The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae

by Nick Brown

  “Come on, don’t be stupid, Mandrocles. Athens can’t afford to lose me in some no-account skirmish at the arse end of a pointless war with Aegina. Likewise, think what the reaction back home would be to Cimon falling here as a youth.”

  I wasn’t too slow to realise that this latter blow would be as much about his reputation being the man who led the son of Miltiades to his death as the actual loss to Athens of a teenage boy. Though looking back at what Cimon subsequently achieved for the city, maybe I was too harsh.

  He was fiddling with the strapping of his shoulder guards while watching the two black hulls with their murderous rams cutting through the water, approaching at speed. Such sights I’ve found either focus a man’s mind or shroud it in a fog of panic and confusion: Themistocles’s mind was clear.

  “You and these two in the front rank with me and the boy behind. If we grapple and they board us, hold them back until the sailors cut us free.”

  If only reality was so simple. I’d had one experience of a deck fight and I knew it was unpredictable. If you managed to control your fears you dealt only with what was directly in front of you. If you lost control you were killed.

  The archers tested their bow strings and notched the first arrows. We only carried four archers this trip; like most, they were Scythians who kept themselves to themselves and communicated in some barbaric tongue that didn’t even sound like words. Most of them didn’t speak Greek so they and our crew didn’t have much to do with each other. In fact, you only really noticed them when they were needed. They were needed now.

  The only other fighting men were the four in partial hoplite gear at the prow. Like my two grizzled companions, they weren’t of the best quality. If things got really bad the Thranitai would fight, but if it ever got to that stage it was only because hope of escape was lost.

  Behind me I could hear Ariston shouting directions to Theodorus and Theodorus setting the tempo for the rowers. At least we were going into this with a well led and experienced crew. I prayed they wouldn’t board us. I’d adjusted my fighting gear, no heavy bronze body armour for me, I’d a horror of going over the side and being dragged swiftly down into the depths by the weight. I’d fight as I did at Marathon: crouched behind my shield, wearing only shoulder guards over a padded linen corselet.

  Themistocles was swearing and grumbling a stream of oaths and complaints but, as is the way of things at such times of heightened emotion, one fragment lodged in my mind.

  “Last time I take risks: this could stop everything. If I get back, Oh Father Poseidon Earth Shaker, I swear I’ll proceed straight away in having that bastard Megacles ostracised.”

  Cimon was next to him behind Miltiades’s shield so I couldn’t see if he was wearing full armour. I smiled at him, intending reassurance. I couldn’t speak, my mouth was dry and I needed to piss. Strange how it’s always that way. He smiled back, well in control of himself.

  We were nearly set: in minutes they’d be within range of the archers. Their two triremes were well handled: they’d kept pace and maintained their distance. At the opportune time they’d split and come at us from different directions. One would ram and the other board unless they just wanted us sunk, in which case it would all come down to their sharply serrated rams.

  Our only chance was to get between them and try the Diekplous: something that only triremes that had engaged with the Persian navy knew. Our best chance lay in them not expecting it. Only a few lengths now. A first exploratory arrow came whistling across with sufficient force to stick in the deck. I heard a shout.

  “Mandrocles.”

  I looked round at Ariston red faced veins in his neck bulging. What did he want?

  “Mandrocles, do your fucking job.”

  Then I remembered why I was in front at the centre. My mouth had dried completely and I had to work at getting some saliva before shouting,

  “Archers fire at range.”

  As I shouted arrows were already outbound; like the crew, these lads knew their jobs. After the stately slow motion dance stretching out to eternity that had led us here, everything speeded up. The rowers picked up the stroke and the deck hummed under our feet as the Athene Nike leapt across the water.

  Men were praying under their breaths but other than that and the creaking of timber and the regular plash of the oars there was only one sound. The beat and shout with which Theodorus set the pace. Calculating the correct pace was everything. Well, almost everything. The decisive factor in whether we lived or died was the timing of Ariston’s orders. Sailing under Miltiades, Ariston told him when and what to shout. Now he’d have to do it all himself, although I’d shout it with him.

