Who caused the injury? I don’t rightly know. It could have been an Aramean, a Babylonian, a Medes, or one of Xerxes’ Immortals. They were everywhere at the…sorry, my mind wanders. Let me get back on track.
At the beginning of September, we marched from Thespiae. On the second day of the trek we came across a unit from Thebes. My squad and I were ready to fight them, but my file leader and the Phalanx’s Sergeant ordered us to stand down.
My file and I knew we could not trust those arrogant, thieving, traitorous Thebans. But when the NCO for the entire Phalanx orders you to standdown, you do. It was one of Commander Demophilus’ rules.
Rule one, if you want to fight the invasion, you follow orders. Well, my file wanted to fight, so we kept the shields on our backs, our spears covered, and our swords sheathed. But it didn’t stop us from letting the Thebans know our opinion of them for siding with the Persians in the past.
Days later, at a mountain town called Gravia, we met up with fighters from other cities. We camped on one side of the village and the Thebans on the far side. The separation barely helped.
In the next two days, other fighters began arriving. Men and equipment from Arcadias, Tegeans, Mantineans, Orchomenians, and Hoplites from Corinth, Phlius, Mycenae, plus, warriors from Peloponnese and bowmen from Crete. I lost count, but Commander Demophilus told us we numbered over seven thousand. And with each arrival, ancient rivalries flared as men from city states with contentious histories camped close together. I thought we would have a battle right there on the mountain. Somehow, the Commanders kept a lid on the boiling pot.
A few of us asked our officers why we were not marching to the Gulf of Molian. My Lieutenant explained we were waiting for representatives from one more city.
“We have seven thousand heavy infantrymen,” a Hoplite pointed out. “Sir, why wait?”
“The Commander of the expedition has yet to arrive,” he offered.
“Who is that sir?” another infantryman asked.
“I don’t know,” our officer answered. “Once he gets here, I expect the various Commanders will spend a few days holding meetings and sorting out the order of march.”
With a few days of idle time ahead, I joined a group of archers from Crete for an early morning hunt. I am, or rather, I was good with a bow when my vision didn’t blur. Let me tell you, those Cretans were dead accurate with their arrows. And pretty good guys. They let me trade a few winter furs for fresh meat. As I said, they were excellent bowmen.
Around midday, the hunting party and I began the hiked back to Gravia. Then boots scuffing on the trail behind us caused us to turn. And we just about jumped out of our skins. Coming up the trail were Spartans.
Scarlet capes streaming behind them, they moved fast up the steep slope. We didn’t hurry when the three hundred Lacedaemons were by us. As my Lieutenant had discussed, once the overall commander arrived, and I had no doubt a Spartan would command our unified force, he would hold meetings. To reinforce the thought, armed Helots and other Spartan slaves followed with supply wagons.
When we arrived at Gravia, rather than settled military camps, we discovered mayhem.
“Pack up. We are marching out,” my file leader instructed.
“I thought we had a few days of waiting,” I remarked.
“The Spartan Commander stopped on the trail and called for any Commanders in hailing distance,” my file leader explained. “Demophilus and a few others walked over to tell the Spartans where they could camp.”
“So, where are they?” I asked while shoving my gear into pouches.
“They aren’t. The Lacedaemons marched away,” the file leader replied. “King Leonidas said he will meet with everyone at Thermopyl.”
“The Spartans sent a King?” I questioned before remarking. “This is going to be a serious fight.”
“Demophilus’ rule number two,” the file leader reminded me.
“I know,” I acknowledged while tying the flaps on my gear. “Rule two, if you don’t want to fight stay home.”
***
Marcus Flamma put the scroll on the desk and picked up Alerio’s drink.
“Reading is thirsty work,” he announced before taking a gulp. Then he complained. “This beverage is as weak as my little sister.”
“I never thought about the Greeks doing forced marches like the Legion,” Alerio commented. “Or so many of them being heavy infantrymen. I only knew the Spartans are almost as tough as Legionaries. Please, read more.”
“So that I can entertain you?” Marcus asked.
