Gelon came and knelt by my side. I hadn’t seen him get up. ‘Good enough?’ he asked, as he had on other mornings when he’d done a half-arsed job. This wasn’t half-arsed.
‘Splendid,’ I said. He’d even mounted my fancy plume — the one Euphoria had made me — and laid out the cloak, too.
‘Might as well look the part, polemarch.’ He gave my arm a squeeze. ‘I gather from Styges that you brought my armour.’
‘I did,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t polished it for you.’
He laughed soundlessly. ‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘In the baggage?’
‘With Styges’ mule. I didn’t want you to find it.’ I waved down the hill.
In the east, the black-blue sky was moving towards grey.
A thousand of us had only a few hours to live.
I ate alone — a bowl of hot soup and a big chunk of pork from the feast the night before. I dunked bread in the soup, and drank two big cups of water and another of wine.
Then, clad only in my arming chiton, a stained thing of linen that had once been white, I crossed the camp to where the strategoi met. The day was warm already, and promised to be as hot as my forge.
I was the first strategos there. Miltiades was second, which says much about the state of his mind, and Aristides was third. Then the rest came in a clump, and this time we stood together with no regard to who voted for battle and who voted against. In fact, I helped Leontus tie his thorax while Miltiades spoke. Leontus had a beautiful white tawed-leather cuirass with a heavy black leather yoke and scales on the sides, and his armour tied with scarlet cords.
‘So,’ Miltiades said. He looked around in the half-light. ‘Today’s my day, and today we’ll fight. As soon as the boys have food in them, we’ll go down the hill. I want the Plataeans down first. They get their leftmost man’s shield up against the hills, and then we’ll all form on them, so there’s no gap. And friends,’ he said, and he looked around, ‘all we need to do to win is keep the line solid from end to end. No gaps. No spaces. Nothing. Shield to shield all the way from the hills to the sea.’
Everyone got it. We all nodded.
‘You all know the order, left to right, yes? So each contingent goes down in order, and no rushing, and no pushing. Forming the line is the key to victory. Once we’re formed, we’re halfway to it. Fuck this up and we’re all dead men.’
Aristides raised an eyebrow. ‘We get it.’
Miltiades didn’t crack a smile. ‘See that you do. Next thing. When we reach the bowshot of the enemy — the range where they shoot — we charge. Understand? Dead run, and to Hades with the man who slows or falls.’
That got them talking. ‘We’ll fall apart!’ Leontus protested.
Miltiades shook his head. ‘It works in the east. Young Arimnestos there once charged a hundred Persians all by himself-’
‘With ten other men!’ I said.
‘And the rest of the phalanx came in behind. It wrecked them — right?’ Miltiades said.
I got the last of Leontus’s ties done and faced the others. ‘It hurries their archers,’ I said. ‘They lose time and space to shoot.’ I looked around. ‘We’re the best athletes in the world, and we can cover that ground in no time, with the gods at our backs.’
‘You’re in command,’ Leontus said to Miltiades. He shrugged. Then he smiled. ‘All right. I’m fast. I’ll run.’
‘Just make sure the rest of your tribe goes forward too!’ Sophanes said.
That was it — perhaps our shortest command meeting to date. Callimachus asked Miltiades where he should stand, and Miltiades nodded gravely. ‘You are the polemarch,’ he said. ‘You take the right of the line.’
Callimachus bowed. ‘I am honoured. But the place is yours if you wish it.’
Miltiades shook his head. ‘When I’m polemarch, I’ll take the place of honour,’ he said, and that was that.
Then many of us embraced, and if my voice chokes to tell this — I embraced many men I loved for ever, and we all knew it. We all knew that win or lose, the price would be high. That is what a battle is — a culling. Except this time, instead of standing with strangers and ‘allies’, I was standing in an army with my friends in every rank, and every dead man would be the loss of someone I knew. It was all very personal.
More wine, girl. And this for the shades of the heroes who fell there!
