And Metiochos? The thought of his eldest son sent a stab through his chest, worse than the pain of his tortured muscles. Miltiades wondered what he looked like now, but the image that came to mind was brutal: he pictured him in Persian clothes. Miltiades could not shake the suspicion that his son had consciously defied him and sailed intentionally into the Phoenician fleet. Metiochos thought the advantages of being a wealthy vassal to the greatest power on earth outweighed the dubious benefits of freedom. He had told his father he preferred to pay homage to the Great King rather than be a “slave to the mob” in Athens. Miltiades’ suspicions about his son’s intentions had been fueled by rumors that, when his son was laid a prisoner at Darius’ feet, he had been graciously freed by the Great King. Indeed, some claimed he had been given land, income, and even a Persian wife, so that he lived at the Persian court like other exiles rejected by their own people.
Meanwhile, Miltiades had good reason to remember his son’s refusal to submit to the Athenian Assembly when it put him on trial for tyranny. After he had lost everything because he sided with the democracies, the Athenians had labeled him tyrant. The memory filled him with bitterness.
“It’s all right, father,” Kimon’s voice brought him back to the present. “I’ve got him.” He meant the fidgeting stallion.
Miltiades nodded once, forcing himself to ignore the pain and stiffness of his body as he swung himself onto the horse’s back. In the end, the majority had voted in his favor, Miltiades reminded himself. And the majority had elected him general. After the victory he had given them at Marathon, maybe they would even start to respect him…. More likely, they would not. The mob was made up of mediocre men, and such men hated leaders. They especially hated successful leaders. No doubt the mob would feel compelled to cut him down to size precisely because he had saved them from slavery. The mob devoured leaders the way wild dogs tear apart a lone stag.
Lost in these thoughts, Miltiades did not speak to his younger son as they rode to the arranged rendezvous with the Spartan officers. The latter had expressed interest in visiting the battlefield at Marathon, and Aristides, who was hosting them, provided them with mounts to cover the distance more rapidly.
It was only a small party. Most of the Spartans remained behind to rest from their forced march. The group consisted of four senior officers and one of their archons, or ephors as the Spartans called them, a certain Euragoras.
Miltiades’ life had been spent in the Aegean and he had never taken any interest in the Peloponnese. He knew almost nothing about Sparta, and these men did little to arouse his interest. They were dressed the same, wore their hair in quaint braids and their beards trimmed close to their chins. The oldest was completely gray-haired and made a rather dull impression, while the youngest had warm brown hair and lively intelligent eyes but was otherwise unremarkable. The others fell somewhere in between. If he had been more interested, Miltiades might have noticed more about them, but he was in too much pain and too depressed to make an effort, and the Spartans were suitably laconic. So they rode in silence, following the longer but easier coastal road with the sea to their right, sparkling in the morning sun. Around them the farmland lay parched and bleached between the olive trees, and a deceptive peace lay in the hot air. Ahead of them the sky was thick with swirling clouds of vultures.
After several hours they reached what had been the Greek camp, still scarred by campfires and trampled bare. When they caught sight of the mound being prepared to bury the Greek dead, Miltiades unexpectedly started to speak. “There,” he announced, lifting his arm and pointing. “That was where the Persian host camped. All the way from there to there. And there, to the left, near Makaria Spring, is where they grazed their horses. And their ships were beached not just here, but there as well.”
“What did you say your casualties were?” a Spartan asked in evident disbelief as he gazed across the field, still strewn with Persian corpses. Some were already collected into heaps in preparation for burial; others still lay scattered. Everywhere, the corpses were set upon and the flesh torn away by rapacious crows and vultures amid swarms of flies. Many corpses were feeding stray dogs as well as the birds. The air was increasingly hard to breathe.
“192 Athenians, and, I believe, 19 Plataeans.”
The Spartan looked again at the field, then back at Miltiades. “There must be five to six thousand barbarian dead out here. How did you do it?”