“No. It’s so I can learn how your mind works,” Alerio informed him. “Maybe I can find a way to push you out of your fear of making mistakes.”
“Really?” Marcus inquired while picking up the scroll.
“No,” Alerio admitted. “It’s so you can entertain me.”
Marcus Flamma glared at Alerio before turning his eyes to the scroll.
***
The Spartans marched away as if they had no use for us or their own supplies. A few times as we marched through the mountains, I caught glimpses of scarlet on the trail ahead. Then the colors were swallowed by the trees, curves, and distance. It wasn’t until we neared the end of our journey that I next saw the Spartans.
The long caravan of soldiers, slaves, and wagons reached the summit overlooking the Gulf of Malian. Blue waters jutted inland to where they touched either low, soft beaches or high, hard cliffs. At the base of the thirty-five-hundred-foot mountain, a narrow strip of empty land weaved along the water’s edge.
Did I say empty? Empty of structures but not of three hundred scarlet cloaks. The Lacedaemons were paired off and inspecting every foot of flat land.
My attention was pulled from the view below when the convoy started down the winding path. Bordering the trail, warriors in full armor called to us.
“We have your backs. Give us wine,” they proclaimed in drunken revelry. “No enemy will pass behind you while a Phocian warrior remains alive.”
As men marched by, they handed wineskins to the Phocian force. It was our way of thanking them for protecting our flank. We knew mountains and the existence of animal trails. But like the Achaemenid army, we did not know the goat herding paths that cut across the face of the mountains. The local Phocians did and they would stand watch at the trailheads to prevent units from King Xerxes’ army from using the shortcuts.
Thermopylae, I spit on the blood-soaked earth and the stinking waters of the hot gates. Oh, sorry, I was overtaken by emotion as I remembered arriving at Thermopyl.
We had no sooner reached the base of the slope when a pair of Spartans stopped Commander Demophilus. The next thing I know, half my Phalanx are digging at the hot gates. By early afternoon, we had trenches spreading sulfur water across the land as neatly as irrigation trenches. By evening, the ground was sloppy mud and the waters of the thermopylae were soaking the soil and draining into the Gulf of Malian. It wasn’t until two days later when I realized the reason for creating the treacherous footing.
From north of the bay, riders in ceremonial dress appeared. They rounded the Malian Gulf and rode straight for our swamp. By the time they reached the Phocian Wall, they were covered in mud and not looking so snobbish.
What wall? I apologize. Besides draining the sulfur water from the hot springs, King Leonidas ordered the construction of a battlement. It was rushed and rough but long enough to block most of the pass. Around the end of the Phocian Wall, you could march three columns or drive a chariot through the gap. We cut trees and stacked two walls of logs then filled in between the stacks with dirt and rocks. It was a good barrier.
Where was I? Oh, when Xerxes’ honor guard reached the end of the mushy ground, they encountered a Spartan circus.
Fifty naked Lacedaemons were doing handstands, cartwheels, and other general gymnastics. Behind them, fifty more sat in the dirt oiling and combing their hair or trimming their fingernails and toenails. Behind them, another fifty were braiding each other’s hair. All o
ne hundred and fifty Spartans ignored the arrival of Xerxes’ cavalry.
“Who is in charge?” a Captain of Horse shouted.
None of the Spartans gave him so much as a glance.
“I demand to speak with someone in authority,” he said raising his voice.
It carried easily to the wall. I know because I was sitting on the logs with my legs dangling over the side. Behind me and hidden, the other half of the Spartan detachment waited. If the cavalry moved to engage with the circus, they would quickly encounter ready shields and spears.
When enough time had passed to make the Achaemenid Captain squirm out of frustration, King Leonidas strolled from behind the wall. As he crossed the distance, he paused to speak to some of his lounging men further irritating the representative.
“The great King Xerxes offers you friendship,” the Captain announced. He was good at hiding his irritation and speaking courteously.
Several Spartans moved to shield Leonidas’ sides when the King removed his helmet.