So my friend Hermogenes, phylarch of the leftmost file of Plataea, was the first man down the hill, the first to form and the lynchpin of our line. And Callimachus was the last file-leader down the hill, and formed the farthest to the right in the front rank. Hermogenes’ shield brushed against the trees, and Callimachus’s right sandal was in the water, or so we used to tell the story.
Our Plataeans were twelve men deep and one hundred and twenty men wide. We took up a little more than a stade of the plain’s width, and our rear rank was just twenty-four paces at normal order from our front rank.
The three tribes next to us had been ‘bolstered’ with light-armed men, and they, too, had twelve ranks. Many of the Athenian archers had also been put in the phalanx on the left. So they were deep, and they stretched three more stades.
We couldn’t even see the middle as it started to form. Aristides was in the centre with his Antiochae, and they formed twice as wide as we did and only half as deep — just six deep — to cover more frontage. That’s where the richest, best-armoured men were, and Miltiades felt confident that they could take the brunt of the archery. At least, I hope that’s what he thought. Because otherwise, what he thought was that the cream of the enemy’s archers — the Sakai — would rid him of a world of political opponents.
There were three tribes in the centre, and they covered almost five stades.
And on the right there were three more tribes, double depth as we were, and they covered three more stades. So our line was twelve or more stades from end to end.
No one could keep a line that long from buckling and flowing and bending. But we formed it well, and even as we formed, the barbarians came.
They did what they had done the day before, but it all went mad, like a sudden thunderstorm.
First, the forming of the Persians was terrifying from ground level. Yesterday, I’d watched it from a hundred feet above the plain. It had been majestic and professional. At eye level, it was like a lion pouncing. They flooded out of their camp in silence, twelve thousand professional soldiers all running to their posts in about as much time as it takes to tell the story.
And then they came forward at us.
My end of the line had settled in position. Men were kneeling to tie a sandal, wiping the dew from their shields, laughing, resting their heavy shields on the ground, or on the instep of their left feet.
The onset of the barbarians blasted the laughter from us. They flowed over the plain like a sudden flood, and the horsemen on their flanks looked like gods in a blaze of sunlit gold. They came on without a sound except the ring and jingle of harness, of metal on metal, the hollow knocking of wooden shields on armoured legs.
Just as yesterday, they put their Phoenicians and Greeks on our right, so that I was opposite Persians, the front ranks armed just as we were armed, big men with heavy armour and shields — mostly oval shields, almost like our old Boeotians, with short heavy spears — but with six ranks of archers behind them. Opposite Hermogenes was a troop of Persian noble cavalry. Directly opposite me was a man in a helmet that seemed to be made of gold. As he came forward in the new sunlight, he called out a war cry and his men answered, all together, a single shout that carried to us like a challenge.
I remember my breath stopping in my throat.
To his right, from my perspective, were the Medes. The dismounted Medes were the second largest contingent after the Sakai, and they had armour, the best bows, sharp swords and axes. Beyond them, I assumed, were the Sakai, the best of the enemy’s archers, in the centre, and then the enemy Greeks and Phoenicians on our right, facing Miltiades.
They
were formed exactly the way they’d formed the day before. My Plataeans faced the cream of their army.
It steadied me. Being the underdog has its advantages. And in that moment I knew what I’d say.
They came closer, moving swiftly across the plain like hunting hounds or wolves. Hungry wolves.
I had Leontus on my right. I left my shield with Teucer and ran to Leontus — a stade each way, thanks. ‘I’m going to charge them as soon as they reach bowshot,’ I said, pointing down the field.
He was taken aback. ‘Is that what Miltiades wants?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what Miltiades wants,’ I said. ‘He’s five more stades that way, if you want to ask.’ I shrugged, no easy thing in twenty pounds of scale armour. ‘But as soon as they stop to shoot, I’m going at them.’
He was eyeing the Persians. His men would be in the arrow storm, not mine. ‘I’m with you, Plataean,’ he said.
