A day later, our servants were afraid even to get water from the stream.
The meetings of the strategoi were demoralizing, too. We met every morning and every evening — and some days more often. If two strategoi began to talk and a third saw them together, he would wander over, and before you knew it, all eleven would be there.
They seemed to love to talk, and they would discuss the most trivial things as seriously as they discussed — endlessly — the strategic options of the campaign. Firewood? Worth an hour of discussion. A general pool of sentries? Worth an hour of discussion. A new type of sandal for fighting? An hour.
By the fourth day, I was ready to scream. Because what we needed to discuss was the war. The Persians. The enemy. But like the proverbial corpse at a symposium, we never seemed to discuss the options fully. I had come to the conclusion that the polemarch liked all the talk because each day of talk made him feel useful, while postponing the moment of decision for yet another day.
It was on the fourth day that Aristides exploded.
‘If the Medes could be destroyed with talk, we would certainly triumph!’ he shouted. It came from nowhere, and his orator’s voice carried across the summit of the camp, and all the strategoi fell silent. Gods, half the camp fell silent.
The Athenian polemarch glared at him. ‘It is not your turn to speak,’ he said.
Aristides, the Just Man, stood his ground. ‘This is all drivel,’ he said. ‘If no one else will say it, I will. The Persians are peeling our army apart. There is dissension and fear. Our numbers are even — they have a few more men, perhaps. We must attack them and defeat them before our men follow the Euboeans home.’
Cleitus — the unlikeliest ally — agreed. ‘We must do something about their cavalry,’ he said. ‘Our men fear the horses like nothing else.’
‘Why don’t we simply return to Athens and show them the strength of our walls?’ Leontus asked. He was the most brazen of the anti-war strategoi, a handsome man who had the reputation of being a servant of the Alcmaeonids. ‘I hear so much about how we should fight a battle. Are you fools?’ He grinned. ‘Datis has a few thousand men more than we have, and a force of cavalry we can never hope to match. If we pack and march away in the night, he’ll burn some olive groves and go home. He hasn’t the time to lay siege to Athens.’
He looked around. Many of the strategoi agreed with him. I had to admit that he had a point — and I loathed him, politically.
‘Miltiades brought us here to save the Euboeans,’ he went on. ‘And look what we saved! A few beaten men. The assembly never meant for us to fight Persia. Let’s gather the army and have a vote. I’ll wager gold against silver that they vote to go home and defend the walls. And who can blame them?’
But arrogant men often over-reach. I’ve done it a few times myself, and I know. He carried on when he ought to have been silent.
‘You think you have an army? We have nothing. There aren’t enough gentlemen to fight any one of their regiments, and the rest of these men are chaff — useless mouths. The Plataeans will vanish at the first onset — bumpkins, a political stunt by Miltiades to make the rest of you credulous fools feel as if we have allies. The best men of Euboea didn’t stop the Medes for ten days. And their own lower orders sold the town to the enemy.’
Leontus might have carried the hour if he’d shut up before he offended every man standing there.
Aristides gave me the slightest of smiles and nodded his head. He was encouraging me to speak. In fact, he was egging me on.
‘Are you bought and paid for?’ I asked.
Leontus whirled, face red.
‘You lie,’ I added. I wasn’t angry, but I put on a good angry face. I knew what politics required. If I humiliated Leontus — immediately and publicly — his suggestions would wither and die on the vine. ‘My men stood and faced the Persian cavalry. You lie when you say we will run. But since the Persians have bought you, you are paid to say such things.’
I walked over to him — deadly Arimnestos, killer of men.
Leontus was not, in fact, a coward. ‘This is insane,’ he said. ‘I only say what-’
‘How much gold have the Medes paid you?’ I roared.
He flinched. He only flinched from my bellow, but the men in the circle thought that he looked guilty, and there was a murmur.
‘We are going to be massacred!’ he shouted, and left the meeting in a swirl of his cloak.
That helped morale, I can tell you.
