conouran regiments were also on the field, busy sealing off the flanks and back of the woods, where the bulk of the Argive army appeared to have fled.
Leonidas turned back to the task at hand. The Mesoan Lochos was slowly gaining momentum. Leonidas sensed more than saw that the Argive rear ranks were starting to break and run. “Keep up the pressure!” he called out once, and the piper repeated the order, condensed to “Harder!”
Even without orders, the Spartan phalanx sensed the change in the Argive resolve. It was picking up the pace. Soon the Argive rear ranks had thinned so much that the front ranks had lost support. The Argive front ranks started to buckle and go down, not from wounds but from the sheer weight of the Spartan wall of flesh. They screamed not in pain but in terror, knowing what would follow. The Spartan front ranks did not bother with Argives who had fallen; they left these to the middle rankers. The latter jabbed and stabbed into groins, intestines, and bowels as they dispatched the men already knocked down by the front ranks.
By now the Mesoan Lochos had advanced a hundred paces, leaving a carpet of bleeding, sometimes still writhing and whimpering, bodies behind them. For a split second Leonidas was horrified by the number of Spartans strewn behind—until he realized that the red that dominated the field came not from Spartan cloaks, but blood-soaked Argives.
A moment later, the Argive line broke.
“Hold!” Leonidas shouted instantly, halting the instinct to pursue before it could become more than a r
ipple in the line of bronze. He moved forward to the front rank, which stood absolutely still on his left. He could hear the rasping of hundreds of men gasping for breath. They were dripping sweat so profusely from their exposed limbs that it was a wonder he couldn’t hear it like the trickle of a stream. Here and there the line swayed slightly, probably from men with wounds in their legs or feet.
He gave the order for the wounded to fall out and the rest to stand at ease. “Catch your breath!” he ordered verbally, not bothering about the pipes, now that the din of battle had paused in their immediate proximity. He prowled along each rank, making sure that his orders had been obeyed and that wounded men had relinquished their places to fit men. He ensured that the rear ranks adjusted for the losses forward, so that the depth of the files was roughly equal again. Only then did he return to the front rank and order “ready.” The men dropped helmets and took up their shields and spears again.
The Argives were in headlong flight up the road. Many had tossed their shields—even their spears—aside. Some men were trying to tear off their armor as they ran. Leonidas shook his head in incomprehension and disapproval. He was confident that his phalanx would be able to overtake these men; and when they did, those in flight would be struck down and butchered like beasts, because they no longer had the means to defend themselves and die fighting. He did not understand how they could care so little about their honor.
What worried Leonidas more was that Kyranios was still nowhere to be seen. It was one thing to give orders in the engagement itself, but he felt the order to pursue ought to come from Kyranios—if not Cleomenes.
He looked around for the lochagos, and with shock noticed his horse grazing off to the side—riderless. Then he realized Kyranios was lying on the grass beside the horse, twitching hideously. Leonidas looked from his commander to the rock-still phalanx, and then up the road at the fleeing Argives. He could not wait much longer, or the Argives would indeed make good their escape. He didn’t have a choice. He ordered the advance, and then ran back to Kyranios.
Kyranios had clearly had some kind of seizure. He was conscious, but his face was contorted. He tried to speak but his words were incomprehensible. His left hand and leg twitched, but evidently without responding to his will. With his right, he waved furiously at Leonidas. It was a gesture that might have meant “go away” or “fetch a surgeon,” but Leonidas didn’t think of that. He understood only “Forward!” or “Back to your post!”
Leonidas shouted back toward the helots, and gestured angrily for them to care for Kyranios. Why hadn’t they noticed the commander fall off his horse? It must have happened close to the start of the engagement, Leonidas registered, somewhat ashamed. That was more than half an hour ago, he calculated. Were they all blind?
No, they had been transfixed by the killing.
He didn’t have time to wait for the helots to arrive. The phalanx was advancing, as he had ordered, at double pace. They were starting to overtake the Argives, who had collapsed under the weight of their armor and were desperately trying to tear it off so they could run more easily. Leonidas hesitated only a moment; then he caught up the trailing reins of Kyranios’ horse, vaulted onto its back, and cantered forward to catch up with his troops.
When he reached them, they had already overtaken the first of the Argives, the men who were wounded or simply unable to keep running. After that, the killing continued all the way up the road until they were within sight of Argos itself.
The men who were far enough ahead could be seen disappearing through a gate flanked by two tall towers. Most of the survivors, however, had abandoned their shields, spears, and armor. They would not be in a position to mount an effective defense. The walls, meanwhile, were lined with people, including women, many of whom already appeared to be screaming or keening in mourning.
There was no point in pursuing now. At the very least, they needed to rest, catch their breath, and regroup. Leonidas gave the order to halt and rest, jumping down from Kyranios’ horse and letting it go free again.
The Spartan ranks sank down, exhausted, where they stood. Most men clasped their knees in their arms and dropped their heads on them, their shields still on their left arms, protecting themselves as they had been taught even in this moment of rest. Others, less disciplined or more exhausted, fell sideways onto the ground, their shields only partly protecting them. Their officers usually shouted at them and called them to order before Leonidas did.
