Marathon: Freedom or Death lw-2

by Christian Cameron

  The massed hoplites began to chant again — fight, fight, fight!

  Someone threw a rock that hit Leontus. Athenians can be bastards. Other men threw rotten figs and eggs, too.

  Callimachus raised his arms, and even the loudest hoplites fell silent.

  ‘Don’t be children,’ he said, in his powerful voice. They didn’t make him polemarch for nothing. Grown men — spear-fighters — flinched at the admonition in his voice. ‘This is the life of Athens we discuss here. These are the men you appointed as strategoi. Act like citizens.’

  So they did. And I was afraid that Callimachus, so calm and so in command, was going to carry us right back to the city.

  Callimachus ordered the strategoi to vote again, but the result was another tie. War and politics make for strange alliances. Cleitus of the Alcmaeonids voted with Aristides the Just and Themistocles the democrat and Miltiades the would-be tyrant. The fifth vote for battle was Sosigenes, a well-known orator.

  The dissenters were just as disparate, and the split belied any notion that men had been bought by barbarian gold, despite all the muttering after the battle. Men were voting from actual conviction, and that is when politics grows most heated and most dangerous.

  I happened to be next to Callimachus after the second vote.

  ‘By Zeus, lord of judges,’ he said. ‘I should never have allowed that smooth-tongued bastard to exclude you, Plataean.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d have fixed this.’

  He gave me a hard smile, and then Miltiades came across the circle of strategoi and stepped up on his aspis. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘the polemarch is also a strategos. He must have the deciding vote.’

  Miltiades’ comment brought new silence.

  Callimachus muttered one word. I heard him say it. He said ‘Bastard’ quite clearly.

  Callimachus looked around the circle, and the silence of the army was thick enough to make cloth. ‘Should I ask for another vote?’ he asked the strategoi. All of them shook their heads.

  Miltiades opened his mouth to speak, but Callimachus glared him into silence.

  Callimachus had a pebble in his hand. He tossed it back and forth, for as long as it takes a man to eat a slice of bread. ‘We do not just stand here for Athens,’ he said, looking around, and men in the front rows repeated what he said. He spoke slowly, like the orator he was. ‘Nor do we stand only for Athens and Plataea,’ he added, with a nod to me. ‘What we say here, what we do here, win or lose, is for all the Hellenes. If we return to Athens and submit earth and water to the Great King. .’ He looked around again. The silence after his words were repeated was absolute.

  He tossed the pebble at Miltiades’ feet. ‘Fight,’ he said.

  The hoplites erupted in cheers, like men watching a race at a games. The cheers were audible everywhere — even in the barbarian camp.

  Immediately after the vote, the dissenters gathered around Miltiades, and Leontus took his hand. ‘We’ll be there in the line,’ he said. ‘We want to win.’

  ‘Not the way we wanted it,’ said another, Euphones of Oinoe. ‘But we’ll stand our ground.’

  Then the dissenters walked off. I think they were wrong, but by the gods, they did their part on the day, and that’s how a vote is supposed to work. That’s what made Athens great — not just the men who voted for the fight, but those who voted against and fought anyway.

  Then all the men who had backed him gathered around, and you would think they’d just voted a new festival — they were beaming with happiness, and hundreds of men came from the surrounding dark to pump their hands and clap their backs.

  ‘So,’ Aristides said, when the mass of well-wishers had gone to their rest. ‘Fight tomorrow?’

  ‘Too many front-rankers fought today,’ Miltiades said.

  ‘Or ran,’ I said, with a wink, and the other strategoi laughed.

  Miltiades agreed. ‘Took exercise, at any rate,’ he quipped. I thought he looked a foot taller. ‘Tomorrow, Themistocles, I want the little men back in the fields, sniping at the barbarians. But tomorrow, I’ll have five hundred Athenians — fifty men of every tribe — at the base of the hill, formed close. To give the psiloi cover if they have to run.’

  ‘To show we’re still warriors, more like,’ I added.

  That got me a look.

  Aristides nodded. ‘Tomorrow’s my command day. You have a plan? You should be in command.’

  Themistocles agreed. ‘I have the next day,’ he said.