The next day, the fifth day since the Persians landed, I sent my servants down to the stream in the morning to draw water, with all of Teucer’s men concealed in the rough ground at the foot of the hill.
But the Sakai had not been the eyes and ears of the Persian Empire for nothing. A dozen horsemen came up, looked at the Plataean servants in the stream and rode away. They smelled a rat.
Such is war.
At the other end of the line, Miltiades tried a similar stunt, sending a forage party far out into the fields near the beach to gather hay and cut standing wheat, and laying an ambush with his old soldiers, but the Mede cavalry looked it over and rode away.
In the centre, emboldened by our success, the city men of two tribes went down the hill with sickles to gather wheat. Most men had eaten all the food they had brought, and fear of the Persian cavalry was keeping supplies from reaching us.
The Sakai fell on them in full view of the army, killed or wounded fifty and dragged twenty of them off into slavery. In an Athenian tribe of a thousand men, the loss of fifty was considerable.
At the next meeting, Miltiades finally spoke. Many men disliked him and feared his pretensions — he made little secret of his intention to make himself tyrant. Generally, he did best for the cause of the war by saying little. But that evening, he had had enough.
‘War is not a game for children,’ he said bitterly. He had their attention, right enough. ‘Demostocles, your men went down the hill like fools.’
‘We only did what you did!’ Demostocles shouted.
Aristides shook his head. ‘You don’t have a clue, do you? You don’t understand, because you’ve never made war.’ He crossed his arms. ‘This is not a day of battle with Aegina. This is not a war of Greeks with Greeks. The Plataeans and Miltiades’ men laid ambushes and had reinforcements ready. We call this “covering” our foragers. And the Sakai and the Medes and the Persians — they have made war, too. They saw little things — a broken bush, a line of footprints in tall grass — and they knew that the men were covered. And let them be. But in the centre, you took no precautions-’
‘Leontus is right!’ Demostocles said. ‘They are better men than us, and we will all be killed. I am not afraid of your Plataean thug, Miltiades! No one can accuse me of taking Persian gold! They are better at this skulking manner of war than we are. I want to demand a vote — right now — to go back to the city.’
Aristides’ voice was calm — and strong. ‘You are afraid. And like a schoolboy caught in a lie, you don’t wish to admit that you made an error. So, better that we abandon the campaign and retreat to the city than face the Medes, eh? Or is it that you’d rather abandon the campaign than admit that you need to ask the rest of us how to make war?’
‘Vote,’ Demostocles demanded. ‘And fuck you, you pompous prig. I was killing men with my spear when you were shitting green.’
‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘If you’d learned anything about war, you’d be a better strategos.’ I held up my hand to silence him. ‘Listen — I’m not pissing on you. When we went after the Euboeans, I almost lost my whole phalanx. Why? Because I had no idea how fast the cavalry could come at me. Our servants still had our shields — Ares, it could have been a disaster.’ I shrugged. ‘And I’ve been at war since I was seventeen. Fighting the Persians is not like any other war. We have to roll with the punches and learn from mistakes, the way a good pankrationist does when he fights a bigger man. Eh?’
It was always rewarding to say something sensible and have men lik
e Aristides give me that look, the look that indicated that in the main they thought me a mindless brute.
Demostocles looked stunned that I’d admitted to failing. It took the wind out of his sails and left him speechless. Concession and apology can be like that.
‘We need a concerted foraging strategy,’ I said. ‘Every taxis cannot go on its own. And I think we need to contest the plain with them — even if it costs us. We need to go down there and show them who owns those fields, man to man. If we let their cavalry ride where they please, eventually they will beat us. Or that’s how it seems to me.’
The polemarch gave me a long look, as if up until then he’d thought me a fool. Perhaps he had. I was, after all, Arimnestos the killer of men, not Arimnestos the tactician.
Miltiades came forward again. ‘I have a plan,’ he said. ‘I think we need to attack their cavalry, and put it out of the war.’