Leonidas signaled for the company commanders to join him. They, of course, had not sat down at all, and came with alacrity. “Kyranios has had a stroke,” he told them simply.
They nodded.
“We can probably take Argos with this lochos alone.”
They nodded again.
“Do you want to try, or do you want me to call for reinforcements?”
“Let’s take the damn place, before they know what’s hit them!” replied the commander of the Lycurgan Company.
Leonidas nodded, and wanted to start giving orders, but a horseman was galloping toward him at a pace that bode no good. They turned and waited.
“Leonidas!” The voice reached out to them like a thin wail, long before the rider was close enough to deliver a real message. “Leonidas!” It was not a messenger, not one of their light reconnaissance troops, but Arkesilos, the commander of the Limnate Lochos. He raised his arm and started waving furiously. “Leonidas! Come back!”
“What?”
Arkesilos reined harshly to a halt. “Your brother! He’s slaughtering the surrendered Argives! He’s butchering them! And now he’s ordered the helots to set fire to the woods—to burn them all alive because they will not come out to be slaughtered!”
The officers of the Mesoan Lochos were staring at Arkesilos, uncomprehending. Behind them the rankers began to stir, look over their shoulders, or even get to their feet, trying to hear what was going on.
“Look!” Leonidas protested, pointing back at the city. “Argos is virtually undefended! We can take it easily. We can take it alone! Or if you bring forward your lochos, we’ll have it faster and easier!”
“You don’t understand!” Arkesilos countered. “Your brother has gone mad! He’s butchering men who think they have been ransomed! He’s defiling our victory with a bloodbath among the men who have surrendered! And the woods! It is where Argos found the steering oar for the Argo. Here Kastor and Polydeukes met with Herakles and Argos and sacrificed to Zeus before setting out for Thessaly! Come back, Leonidas. The city will be just as defenseless tomorrow! But I swear by the eyes of Athena, only you can save us from the vengeance of the Gods! Come quick!”
Leonidas did not resist any longer. What Arkesilos said about Argos was true. Since there was no one left to defend it, Argos could be taken as easily tomorrow as today. He grabbed Kyranios’ horse and galloped back to the sacred woods beside Sepeia, which had been turned into a charnel house by his half brother.
The smoke and the screams met him long before he actually reached his brother. As Leonidas rode past the helots who ringed the wood holding burning torches, some of them called out to him, “Do we have to do this?” Even: “Can’t you stop this?” They were terrified, caught between fear of their king and fear of the Gods.
Leonidas could understand their terror, because at close range he could see that the plane trees in this wood were truly ancient. Some of the trunks were so massive that more than one man could hide inside if he wanted. Furthermore, the leaves were not small and light like ordinary planes this time of year, but dark and broad. These were evergreen plane trees, which everyone knew were divine. His brother must indeed have gone mad to order the destruction of this wood! It could bring unfathomable revenge from the offended Gods.
The ancient trees, however, were already burning furiously, and the flames were fanned by a good breeze that was perversely not only whipping up the flames, but also twisting around like a cyclone. It was as if the Gods had maliciously turned against the men trapped inside and were inte
nt on destroying them—or, perhaps, once the sacred woods had been defiled by blood, they were intent on its destruction, just as a man will destroy even something of great value if it has been contaminated by filth. When Leonidas saw how far the fire had already progressed, however, he realized no one would be able to stop the fire before it reached a natural barrier. He started praying to Kastor as he rode: “Forgive us. Forgive us. This is the work of one man, not the whole city. Forgive us.” Never before had he felt it so important to commune with the Divine Twin. Kastor himself had come to this sacred wood and must treasure it. He must be furious with Sparta …
As Leonidas rode past the pickets who had orders to kill anyone who tried to get out, one of the officers recognized him and protested, “This is barbarous! The Gods will not forgive us!”
Kyranios’ horse was starting to falter by the time Leonidas reached his brother. The Agiad king was completely soaked in blood—and surrounded by heaps of dismembered body parts from an indecipherable number of corpses. He was shaking violently and tears were running down his face, washing away some of the blood splattered on it. For a moment, Leonidas thought he had been seized with remorse for his brutality—and then he realized his brother was not crying, but laughing.
Cleomenes was laughing and shouting in delight, “Did you hear that? This is Argos! This is Argos!” He paused long enough to look up toward the clouds and shout: “Apollo! You joker! You tricked me! I was to destroy Argos, you said! I would destroy Argos! But you meant this Argos, didn’t you? This pitiful wood dedicated to Argos!” He started laughing again, although his eyes were glazed with fury. “And I have destroyed it! I have destroyed Argos! I have destroyed Argos! Did you not hear? This wood is dedicated to Argos! I have destroyed Argos! The oracle was right! I have destroyed Argos.” Cleomenes returned to laughing hysterically.
“You have insulted the Gods, brother, while the city of Argos lies untouched and unprotected,” Leonidas countered, jumping down from his exhausted mount behind the barrier of butchered Argives.
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