  ‘And I the next,’ the polemarch added. ‘You may have my day, as well.’

  Miltiades grunted. ‘Watch yourselves,’ he said. ‘Too many days and I could be addicted, like a drunkard to wine or a lotus-eater.’ He looked out over the darkening plain. ‘But I will fight on my own day, so men may not say that I acted from hubris. Let the barbarians stew.’

  ‘They may march,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘If they march, we fight, whatever day it is,’ he said. ‘But the more I look at this — now that my eyes are opened — the better it appears for us. Look — they have a fine camp, and good protection from wind and weather. But where can they go from Marathon? All roads go through us. If our little men bleed them every day — and I speak frankly, gentlemen — what care we if we lose psiloi? But every dead Mede is one less for the day.’

  No one disagreed. It was true.

  The next day, the psiloi went down the hill in a wave. They were better organized than on the first day, and Themistocles played a role in that. And he led the hoplites out on to the plain — more than five hundred, or so I thought.

  The barbarians countered with oarsmen, turned hastily into light-armed men of their own, but it was a poor decision, as every dead man was that much less motive power for their ships.

  The second day, our light-armed were tired. Only a few went out, and the enemy cavalry killed some of them. The balance was returning, and men shouted for Miltiades to lead us to battle. Muttering began that the army had voted for battle and now Miltiades was hesitating.

  ‘Men are childish fools,’ Miltiades muttered as he watched the beaten psiloi trudge up the hill. ‘Don’t they see? We’ve won! All we have to do is sit here and fill the plain with psiloi! And watch them eat — their horses will be out of forage in a day.’

  But the hoplites didn’t see, and the pressure to fight mounted.

  The third day, the light-armed men went out together, and the barbarians stayed in their camp — they had to be feeling the same fatigue as our men by then. But in our camp, the hoplites boiled over. Sophanes — Aristides’ friend, and mine — led the protest. He came up to Miltiades with fifty spearmen behind him and demanded that Miltiades lead us to the plain — there and then.

  ‘Are we cowards, that we are letting our servants do the fighting?’ Sophanes asked. ‘What kind of city will we have, if my shield-bearer can tell me that he — not I — drove the Medes from Holy Attica?’

  He had a point, as you all can see. If we are honest with ourselves, we hold citizen rights from our cities because we fight. True, eh? So if we — the armoured men, the heroes — were in camp, and the little men were fighting, then who was a citizen, really?

  But Miltiades also knew he had a winning strategy. Men like Aristides worried about the consequences, but Miltiades was a fighter. And as we had put him in charge, his only concern was winning.

  He took Sophanes aside, talked to him the way a man talks to his son and sent him back to his friends. He’d convinced the young men to give him another day or two.

  Not that it mattered. The barbarians had had enough.

  On the evening of the third day, the barbarians came out of their camp — and their army was unbelievably big. It was carefully planned, and they flowed out of their camp like water from a pot — and every contingent had its place. And then, having filled the plain from flank to flank, they came forward at a fast walk.

  The psiloi ran for their lives. What else could they do? More than a few of them died, caught in t
he plain by the cavalry on the flanks or the bows of the Sakai and the Medes and the Persians in the centre.

  Aristides had the hoplites on the plain that day, and he held his ground until the last of the little men ran past, and then, in good order, his hoplites walked back up the hill to us. But the barbarians didn’t pursue. They turned about and walked back across the plain, fifteen stades back to their camp. The whole attack had taken less than the time it took for a speaker in a law case to give his argument.

  I was getting into my corslet by that time, afraid that we were about to be attacked right up the hill, my eyes glued to the manoeuvres of the enemy. Miltiades came up next to me, jumped up on the wall and watched them as they retreated. He had Phrynichus with him, I remember, and Phrynichus had a stylus and a wax tablet.

  ‘Persians on the right — cavalry and then infantry — their best. Just like us. Mounted Sakai on the left; then East Greeks. They look like the marines of all the ships — some Phoenicians there. And then the dismounted Sakai. Persians again in the centre — dismounted. Maybe Medes. More Medes on the right.’ He watched them carefully. ‘They fill the plain, Arimnestos.’