Miltiades took a deep breath and glanced at his son. Kimon looked as if he were holding his breath with anticipation. “It wasn’t easy,” Miltiades started, and suddenly the words started flowing. It was good to talk in this company, free of naysayers, rivals, and jealous little men. Here he could talk, knowing that no one was hanging on his every word in the hope of finding fault. No one here wanted to drag him down just because he was better than they.
“You know that Athens elected ten generals to command our army?” he asked the Spartans.
They gaped at him, dumbfounded.
“Yes. My sentiments exactly. But, you see, the Athenians fear the rule of one man more than they fear defeat itself. They would rather be defeated as free individuals than be victorious under the command of a strong leader. On the one hand, of course, this is what makes them hate the Persians so much. They will never accept the rule of a king, any king―much less a Persian usurper who calls himself a “Great King” simply because he has conquered other tyrants and kings. On the other hand, they fear that one of their own may rise up and become even a little more powerful than the rest.
“So there were ten generals, and five of them thought we should stay on the defensive and do nothing beyond block the road to Athens and make the Persians fight their way through us. Such an attitude invited what happened: the Persians sent half their forces around our flank by sea, to attack Athens behind our backs. I knew we had to attack, but I hoped that you would be with me.” He looked reproachfully at the Spartans.
“We had no choice,” one of the men answered defensively. “We cannot march to war before the full moon.”
Miltiades did not deign to answer. He simply continued, “So I waited. Maybe I would still have been waiting until today if the Persians had not embarked half their army and most of the cavalry. We saw it happen, and we managed to capture a slave who revealed all he knew. He could not give us exact numbers, but he said he had heard officers saying that Athens would be betrayed to them. He knew the ships were sailing to Piraeus, and he believed Athens would be seized without a fight.
“That left me no choice. I knew we could not afford to wait for you any longer. We had to defeat the Persian forces still at Marathon, and then return to defend Athens from the rest.
“Although there seemed to be less cavalry in evidence, they still had many archers. When we started to form up in battle order, the Persians responded, and their line stretched from there to there.” He pointed.
“We could only prevent our flanks from being turned by weakening the center. Furthermore, they had so many archers that a barrage was like a hailstorm. To reduce exposure to that storm, we broke into a run as soon as we came in range and ran all the way to their line.
“When the lines crashed, it was terrible. While some Persian conscripts and subject peoples can only be forced to fight by whip-wielding officers, the Persians and Medes themselves are brave men and fierce fighters. They are proud of being warriors, and they were holding the Persian center, exactly where we were weakest.
“When I realized that our wings were gradually overpowering the weaker troops of Persia’s subject states but that we were making no progress in the center, I let the center give ground. Very slowly―as if we did not want to give up a single foot, but simply could not hold out any longer. I let that happen until we had lured the Persians halfway back toward our starting line. To about here.” He stopped abruptly and looked about.
The Spartans looked at the ground. The sun had baked it hard again, but to a practiced eye it was clear that not so long ago it had be
en a morass of mud―artificial mud created by sweat, blood, and urine.
Miltiades continued. “I gave the prearranged signal; the Plataeans turned right from the left wing and Kallimachos turned left from the right wing, and our two wings started crushing the Persians from both sides as the center stopped giving ground.
“The Persians did not realize at first what was happening. When they did, they tried to pull back toward their ships in an orderly fashion. But panic seized some of the allied troops and that, as you know, is infectious. Some troops broke and ran for the ships; then others did as well, fearing that if they did not, the ships would be launched without them. The battle turned into a slaughter as we chased the fleeing, panicked men all the way to the beach. In the end we captured seven ships, although most got away.”
The Spartans surveyed the field again in light of this information. The way the dead were strewn substantiated Miltiades’ account; many more were heaped on the beach in untidy piles than lay here on the tortured, cluttered field itself. Here were broken weapons, and the earth bristled with arrow shafts, but on the beach the dead were bunched together, reaching out toward the sea.