Many voices spoke up then, and not all of them were strategoi. The problem of the Greeks is that we all like to talk, and all the famous men came to the meetings of the strategoi, whether they held rank or not. Themistocles was a strategos but Sophanes was not, and he attended anyway. Cimon, Miltiades’ eldest, held no rank, and he was always there, and seemed to feel freer to speak than his father — on and on. So we had closer to a hundred men than eleven.
The many voices shouted Miltiades down. Leontus began urging a vote on returning to Athens. Of the hundred men standing there by the altar, the vast majority were with Leontus. What I couldn’t tell was how many of the strategoi were with Leontus and Demostocles.
But the voices calling for the vote were loudest.
Callimachus stepped forward and blew the horn at his hip, and the Athenians grew quieter.
‘We will vote on the idea of returning to the city,’ he said.
Uproar.
‘We will vote in the morning,’ he said. ‘This meeting is adjourned.’
Miltiades followed him as he walked away to his tent. A dozen other men went to follow them, and Aristides and I tried to stop them by forcing them to face us and debate the whole issue — we kept them there several minutes, and Miltiades was gone.
Somewhere in there, I caught Aristides’ eye. He gave a small shake of his head.
He thought we’d had it.
So did I.
I went straight back to my camp and found my brother-in-law and Idomeneus, and I took them off into our little stand of cypress trees.
‘If the army breaks up, we need to plan our own retreat,’ I said.
‘Ares’ dick!’ Idomeneus said. ‘You must be joking, lord. Or is it Lade again?’
I shook my head. ‘Aristides thinks they’ll vote to retreat to Athens in the morning, and there will be immediate desertions. He paints a bleak picture, lads.’ I shrugged. ‘We’re a long way from home. And if there is a traitor-’
Idomeneus shook his head. ‘We’re all right,’ he said. ‘Keep the archers safe, head for the hills and walk the high ground all the way home. Could take a while, but we’ll live.’
‘What do we eat, drink?’ I asked. His strategy was the one I liked, too — but it was fraught with danger.
‘Steal what we can — hunt when we can.’ Idomeneus shook his head. ‘It will suck, that’s for sure, lord. But the boys will get it done.’
Antigonus looked at the speaker’s bema in the middle of the encampment. ‘If what you say is really true,’ he said, ‘we should be gone in the morning.’
‘Then men will say we deserted,’ I said.
Antigonus shrugged. ‘Will we care? If these bastards run for Athens, the Persians will eat them, and someone in the city will sell it out just the way the Euboeans were sold. And the Ionians.’
‘And it won’t be a thetes,’ Idomeneus added. ‘I heard that bastard at your little meeting, lord. Chalcis was betrayed by an aristocrat.’
I nodded. ‘I heard that, too. Doesn’t matter, though. Antigonus, what’s your point?’
He frowned and looked at the ground. ‘It’s not a very glorious thought,’ he admitted, ‘but if Athens is going down, we don’t need to give a shit about what they think of us — our duty is to get our people home alive.’
It made sense. He was a good man, my brother-in-law.
‘If we cut and run before the Athenians break up,’ Idomeneus said with his terrible, callous practicality, ‘their cavalry will waste a day or two killing Athenians and we’ll never see them. Lord, it could save many men.’ Then he reverted to form. ‘Seems a horrible waste, though.’ He grinned.
‘Waste?’ I asked.
‘This should be the most glorious battle of our time,’ Idomeneus said. ‘If these fuckheads waste it, I’ll go and fight for Persia. I’ll never forgive them.’
‘Get the boys ready to march — without getting them ready to march. Tell them we might try a raid on their foragers tomorrow and they’ll be a day in the field.’ I was keeping my options open.
I went and walked through the camp — the whole camp.
It was like the camps of the East Greeks before Lade.
Worse, in a way, because at every fire, men urged others to go home. To cut and run. I thought they were cowards, and then I realized that, in effect, I’d just done the same.
Why can’t Greeks get along? Why can’t they maintain a common goal?
We lost Lade when the Samians sailed away and abandoned us — for the greed of a few men.
I saw Marathon going the same way, and I wanted to weep.
It was almost dark when Paramanos found me.
