“I guess this is it,” Dane said.
***************
“There,” Cyra was pointing at a black circle that hovered above the water about ten meters off shore.
“Are you sure?” Leonidas asked.
“As sure as I am about anything else we’ve done,” Cyra answered, which did little to reassure the Spartan King. Still, he led the way, wading out from shore until he was just in front of it. The water was knee deep and the portal at his waist. He sheathed his sword, then laced his fingers together, forming a step for the priestess. Without hesitation, she put one foot in it, stepped up and fell forward into the circle, disappearing.
Leonidas backed off a few feet, then ran forward and jumped, arms extended, into the portal.
***************
Dane was less than a foot from the shimmering black surface of the portal. Every so often there was a flicker of red in the black, similar to what he had seen in a few of the others on the way to this one.
“After you,” Earhart said.
Dane nodded and then realized the gesture couldn’t be seen. Without a word he moved forward into the blackness. The screen in front of his eyes blacked out for a second, then came back.
“Oh, my God,” Dane whispered as he took in the scene the screen displayed. He wasn’t even aware as Earhart materialized besides him and her own gasp of dismay echoed inside the helmet.
Dane was floating less than two feet above the Reflecting Pool on the Mall in Washington DC. Except there was no water in the pool and the concrete was blistered and blackened. But what held his attention was the view directly ahead. The Washington Monument had been sheered in two about fifty feet up, the broken stub of the base pointing into the air, the bulk of the remainder lying cracked and smashed on the ground next to it. Beyond, on a rise, the dome of the US Capitol had been blasted away, leaving only the shattered remains of the building.
“We’re too late,” Earhart whispered, her voice hoarse.
CHAPTER 18 480 BC
Polynices heard the cries of alarm and hurriedly grabbed his shield and sword. He ran to the yells and skidded to a halt, feeling no pain in his feet for the first time in days as he saw what had caused the disturbance. A black circle had appeared just in front of the wall and a half dozen Spartans were around it, weapons at the ready.
They took half a step back as a woman came flying out of it, tumbling to the ground. As she rose to her feet, dusting herself off, a second figure came through. This one did a complete tumble, then was on his feet, weapon at the ready.
“Hold!” Polynices cried out as several of the Spartans stepped forward to engage the newcomers. The man removed his helmet and all dropped to one knee as they recognized their King.
“My lord,” Polynices walked up to Leonidas and as he did so, the black circle disappeared. “I don’t understand—how?”
Leonidas shook his head, more to clear it then to let Polynices know he had no clue exactly how he made it here. He blinked and looked about, nothing but the stone wall and the men with weapons at the ready.
“I cannot explain it,” he said in a loud voice, so that all nearby could hear. “Suffice it to say I am here. How far away are the Persians?”
“Less than a day’s march,” Polynices informed him.
Leonidas glanced at Cyra. He knew she had been right—there would be no time for the rest of his army to arrive. More and more of the Spartans were circling around the King until all three hundred were within earshot. He could hear the buzz among the men about the strange mode of arrival and the woman who was with him.
Leonidas held his hand up and quiet descended in the Gates of Fire. The flickering light from the torches on the wall cast long shadows from the men facing the King and lit his scarred face intermittently.
“This—” he indicated Cyra—“is a priestess sent to us from the Oracle at Delphi. As you all have heard through the soldier’s line—” this brought a low chuckle from the men as the King referred to the rumor mill that often kept the men more informed than their commander—“I was given a prophecy by the Oracle when I traveled there. I will tell you now what she told me.”
There was absolute quiet, even the breeze had stopped.
“I was told we were to win a great victory here. But that in order for that victory to occur, I—we-- must assist her and her priestess—” he again pointed at Cyra—“in a task they have that involves the gods. We traveled here, as you saw, via a pathway of the gods through the underworld.”
Leonidas scanned the faces, but as he expected, they were inscrutable. He imagined most of the men were still mulling over the prophecy of victory, trying to believe it in face of their numbers and the reports of the scouts about the size of the Persian army that would be here the next day. The gods, well, Leonidas knew most of the men were like him. They had seen men praying as fervently as the most possessed priestess and been cut down.