  Phrynichus wrote the Persian battle order carefully. I was looking at the fact that the Persian right would have all their best troops. It would be opposite our left. That would be the Plataeans. Like the day my father faced the Spartans at Oinoe, we would bear the brunt of their best men.

  Of course I was afraid, young man. We were not the invincible hoplites of Greece. We were men who had lost every battle we’d tried with the damned Persians. But I swallowed my fears, like a man should. I nodded, and my voice barely caught when I spoke.

  ‘About twelve thousand, give or take. Not as deep as we fight.’

  ‘Deep enough, though.’ Miltiades gave half a grin. ‘We need to fill the plain, too.’

  ‘Hah!’ I said. I could see it — if our hoplites brushed against the hills and the sea, the cavalry had no way to slip around us — and no hoplite feared a horseman in front of him.

  Actually, that’s bravado. All men on foot fear cavalry — but a mass of spearmen who keep their nerve are not really at risk, however loud the thunder of hooves.

  ‘Plataeans on the left, then the tribes in order or precedence,’ Miltiades said. ‘That puts your men on the far left and mine on the far right. You ready for five hundred new citizens?’

  ‘What, tonight?’ I quipped. But in my heart, I was afraid. My Plataeans, against the Persians. It was not just a matter of whether we could win. It was that I was taking my friends, my brother-in-law; by the gods, I was taking my city into action with the most dreaded foe in all the bowl of earth.

  ‘I’m about to free every slave in the camp,’ Miltiades said, and his eyes sparkled. ‘Then I’ll send them to you. The free men and the psiloi — I’ll arm them and fill the back of my tribes with them.

  ‘Half of them won’t have spears,’ I pointed out.

  ‘They’ll take up space,’ he said. ‘They can get up in the rough ground on your flank if you have to spread out — or help thicken your charge if you need. And if the cavalry gets around you,’ he shrugged, ‘well, they’ll buy you time while they die.’

  I nodded. ‘Are we going to run at the barbarians? Or walk?’

  Miltiades chewed on his moustache. ‘I thought we might tell off the picked men to go at a run — starting at long bowshot. The way Eualcidas did it.’

  I shrugged. ‘Why don’t we all run at them?’ I said. ‘I’m not saying anyone will shirk — but if we’re all charging forward it’s hard for anyone to take a step back.’

  ‘We’d end up with holes in the shield wall,’ he said.

  ‘We’d scare the shit out of them,’ I countered.

  He sighed. ‘This is a big risk, and you want to do something new,’ he said. He nodded. ‘I’ll think on it. I’m going to free the slaves.’

  ‘I’ll get a feast together,’ I said, and grinned.

  The sun was still up when a crowd of poor men — recently freed slaves — appeared in our camp. Themistocles led them.

  ‘Plataeans!’ Themistocles said. ‘Athens has freed these men, and asks your aid in enfranchising them.’

  I had Myron right there. I had warned him, and he rose to it like — well, like the archon of Plataea.

  ‘Freedmen!’ he said, and they were quiet — probably still delighted to hear that they were freed. ‘Many of you are, in your hearts, men of Athens. Perhaps you will always feel that way. But Plataea is honoured to have you — and if you will let us, we will make you feel honoured to be Plataeans. Welcome! Come to our fires, and let us feed you your first meal as free men and citizens.’

  We had bread and olives, pork and wine all prepared, and we fed the poor bastards a feast. Our own men joined in. I went over to Gelon and tapped him. ‘You’re free, too,’ I said.

  He grinned. ‘You’re all right,’ he said, and went to stand with the freedmen.

  They ate the way starving men eat, and drank like men who never saw enough wine. Our citizens joined them, and moved among them — speaking to one, learning the name of another. And serving them, like slaves.

  Makes me weep — sorry, honey bee. I need a moment.

  When they were done with libations, and being blessed by our priests, and eating, I stood on my aspis.

  ‘I was once a slave,’ I said.

  That shut them up.