I tapped his aspis by way of a handshake, and ran back to my place, and his tribe cheered me as I ran by. They were getting their shields off the ground, pulling their helmets down, and when I reached my own men, Idomeneus had already given the orders.
The enemy was still three or four stades away.
So I walked, forcing myself to take my time, all along my front rank. I met the eyes of every man there — some said a few words, some nodded their heads so that their plumes rippled, the horsehair catching the sea breeze. I walked all the way to Hermogenes.
‘Fight well, brother,’ I said.
‘Lead us to glory, polemarch,’ he said. I could see his grin inside the tau of his face slit.
By the gods, those words went to my heart.
Then I walked back — making myself walk, even while the Persians and Medes were slowing, closer than I’d expected — faster than I thought possible. Their mounted Persians — the best of the best — seemed close enough to touch, close enough to ride over and gut me before I could take shelter in our ranks.
I stopped in the middle of my line, turned my back to the enemy and raised my arms. Then, with the kind of gesture that Heraclitus taught us, a broad orator’s sweep of my right arm, I indicated that I would speak.
‘I could talk to you of duty,’ I shouted, and they were silent. ‘Of courage and arete, and of the defence of Hellas and all you hold dear.’ I paused, and forced myself to look at my own men and not to turn my head and look at the enemy, who came closer and closer to my back. ‘But you are Plataeans, and you know what is excellent, and who is brave. So I will say two things. First — yesterday, many of you were slaves. And for the rest — no one here expects us to beat the Persians. We are the left of the line and all Athens asks is that we take our time dying.’ I paused, and then I pointed my spear at the enemy. ‘Horse shit, brothers! We are Plataeans! Every man here is a Plataean! Over there is all the wealth of Asia! The gods have given us the Persians themselves, every one of them wearing a fortune in gold. You were a slave yesterday? Tomorrow you can be an aristocrat. Or be dead, and go to Hades with the heroes. Whatever you were, whatever you are at this moment, however much you want to piss or creep away — tomorrow is yours if you win today! All of that gold is yours if you are men enough to take it!’
My Plataeans responded with a roar — a sharp bark. Only then did I sneak a glance at our enemies. They were a stade away, or more. I returned to my place in the ranks. I put my aspis on my shoulder and grasped my spears — my fine, light deer spear in my right hand and my heavy man-killer in my left, sharing the hand with the antilabe of my shield.
I turned to Idomeneus. ‘How was that?’ I asked.
He nodded. He wore a Cretan helm that showed his face, and his smile was broad. ‘Everyone understands gold,’ he said. ‘Arete is more complicated.’
‘See the mounted bastard in the gold helmet?’ I said. ‘I’ll take him. But he’s got to go, and if I fall or I miss, you take him. Understand?’ I tapped my spearhead against his, and saw his grin.
‘Good as dead now,’ Idomeneus said.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
He smiled his mad, fighting smile. ‘Sure,’ he said.
I turned to Teucer, who was tight to my back. ‘Hear me, friend — do not take that man’s life. I want his men to see him go down to my spear. In a fight like this — everything depends on the first few seconds.’
‘Aye, lord,’ he said. He was doubtful.
Opposite me, the whole enemy line — every bit as long as ours, and at least as deep — was slowing. It didn’t stop all at once. It takes time for a line fifteen stades long to stop and straighten.
‘Ready!’ I roared. ‘Spears up!’
Idomeneus hissed ‘Close our order!’ at me.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ I said.
The Athenians obeyed me as fast as my own men, and three thousand men raised their spears over their heads, spear-point just clear of the rim of your shield, spear-butt well up in the air so that it doesn’t foul the man behind you or, worse, catch him in the teeth.
We were one stade from the enemy. The Persians were settling down, planting shafts in the ground. The cavalry were actually lagging behind their main line, with a few men trying to pick a way through the scrub to our flank and struggling. But giving me heartburn nonetheless.
I nodded to Idomeneus, and he blew the horn — two long, hard blasts, and the pause between them was thin enough for a sword blade to fit and not much more.
And then we were off.