Still, there was the factor of his mode of arrival, Leonidas knew that added an edge of the surreal to not only what he was saying, but the setting provided a backdrop that he could tell was unsettling even to the most hardened warriors. Lightning flickered, highlighting the rocky mountainside, the stone wall and the sea—and the faces of the men.
He knew what question was foremost in their mind—and it wasn’t what the gods were up to. “We defeated the Antirhonians yesterday.”
The news of the victory wasn’t what they focused on but the timing. Yesterday. Leonidas took a deep breath. They were Spartans but they were men also.
“We will face the enemy. The three hundred of us. We will hold them here. The six lochoi will be here in five days time hard marching. Any place else, you and I know it would be impossible. But—” he let the word hang in the air, then he walked to the exact middle of the pass in front of the wall.
“Shoulder to shoulder a line.” He extended his arms out from his side, indicating what he wanted. The men moved. A line formed from the mountain to the cliff. A second one behind it. And a third. And most of a fourth.
“Three deep. We fight here three deep as we fight anywhere. Spear length. The Persians can only bring the same against us.” He smiled and indicated the men in the last rank. “And we even have a reserve.”
“Yah!” Polynices slammed the pommel of his xiphos against his shield. “I have fought many places, but this, this is the best by far. This ground will run with Persian blood. We will make a wall in front of this wall—” he indicated the stone wall he had so laboriously worked on—“with their bodies. And that will be so much easier on my poor hands,” he added.
The men laughed.
Leonidas walked over to the Middle Wall. He slapped a stone. “This is good. But this—“ he held up his xiphos, the blade glinting in the torchlight—“is better. You have done well. I think sleep is more important now. The skiritai platoon will maintain security to our front.”
The men slowly broke ranks. Leonidas walked over to Cyra. “Well?”
The priestess shrugged. “Good talk.”
Leonidas laughed. “Wait until the morn. There won’t be any talking.”
***************
The Persian scout was brought before Xerxes and his general, his clothing covered in mud, his face pale and tired. It had taken him four hours to make his way up the chain of command, giving his report to each level as he progressed. Now he stood in front of the King himself, but he was so tired he felt little other than a burning desire to find his bedroll and curl up under his blanket.
“Report!” the King’s senior general ordered.
The man kept his eyes downcast from the King. He had heard stories of what happened to those whose reports displeased Xerxes. “Your majesty. I was sent forward to scout the route into and over the pass at Thermopylae. I was accompanied by an Ionian who had traveled this path in previous years on trading missions.”
Xerxes left hand gave a rolling motion, which the man barely saw, but recognized as a signal to get to the point.
The general stepped forward. “How many?”
“I could not tell. I saw the lights of torches and glimpses of troops. Not many torches, maybe twenty at most, lord.”
“Twenty?” the general laughed, considering the camp that surrounded the Imperial tent had as many fires burning as stars on a clear night sky. “Most likely a feeble attempt by some local militia.”
“We have encountered no resistance so far,” Xerxes noted. The general’s laughter was abruptly cut off. “Could this be the three hundred Spartans that Jamsheed told us about?”
“Perhaps,” the general allowed, “but even if it is, three hundred could not hold that pass for more than five minutes against an assault by the Immortals.”
“Make your plans,” Xerxes ordered. “I want these Spartans dealt with swiftly and harshly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Xerxes left the main chamber, retiring to his quarters. Behind him, his generals pored over Pandora’s map, making their plans for the next day’s action.
Most of the camp was asleep, or attempting to get to sleep. Most soldiers spent the majority of their career sitting around doing nothing. The next largest amount of time was spent training. The least amount of time was spent in actual combat. Although no official word had been passed, all in the camp already knew that they would meet Greek forces the next day. Around the fires men talked or sat in silence, whichever their angst forced them to. Veterans talked in low voices to each other in whispers, the word that the enemy were Spartans also having been passed.
Inside his quarters, Xerxes slept deeply.
***************
“The first day,” Leonidas said as the sun hung low in the eastern sky.