  So no one spoke; we waited for his command. I motioned to the marines to crouch and brace then pulled my helmet down over my face and disappeared into the claustrophobic and isolated world of the partially sighted. Athene Nike flew at full pelt across the narrow gap of water separating them from us, her old timbers and ropes creaking with the strain.

  From somewhere below came the stench of fear loosened bowels. Almost in slow motion arrows were flying across us. I sensed one miss my face and sink into a target further back. The prow seemed to lift with its speed across the waves as, with our killer ram foremost, we flew at them.

  On the ships facing us, the decks were no longer packed with an undifferentiated mass but with distinct and recognisable men. Within minutes, maybe less, either they or we would be dead.

  So it begins.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Then it happens: you watch and see before your mind understands. Like in a dream, but one you can’t wake from however hard you try. I’ve seen men cover their heads with their cloaks before the death stroke takes them, as if they thought that if they couldn’t see it then it wasn’t real. Nothing helps: you fight or you die; nowhere to run to at sea.

  Heading towards each other seems to more than double the speed, makes every movement your ship takes slow and clumsy. What happens next and what happened last get confused, all you can do is try to react in time. So it’s no wonder a complicated manoeuvre like Diekplous so often goes wrong. The two triremes headed straight at us; until they split we couldn’t make our move. Perhaps they knew that, knew what was coming and threw the lucky dice.

  I watched Ariston’s face as he waited to shout the order. Saw the wave of confusion and uncertainty cloud it as it hit him that maybe they wouldn’t split. That they’d ram us together then pull back and watch us sink because they had no intention of boarding.

  I could tell from his face that he had no other plan and that if they came on we were finished. He thought we were finished. A screech and frisson of pain made me blink; an arrow skittered off my shield rim and sheered off past my right cheekbone, a splinter from the barb hit me under my jaw. I pulled my head back in behind the shield, gasping with shock. That must be when they split.

  I heard him shout,

  “Diekplous!”

  We lurched to the left as the rowers on that side drew in their oars. It was too late; there wasn’t time or space for it to work. I could see their helmsman clearly: he was laughing, head thrown back in triumph; he knew they’d timed it right. But everything at sea is chancy, nothing’s in the wineskin for certain. I was staring, fixated at the great red bearded face of their grinning helmsman. Then I felt what he felt and saw the cocky grin vanish as he was thrown out of his seat.

  We’d missed the manoeuvre, couldn’t turn quick enough to ram as close to ninety degrees as possible. Instead we careered at nearer forty five down their side so our heavy ram smashed and splintered its way through their three banks of oars.

  Nothing but screaming and squeals: blood splashing in gouts out through their oar holes. The worst that can befall a trireme, as a heavy ram moving at speed makes splinters out of ninety oars. Smashing the chests, arms and hips of the benched in rowers. Changing them from hard muscled men into slippery, mangled torsos.

  Their deck became a bloody froth of confusion and screaming as the
y lurched off course, directionless, now only capable of rowing in a circle. The agonised squealing must have carried all the way back to Aegina.

  It had happened in the blink of an eye as I crouched behind my shield. Ariston was shouting to Theodorus, not to reverse as expected but to carry on clear then turn to face the other ship. This was only feet away but backing water not wanting to plough into its crippled companion.

  So now it was down to who could turn quickest. I was sweating inside the helmet, watching the limited patch of water visible through the eye slits of my helmet glistening in the fierce sun. Looking round I saw we’d taken some hits from arrows and that the archers on the stricken ship were still firing. There were screams below deck on the Athene Nike too: I guessed this must be from some of the lower deck rowers, less experienced men who hadn’t drawn their oars in quickly enough.

  But there wasn’t time for worrying about any of that; just three banks of rowers backing water and the other three pulling straight ahead for all they were worth. As we turned I tried to orientate myself so I’d know how to position my men for what came next. As we turned, I could only see the other trireme by looking over my shoulder. Suddenly it lurched into view.