Ever run a foot race? Ever run the hoplitodromos? Ever run the hoplitodromos with fifty men? Imagine fifty men. Imagine a hundred — five hundred — three thousand men, all starting together at the sound of a horn.
We were off, and by the will of the gods, no one stumbled in all our line. One poor fool sprawling on his face might have been the difference between victory and defeat. But no man fell at the start.
On my right, the Athenians moved as soon as I did, and the Persians and the Medes raised their bows and shot — too fast, and too far. Men in the rear ranks died, but not a shaft went into the front.
It’s a tactic, honey bee. They halt at a given distance, a distance at which they practise, and pound the crap out of you — if you stand and take it. But if you move forward. .
Every step was a step towards victory. We were on the edge of a wheat field, tramped flat by psiloi over the last few days, and the hobnails on my Spartan shoes bit into the ground as I ran — full strides, just like the hoplitodromos.
That’s why I didn’t close our order, of course. Because men need room to run.
I was neither first nor last — Idomeneus was ahead of me by a horse-length, just heartbeats after he blew the horn. My old wound kept me from being first. But I was not last. I looked over the rim of my shield. We were facing Persians, Medes and a handful of Sakai, and every man had a bow.
Ten more paces and the Persians were loosing again — a rippling volley — and an arrow skipped off the gravel in front of me and ripped across my greave at my ankle and vanished into the ranks behind me. They’d shot low. This time, men fell — a few Plataeans, and more Athenians. And other men fell over the wounded. A man can break his jaw, falling with an aspis at a dead run, or break his collarbone or shield arm.
Just opposite me, and a little to my left, Golden Helm was bringing his Persian nobles forward. I saw him raise his hand, saw him order them forward — saw his hesitation.
We were charging them.
The Persian polemarch had spear-fighters — dismounted nobles — for his front two ranks. But he had sent them to the rear for the archery phase — his archers would shoot better and flatter if they didn’t have to lift their shots clear of the front rank. The problem was, we weren’t waiting to be pounded with arrows. And now his best fighters — killers, every one, like Cyrus and Pharnakes — were in the eleventh and twelfth rank.
If he rotated them again now, his men would have to stop shooting.
I read this at a glance, because there were no shields facing me, only rou
nd Persian hats and bright scale armour like mine.
A third volley flew at us. It is a fearful thing when the arrows come straight at you — when the flicker of their motion seems to end in your eye, when the shafts darken the sky, when the sound is like the first whisper of rain, growing swiftly into a storm.
And then they hit, and my shield took the impacts, like a hail of stones thrown by strong boys or young men. Two hit my helmet, and there was pain.
Then I was free of them and still running. More men were down. And the rest were right with me.
Golden Helm had made his decision.
He ordered his cavalry to charge us, slanting across our front — horses take up three or four times the frontage of a man with a shield, unless they move very slowly. So suddenly the whole of the Plataean front was filled with Persian cavalry.
I altered my stride and ran for Golden Helm. My Plataeans didn’t know any better, so they followed me.
The received wisdom of the ages is that infantry should not charge cavalry. In fact, it’s about the best thing the infantry can do. Charging keeps men from flinching. Cavalry is only dangerous to infantry who break. I wanted their unarmoured horses in among our rear ranks, where they’d be swarmed and killed. I didn’t want to fight them later — in our flanks, or our rear.
But to be honest, it was too late to change plan.
I ran at Golden Helm, and he became my world. He saw me, too, and he rode at me. He had a long axe in his hand, and his beard was saffron and henna-streaked, brilliant and barbarous. He was someone important. And the way he whirled the axe was. . beautiful. Magnificent.
I could say the battlefield hushed, but that would be pig shit. But it did for me. These moments come once or twice in a lifetime, even when you are a hero. As far as I know, we were the first to clash on the field that day. I saw no one else in those last moments. I saw the fine ripples in the muscles of his horse, the way the sun glinted like a new-lit fire from the peak of his helmet. The way his axe curved up from his strap — reaching for my throat.
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