“You and your men will have freedom. All that is required is to embrace the title Friends of the Persian People,” the Captain continued. “Take King Xerxes’ offer, and he will grant you lands that are far more fertile than what you possess.”
I rocked back in surprise and almost fell from the wall. It seemed Xerxes did not want a fight. The terms sounded good, but what did I know of diplomacy?
The naked Lacedaemons stopped tumbling and stepped back. While they moved to the rear, the ones tending their hair and nails marched forward and assumed positions behind their King. Still stepping back, the naked men reached their armor and shields and quickly dressed. In a few heartbeats, the Achaemenid cavalry faced three hundred armed Spartans in a narrow space.
“If you will not accept friendship. Save your life and the lives of your men,” the Captain suggested allowing the diplomatic demeanor to slip away. “Lay down your arms.”
Leonidas lifted his head gear and slid the bronze helmet down over his ears. Then he raised his spear and pointed the iron tip at the Captain.
“Tell Xerxes,” Leonidas challenged, “to come and take them.”
The horsemen wheeled sharply about. I believe they would have galloped gallantly away except for the deep slop. The final insult to Xerxes’ honor guard was a mud bath courtesy of King Leonidas.
From the north, additional cavalry, columns of marching soldiers, and a multitude of wagons circled the waters of the bay and began setting up bivouacs. By nightfall, the shoreline of Malian Gulf glittered with campfires as if a million stars had fallen from the sky.
***
Alerio slapped his hand down on the desktop.
“Now that Leonidas was a leader,” he exclaimed. “He reminds me of Colonel Claudius when he was demanding the surrender of Admiral Hanno.”
“When was that?” Marcus inquired.
“About eight years ago,” Alerio replied. “When we were taking Messina from the Qart Hadasht Empire.”
“You were there at the beginning of hostilities?” Marcus asked. “But you are the same age as me.”
“I was a very young Legionary,” Alerio responded. “Read, Tribune Flamma. We can’t leave the story there.”
Marcus adjusted the scroll and smoothed the pages on the wooden rollers. Then, he continued.
Chapter 4 - A King Fallen by a Herder
The Achaemenid Empire sent their Medes archers forward first.
“There are enough of them to darken the sky with their arrows,” someone mentioned.
“Friend, you bring us excellent tidings,” Dieneces the Spartan observed. “If the Medes darken the sun, we shall have our fight in the shade.”
I wasn’t keen on being down range of a thousand arrows. But eight of our files had been selected to hold the Spartans’ flank. With my spear and long stick, I had marched to a position deep in the Thespian ranks. It placed me next to the Lacedaemons.
“Don’t fail me, Thespian,” Dieneces warned.
“If you run, Spartan, you can depend on me to protect your back,” I responded, “because I’ll be standing my ground.”
They weren’t given to levity, but he rewarded my boast with a gapped tooth grin. Most of the Spartans had missing teeth. It wasn’t like the Thebans whose teeth rotted because of their vile souls. The teeth missing from the mouths of the Spartans appeared to be from fighting.
“Medes’ arrows are in the air,” Commander Demophilus announced. “Get them up.”
I leaned my spear against my shoulder and raised my left arm. The fourteen-pound wood and bronze shield covered me and by overlapping with my neighbors, we created a roof. But the awkward angle of our shoulders and the weight made the cover unstable. To help support the shields, we each carried a stick. Shorter than our spears, the rods were just long enough to help support the overhead shields. Comfortable and unharmed, we weathered the storm of arrows.
When the Medes stopped, possibly because their Captains realized they were wasting arrows, a wave of disturbance came from behind our ranks and files.
“Excuse me,” voices apologized as they shoved between armored Hoplites.
When they reached my position, I identified them as our Cretan archers. Each carried a basket and harvested the spent arrows that fell into the formation. Outside our Phalanx like structure, other archers happily picked up arrows.
“Can you get them to send over a few more flights?” the Captain of the bowman asked.
“Not without wounding several men,” Demophilus told him.