  It happened in a blur: we were going head on at each other. Something no trireme should do, hit head on at ramming speed and both ships are fucked. So we both blinked at the last minute: both swerved but Ariston and his counterpart from Aegina had both held their nerve for too long and we left it too late.

  The Athene Nike careered down the side of their boat. I could see its name, ‘The Flying Dolphin’, and I remember a foolish thought rattling through my mind that it was a fitter name for a pleasure boat than a weapon of war.

  The screeching and tearing of wood was horrendous, even though most of our rowers and theirs managed to pull their oars back in time to avoid splintering and mutilation. The impact turned the prow of our ship toward their stern, there was the crash, a further impact, and I was thrown to the deck.

  Both triremes slithered to a halt, locked in fatal congress. Now it was about which crew would recover quickest to win the deck war. For us it was worse: we had more men down and knew if this lasted long enough then their other broken up ship would reorganise its surviving oarsmen sufficiently to pull alongside its sister craft and cross its deck to board us. For us, we were in no hurry to leave the deck of Athene Nike. Our only chance was to hold them back long enough for our crew to disentangle us from them and push off.

  There’s nothing clear about it, see? It’s all confusion, chance and blood rage. Our prow was clear of their stern so all our fighting men gathered in our stern section in two rough ranks of three, masking Ariston with Cimon and Themistocles at the rear. Our other man stayed in the prow with an arrow in his throat.

  Then they were spilling over the side and at us.

  There’s a simple procedure for defending a deck. Simple, that is, to understand, but not to execute, and it all depends on keeping your balance. Lock your shield with the shield of the man next to you then crouch behind it and keep your elbows in, your head down and your weight low. Try anything fancy and you’re a dead man.

  Normally the crew boarding are doing it from a position of strength so you only get one chance to beat them because you only hold one advantage. They’re shifting from one moving deck onto another so by comparison you’re well balanced and stable. Use that and hit them with your shields as they land.

  There was a breeze, I remember, and a slight swell. They came over the side on a roll and as a consequence the drop onto our deck was extended. I shouted something and we moved forwards into them, our rank leading the three behind, pushing. Being hit by an armoured man in balance as you jump down onto his deck is close to a death sentence.

  We used the roll to rock into them, shoulders behind our shields. Once you clash they stumble and when that happens, whatever guard they have disappears. That’s when you stab out with swords between the shields. The first on board are dead men, staggering between you and the ones jostling them from behind. The ones who hit our deck were no different. The man facing me lost his footing and was twisted round. So when I crashed into him he wasn’t even facing me as I killed him. The pressure of the men behind us gave us ballast, the pressure behind them just destabilised.

  If you get it right, then the first on deck stagger back into their comrades as you cut them down. The comrades can’t get their arms free to ply their weapons so if you’ve maintained your balance and you’re up close, you can use the point of the short sword to good effect. We had the momentum with us: the first comers went down, impeded the next wave who we fell on, killing them too. Behind us Themistocles and Cimon were jabbing with long spears over our shoulders into our opponents.

  The first seconds went as well as they could have, but at this point you run out of advantage. Momentum has carried you to the side. The deck’s slippery with blood and you’re standing on dead and dying men. There’s no chance of another charge because there’s no more ground. And this is where their numbers begin to tell, because your initial success has lured you onto a killing floor.

  Seems so clear and logical when you read it, doesn’t it reader? Like a ball game with rules. Not when you’re there. Not when you’re in the belly of it. Mired in its entrails you’re either raging and out of your wits or terrified and unable to think. Strangely it’s the only time when being in charge helps. Helps because you have to think about more than just your own survival. You have to think about your men and what comes next.

  So we came to a halt where our deck met theirs, winded and breathing heavy. For a second we stood near enough to touch them, waiting for the next move. It didn’t come from either us or them. It came from the ship. The deck heaved and we swayed out of balance.