  ‘I was once a slave, and war made me free. Now I am the polemarch of Plataea. I know how well a freed slave fights. So I won’t give you a long speech.’ I pointed out of the firelight, towards the barbarians. ‘Right now, not one of you has the value of a medimnos of grain. But over there, in that camp, are your farms and your ploughs and your oxen — your house and your barns — for some of you, your brides. Every Sakai wears the value of a Plataean farm on his back — some Persians are worth three or four.’ I pointed at the men who had marched here with me. ‘Tomorrow night, we will pool everything we take — every item we win with our spears, and men who fight will each take away a share. Everyone will share. Now,’ I said, and I hopped off my aspis to stride among them, ‘who has a spear? Stand over here. A helmet? Anyone?’

  It took for ever — the sun slipped below the western rim and I was still trying to build my phalanx. My Plataeans were generous — men who’d picked up a good helmet offered their old one to the new men, and men with a spare leather hat traded it round, and so on. It went on and on. Men with two spears shared one. Men gave slaves a pair of sandals. A chlamys. Anything that would help the poor bastards to live a minute longer.

  I received four hundred new citizens, give or take a few, and we managed to arm almost two hundred of them as spearmen, if not hoplites. Most had to roll up a cloak and use it as a shield. Many had neither helmet nor hat, and behind them stood men with a bag of rocks or a pair of javelins or a sling.

  But when I had them all placed, and as well armed as I could, I sent them to bed. ‘Sleep well,’ I said. ‘Dream of a rich farm in Plataea.’ I hoped that they would, because I knew that it was as close as most of them would ever get.

  18

  I slept badly. I hope you won’t think the worse of me if I admit that the night before Marathon, despite my head telling me that we had the men and the will to win, I lay awake and worried. Not about death. I never worry about death. It was failure that troubled me, and I lay on my bearskin with the sound of snoring around me, and nervous whispers, and probably the occasional fart — and wondered what I could do better.

  The night raid haunted me. I’d been lost, and I hadn’t told my men what I needed, and I’d made a dozen other errors. So I lay awake, thinking through my actions in the morning.

  When you’re in command, you worry about the damnedest things.

  I worried about getting my armour on and needing to take a shit. I worried about what I should say — a polemarch is expected to give a speech. I worried about sleeping too late, about what my armour looked like. Gelon was free now and my helme
t hadn’t been polished since I left Plataea. A hero should look the part.

  I worried about how to deal with the rough ground that would be on my left all day, and I worried about the effect of four hundred untrained men at the back of my phalanx.

  Hades, friends. I can’t even remember all the things I worried about the night before Marathon.

  And when I thought of my wife — my glorious wife — all I could think was that if she were there, we could make love, and that would cheer me up. Except that she was well along in pregnancy by then, and they say making love when the belly is round is bad for the baby. I don’t believe that making love is ever bad for anyone, myself, but people say these things.

  I think that’s when I fell asleep. Thinking of her.

  No, that’s a lie. My mind was its own traitor, and I’m here to tell the truth. My last thoughts were of Briseis. If we won. .

  If we won, would I be closer to her? And where was she? I said Sappho’s poem to Aphrodite in the dark, for Briseis. And then I went to sleep.

  I awoke in the dark, and I could hear the snores — but as soon as my eyes opened, it all came in, the way animals come in an open gate when there’s food in the mangers and they haven’t been fed. All my worries.

  I got up. The dog star was going down, and morning wasn’t far off, and besides, I was cold.

  Idomeneus had snuggled close in the night, and as I rose, he rolled over. ‘Ares,’ he said. ‘Morning already?’

  I tossed my heavy himation over him. ‘Sleep another hour,’ I said.

  ‘Aphrodite’s blessing on you,’ he smiled, and went straight back to sleep, the Cretan bastard. Odd that he mentioned Aphrodite.

  I stirred our fire — my mess group had a fire, of course — and added an armload of wood that someone had left ready, like a proper soldier. The fire sprang up, and I was warm.

  My kit was neatly stowed under the leather cover of my aspis. Gelon had done it — he must have — after the muster of the freedmen. My corslet had been buffed until the scales shone, and the helmet was like a woman’s mirror, and the reflected gleam of the fire danced on the curved brow and the ravens on the cheekplates.