“As you can see,” continued Miltiades, gesturing toward a heap of corpses―on which crows hopped about, cawing and fighting over strips of bloody flesh―“most of the dead are not Persians or even Medes.”
“How can you tell?” asked one of the Spartans.
“Their clothes,” Miltiades responded simply, and the Spartans were reminded that this man had been a Persian vassal until he joined the Ionian revolt.
“Their armor has been stripped away,” a Spartan observed.
“No. They wear none, or rather, nothing like ours. The Immortals wear suits made of metal scales, but most troops in the Great King’s army have nothing but cloth, wicker, and leather to protect them.”
“Ah! Then that is how you managed to kill so many of them.”
“Do not make the mistake of underestimating them!” Miltiades warned sharply. “The battle lasted half the day before we finally managed to turn their flanks and crush their center.” There was no triumph in his voice; he sounded only weary. Kimon looked at him anxiously, suddenly fearing that his father, like Eukles, had some wound he was ignoring or disguising.
The Spartan commander spoke for the first time. “How many casualties did you have from arrows?”
“Not more than a dozen. The bulk of our men died in hand-to-hand fighting.”
“You believe advancing at a run reduced casualties? I would have worried about the line becoming porous.”
“Look at this field: it widens in the space between the two camps. If I’d maintained cohesion and advanced slowly, the Persians would, with their greater numbers, have been able to outflank us―or deploy the cavalry they still had. If I’d stretched the line to prevent that, it would have been porous anyway, with a gap two or three feet wide between each hoplite. The advance at a run took the enemy by surprise, and we crossed the widest part of the plain before they could respond. Then the territory itself compressed the files again.”
The Spartan commander nodded, but then he glanced back the way they’d come, distracted by a horse and rider coming after them at a dangerous pace. The others followed his gaze.
“That’s Sperchias,” Euragoras announced, recognizing his fellow ephor.
Leonidas had already recognized him, but he said nothing. He was trying to imagine what would have brought Sperchias chasing after them. What news could not have waited until tonight? Or had Chi just changed his mind and decided to join them? That wasn’t like Chi. He was not at heart a military man.
Sperchias was not the best rider, either, and his face was red when he pulled up beside the waiting party. “Leo―nidas!” He took a deep breath. “Polymedes sent a message to Euragoras and me.” As he spoke he handed the scroll to Euragoras, but his eyes remained fixed on Leonidas.
Euragoras opened the scroll to read the official message from the chairman of the ephors, but Sperchias told Leonidas the contents verbally. “Your brother Cleomenes is dead.”
“Dead?” The exclamation came not just from Leonidas, but from the other lochagoi as well.
“How?” Leonidas asked.
“Suicide. He took a knife to himself―”
“What? When?”
“Two days after we marched out. The law requires he be interred within three days. That is tomorrow.”
All Leonidas could see was Brotus’ face as he voted for Leonidas to be given command of the army. At the time he had been thankful that Brotus had let their rivalry rest for the sake of Greece; now he knew his motives had been very different.
Euragoras finished reading the official message and announced: “Sperchias and I must return to Sparta at once!”
Miltiades asked, “What has happened?”
“One of our kings is dead,” Euragoras answered.
Miltiades looked sharply at Leonidas, only now registering that he was someone of importance.
“Which one?” Miltiades asked.
“The Agiad, Cleomenes.”
“Didn’t Cleomenes’ son die? Who is his heir?”
“His brother Cleombrotus,” Euragoras answered before Leonidas could open his mouth, but Leonidas did not let him have the last word. “Or his grandson Pleistarchos,” he added.
“I see.” Miltiades understood instantly that Sparta was divided over the issue. “And you,” he addressed Leonidas, “are brother to both the dead king and this Cleombrotus?”
“And father to Pleistarchos.”