  Their faces weren’t so near; there was a gap between the decks. Then the deck jagged backwards, my right wingman, Thestochius, a farmer from out toward Sounion I think, lurched forwards and over the side into the narrow gap between the two ships. Didn’t make a sound; slid smoothly into the water and was dragged straight down to the depths by the heavy and expensive armour which had been the pride of his life.

  “Don’t just stand, help us push off.”

  The voice was Theodorus. He was wielding an axe, cutting the ropes they’d thrown to bind our ship to theirs. The crew were using their oars to push the ships apart. A crazed youth from the Flying Dolphin leapt across the widening gap to our deck. Perhaps he thought it would bring him glory. He fell short and was swallowed by the man-killing sea to join Thestochius and the fishes. A couple of ragged pulls on the oars and we were moving. I saw their rowers push out their oars to begin the chase.

  But Poseidon Earth Shaker was with us that day. Their ship moved but in a different direction than intended. We’d smashed one of the steering rudders as we bumped our way along her so the ship couldn’t heed the helmsman’s direction. Their archers fired salvos into us until we were out of range. It was all they could do now, with one ship crippled and the other unable to steer a course.

  Once we were out of range, or they’d run out of shafts or lost interest I took off my helmet and rejoined the world of men. We had eight dead and about twice that broken. But worse, we were damaged and on open water.

  Triremes are good fast fighting platforms but hard to handle and precarious in anything other than smooth waters. We’d been hit twice: sections of the hull had buckled and we were taking water. The deck was offset and there were gashes in the timbers. So if they’d been able to pursue there’s no chance we could have got away. But what might just be a setback on land is often a mortal blow at sea. Things were about to get worse and if I’d studied Ariston’s face more carefully I’d have been aware of our predicament earlier.

  We made slower going than Themistocles wanted: he worried about the third ship and the possibilities of the other two patching themselves up. So there was no chance of pulling the Athene Nike up to a beach for repairs. We couldn’t afford to be caught. So t
hat night we anchored just inside the mouth of a sheltered inlet. No fire, no hot food and no sleep. Well, not until the early morning by when it was too late.

  The first watches of that black night were disturbed by the howling of one of the worst broken up third row oarsmen. He carried on for hours until his mates must have done what was necessary to ease his passage. After that it was quieter; I think the example had an effect on the other wounded. Themistocles didn’t sleep at all: I think for him this was a night of self-doubt and creeping fear.

  I woke before first light, thinking I’d not slept. I was filthy with the coagulated blood of whoever it was I’d killed and smelled rank; we were short of fresh water. The dawn was stained an unnatural livid shade of yellowy orange. The sailors didn’t like it. And it was calm even then at dawn when there should be a breeze. Still and close, more like midday.

  Ariston, with Theodorus to back him up, suggested that we stay put for the day but Themistocles refused.

  “Why, it’s a calm day? That must be good for the ship.”

  “Calm now, Sir, but it’s later I’m worried about.”

  “Stay close to shore then, any sign of a storm and we can shelter.”

  “Beg pardon, Sir, but that’s not as easy as it sounds. Get caught on a lee shore and …”

  “I don’t care about that. Whatever the danger, it’s less than them catching up with us.”

  “But they’re seamen too, they won’t want to sail any more than we do.”

  “Even better, help us get away. Now get this ship moving.”

  Ariston turned back to the helm and Theodorus to his position between the rowing benches. I could see they were agitated and this troubled me. If experienced men like them, the best in the fleet, were scared to sail then we were taking a big risk. It wasn’t just me troubled: the mood across the Athene Nike was the same, tense and brooding.

  It didn’t get any better as the day grew increasingly oppressive and the men sweated over their oars. Not a trace of breeze to fill the sails, which remained furled. High above, the sun shimmered opaquely red behind a dense haze and below the wine dark sea lay sullen, black and still. Those of us with no particular duties sweltered on the deck taking advantage of whatever scant shade there was. During the morning, another smashed up oarsman died and went over the side.