“That’s too bad,” the Cretan officer offered. He held up an intact arrow. “Some of these are works of art. Beautifully balanced and ready to be returned at the next opportunity.”
“Are you ready?” my Commander asked him.
“Yes. Why do you ask?” the Captain inquired.
“Because the Medes are done,” Demophilus explained.
I peered between bodies and helmets to see Achaemenid infantry slogging and splashing through Leonidas’ swamp. Their full-throated war cries did not match the mud encased movement of their feet. By the time they approached our front ranks, they were still yelling, but they walked while shaking mud from their sandals and legs. It was hardly an imposing charge.
***
My shield might have been heavy and my chest piece and helmet weighty, but they stopped spears and swords. I can’t say the same for the wicker armor and shields used by the attacking company. We shredded them as if we were harvesting grain.
Soon bodies and shields stacked up in front of our lines. When the pile reached a good level, it forced the attackers to lean over the bodies to strike at us. The wicker man lasted for two of my file’s rotation to the front. On our third cycle to the attack line, we encountered sturdy wooden shields and steel swords.
“Arameans from Damascus,” a Spartan named Eurytus reported.
“How can you tell?” I asked between blocking and deflecting sword thrusts.
“The blades of their swords have swirls in the metal,” he replied before turning his back on the Arameans he was fighting. Then as he strolled by me, he added. “Patterns in their steel are reminiscent of flowing water.”
I had watched Spartans do this all morning. They would lower their swords, turn around, and walk off the line. Seeing an opening, a couple of Arameans would leap the barrier and charge at the Lacedaemon’s unguarded back. Although several had suffered injuries, the instances did not stop them from performing the trick. After a couple of paces, the Spartans would suddenly spin around and cut the legs out from under their pursuers.
Eurytus walked back to resume his place on the front ranks. During the deadly prank, his place at the front was held by a neighboring Spartan.
“They never learn,” Eurytus bragged to me as he braced for another set of attackers.
The day did not go well for the soldiers of the Achaemenid Empire.
When my tour of fighting ended for the day, I watched Corinth and Mycenae Hoplites handle the last skirmish
es. Before nightfall, Xerxes’ soldiers broke contact. They limped away passing workers coming from the camps. Leonidas allowed them to carry away the wounded and the dead.
While they cleaned up the battlefield, another group filled in the swamp. The dry approach would allow for faster assaults on our lines. This meant the next day would be more challenging than the first day of combat. At the time, I had no idea how demanding and life altering.
***
My file mates and I had a leisurely breakfast. Around our campsites, soldiers from other cities dressed in their armor and moved to the front. Commander Demophilus stopped by and told us we wouldn’t be needed until the afternoon. With almost a full day to idle away, I strolled in the direction of the Wall after sharpening my sword.
Unlike the day before, there was a steady flow of wounded and dead returning through the gap. I glanced up to the mountain and said a silent prayer to Aniketos and Alexiares. Hopefully, the twin Gods who guard the gates of Olympus would assist the Phocians in guarding our flank and the mountain passes.
There was little room at the top of the wall. King Leonidas of the Spartans and my Commander, Demophilus, were crowded into one section. They talked and pointed towards the battlefield. The rest of the wall was occupied by Cretan archers. They weren’t talking. Rather the island bowmen were shooting arrow after arrow at the enemy.
“Erechtheus,” my Commander called from his high position. In all the activity, I was amazed to be singled out.
“Sir?” I shouted.
“Get back to camp and bring up the Thespians Phalanxes,” Demophilus ordered.
I turned about and ran for our camps. A line of Spartans passed me going towards the fighting. Something had changed but I didn’t know what.
***
It took a while for our Captains, Lieutenants, and NCOs to collect our men from the other camps. Rather than wait for an entire Phalanx, they sent files forward once ready. My file of sixteen Hoplites was the second to dress and head off.
As we jogged, we weaved around wounded soldiers and stacks of dead from various cities. Whatever was happening beyond the wall was taking a terrible toll on the less trained of our soldiers.
Rome's Tribune (Clay Warrior Stories Book 14) Page 3