Miltiades cursed his own weariness. Why hadn’t he taken greater notice of this Spartan? Why hadn’t he paid him more attention? He glanced at Kimon. Perhaps the boy had learned more about him? But there was no time for regrets. Leonidas was asking politely but urgently, “I know this is a terrible imposition, but could you spare horses for me and the two ephors,” he nodded toward Euragoras and Sperchias, “so we can return to Sparta at once?”
“You don’t want to take the whole army?” Diodoros questioned.
“No. There’s no time―or need―for that.”
“They make up the better part of the Assembly,” Diodoros reminded him with an expression of concern on his face.
“And no Assembly can be held until ten days after the funeral. Hyllus?” Leonidas turned to the gray-haired lochagos. “I herewith turn command over to you. Bring the army back in reasonable stages so they are in Sparta no later than eight days from now.”
“They’ll be back a damn sight sooner than that!” the older man replied gruffly. “We’ll march tomorrow.”
Leonidas bit his tongue. He had just turned over command. He looked questioningly at Miltiades.
“You will be given fleet horses―I only ask you to return them as healthy as you receive them.”
“I personally guarantee their good treatment and prompt and safe return―with interest. I understand from Kimon that you admire Kastorian hounds. I will send you two of my best.”
Miltiades nodded, satisfied. This was definitely a man worth befriending. “Then let us return to Athens at once.”
CHAPTER 10
THE ELDER TWIN
AGIATIS WAS THROWING ONE OF HER temper tantrums, but Gorgo had no nerves left to deal with it. It was six days since her husband had marched away to war, and four days since her father’s gruesome and unexpected death. Twice since then, guardsmen had come to the kleros demanding that she surrender Pleistarchos to “safekeeping.” She had had no word from her husband, and could not even be sure he was still alive. Indeed, she was beginning to believe he was dead, because he had not answered the message she’d sent via Crius. She had known from the start that he might not be able to abandon the army and return to Sparta, but she had trusted him to respond . She had counted on his advice, encouragement, and promises.
Instead, there was nothing―absolute silence―while Brotus grew bolder from day to day. Today, she was sure, Brotus would follow directly behind the funeral bier, in t
he place traditionally reserved for a king’s heir and ahead of Gorgo, her mother, and her grandmother. Gorgo’s mother wanted her to bring Pleistarchos with her, to remind the city that she had a son, but Gorgo was afraid of bringing the boy out of hiding. She feared that Brotus would use the opportunity to get his hands on him.
At all events, she had to attend the funeral as a reminder of both Pleistarchos and Leonidas, and it was getting late. The road was already clogged with thousands of mourners flooding in from the surrounding countryside. They would slow progress into the city. Pelopidas had a matched team of black mares, draped in black feathers, waiting out front. The last thing she needed was for Agiatis to throw a tantrum and insist she would not stay home.
“I’m better than Pleistarchos!” Agiatis screamed at her mother, stamping her foot. “I’m granddad’s favorite! I want to come!”
“The answer is no!” Gorgo shouted back, looking around for Laodice or Chryse or Melissa. Why weren’t they here to take Agiatis off her hands at a time like this? “Go to your room and wait there―”
“No!” Agiatis refused.
Chryse emerged in the doorway. “Mistress, Phormio is downstairs asking for you.”
“Phormio?” Gorgo’s heart lurched in her chest. She had sent Pleistarchos to Phormio’s keeping, believing Brotus would never think to look for an Agiad prince with a perioikoi family. Now she feared something had happened to him after all. She rushed out of the room.
Agiatis grabbed her as she went by, screaming, “I’m coming, too!”
“You’ll do as you’re told!” Gorgo answered, and for the first time in her life she slapped her daughter.
Chryse jumped in at once, sweeping the now howling Agiatis up into her arms. “It’s all right, Mistress. I’ll take care of her.”
“What’s been keeping you up to now?” Gorgo answered, without awaiting or expecting an answer. Instead she ran down the stairs to the hall and out onto the front porch, leaving Agiatis screaming and kicking in Chryse’s arms.
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