‘You move too fast,’ he said. ‘Miltiades wants you.’
That was like the old days. I knew what he would want. He’d want the Plataeans to join with his men — the professionals — in covering the retreat of the army. I’d already thought it through. I was about to tell my own lord — a man to whom I owed a great deal — to sod off. I wasn’t losing any Plataeans to save Athens.
That’s how bad things were that night.
Miltiades had a tent. Few men did in those days. Greece is kind to soldiers, and it seldom rains. But Miltiades had fought everywhere, and he had a magnifcent tent — another reason for men to hate him. If they needed a reason, of course.
I went in, and a slave handed me a big cup of wine.
Miltiades was wearing a simple dark chiton and had boots on.
‘I need you and twenty of your best men,’ he said.
That caught me by surprise. ‘What for?’ I asked.
‘We’re going to raid the Persian camp,’ he said. ‘It’s the only hope we have. I convinced Callimachus to put of the vote until tomorrow night. He fears treason in the city just as much as I do. He’s not a fool. He’s just cautious.’ Miltiades drank some wine. ‘Listen — Phidippides the herald just came in from the mountains. The Spartans haven’t marched yet. It’ll be five days — at least — before we can expect them. But they are coming.’
Aristides came in through the beaded door. He was wearing plain leather armour. ‘They want us to die,’ he said.
Miltiades shrugged. ‘They’re pious men, our Lacedaemonian friends. They have a festival.’ He shrugged. ‘To be honest, I doubt I’d hurry to save Sparta from the Medes, either. But when Phidippides’ news is known, the last heart will go out of the army. Five days is too long. We have to strike.’
‘I’m ready,’ Aristides said.
‘Arimnestos hasn’t heard the plan,’ Miltiades said. He glanced at me. ‘Will you do it?’
‘Do what?’ I asked.
‘We need a demonstration in front of the Persians — by men who can fight or run in the dark.’ He shrugged. ‘I can give you all the Athenian archers to go with you. I wouldn’t sacrifice you,’ he said, as if reading my mind.
‘Where will you be?’ I asked, but I was already smiling, because, by all the gods, I saw the whole plan as neatly as if it was stitched into leather. ‘The horses!’
‘Told you he was smarter than he looked,’ Miltiades said.
‘If w
e pull this off, the army will stay,’ Aristides said.
‘And if we fuck it up, we’ll be dead,’ Miltiades said. He shrugged. ‘I can’t take any more officers’ meetings.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said. ‘I can get a hundred men.’
‘Then take a hundred,’ Miltiades said. ‘The more you take, the more noise you’ll make. What can you do, though?’
I remember making a face. I remember laughing. ‘Have you noted that, while we sit here doing nothing, the Persians sit there doing nothing?’ I said.
They both nodded.
I raised my cup and poured a libation. ‘Ares — Zeus’s least favoured child. If they fear us at all — and they must — then they have to fear a night attack.’ I grinned. ‘So let’s feed them one. I’ll go for their ships.’
Ever been out for a walk at night?
Ever been out for a walk outside the city?
As joyously as we prepared to make our raid, the truth was that none of us had ever been in a night attack. There’s a reason why men don’t make night attacks on land.
At sea, it’s different. At sea, there’s always a little light — and not much to bump into, if you steer badly. But on land?
I roused my epilektoi as soon as I got back, but just preparing them to march took me too much time. By the time I’d led them to the base of the hill and out into the fields, the moon was high and we were late.
The Athenian archers were supposed to meet us opposite their camp — which turned out to be far too vague a direction on a dark night. I looked for them for as long as my heart could take it. Miltiades was long gone, heading up into the hills to get around the marsh and the Persian camp, and I needed to make noise to keep the enemy focused on me. I was taking too long. Everything was taking too long.
I gave up on the Athenian archers when I saw how far the moon had moved across the sky.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ I hissed at Teucer when I got back to my own men. The archer shrugged.
So we set off across the fields in the middle watch of the night, an hour late for our plan and moving too fast. We made a great deal of noise.
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