Cyra was next to him, wrapped in her red cloak, but she said nothing.
“Why four days?” Leonidas turned to her. “Why couldn’t it be two days? Or today?” He laughed. “That would make things easier. But four days—” he shook his head—“my scouts tell me there are almost a quarter million troops facing us.”
“We cannot control the timing,” Cyra said. “We can only control our actions.”
“We can’t control our actions if we are dead,” Leonidas noted.
A skiritai came running in from the north, across the open space in front of the Middle Gate.
“Yes?” Leonidas asked as the ranger came to a halt in front of him and gave a half bow.
“My lord, the Persians are moving. An advance guard has just begun to enter the trail at the base of the pass.”
Leonidas slid his helmet on, putting his face into a dark shadow. “It is time.”
***************
A contingent of Egyptian troops, over four thousand strong, began their way into the pass. Xerxes scouts did not lead the way—after all he had the report from the scout the previous evening and Pandora’s map. Instead they had been deployed on the crucial mission of finding a vantage point from which the King might view the coming action. They had located such a place on the mountainside to the northwest, where the angle was just sufficient to see into the pass and the Middle Gate. As the Egyptians had assembled, the scouts had laboriously carried the heavy throne up into position.
While the advance guard of the Egyptians entered the beginning of the pass, Xerxes, surrounded by his guard and most of his generals, slowly rode up a steep track to the small level notch where his throne was set. Pandora walked behind him and to the right. They reached the throne and Xerxes settled in, then got his first view of the pending battlefield.
He jerked to his feet, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “What is this?” he screamed.
“My Lord?” the head of the scouts cowered in front of him.
“The pass,” Xerxes was pointing to the southeast, the hand shaking with anger. “Is that it?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“But—”he turned to Pandora. “Explain.”
She was slowly shaking her head. “I cannot my Lord.”
“Your map shows the pass to be over a mile wide,” Xerxes shouted. “That is less than a hundred meters wide at the top.”
They could all see the narrowness and also, the lead Egyptians less than a half mile from a slightly wider spot and the stone wall in the center. There was only one man present on the wall, a Greek in full armor who stood tall, looking straight at the King.
Xerxes spun to the head of his scouts, signaling as he did so to his master-at-arms. “Seize him.” Once the man was in chains, Xerxes drew his dagger and walked up to him. “Why did you not tell us how narrow the pass was?”
The head scout swallowed hard. “My Lord. You did not ask.”
Xerxes slid the razor sharp blade across the man’s throat and stepped back, out of the way, as blood gushed out. Then he walked over to Pandora. “Your map is wrong.”
“My Lord—” Pandora took a step back. “I did not make the map. I was given it.”
“By who?”
“By those who seek to aid you. They might not have known the map was—” she paused as if something occurred to her. “My Lord, the map is of a different time. When the pass is wider. We could not have known.”
“A different time?” Xerxes placed the blade against her throat. “I am—“
“King.” One of the generals was pointing to the pass. Xerxes turned, keeping the metal in place. A woman had joined the Greek warrior on top of the wall. They were about two miles away, but it was obvious they were looking at him.
Pandora spoke quickly. “They wish me dead, Lord.”
“I wish you dead, right now,” Xerxes said through gritted teeth.
“There are only three hundred Spartans in the pass,” Pandora continued. “Your army can make short work of them.”
“You were the one who told me how dangerous the Spartans were,” Xerxes noted.
“They are. But there are only three hundred. You have four thousand marching toward them right now. And many thousands more behind.”
“The problem,” Xerxes enunciated each word slowly and clearly, “is that in that narrow place, their front and our front, will be the same width and depth. You made light of my military knowledge, but I do know that much.” He pressed the blade, drawing a trickle of blood.
The Greek warrior held up a staff, as if in salute to Xerxes. The King’s eyes narrowed as he peered at the weapon—a Naga Staff. “Interesting,” he muttered.
“That is Leonidas, sire,” Jamsheed reported.
Xerxes removed the dagger from her throat and turned to his master at arms. “Bring me the staff.” When it was in his hands, Xerxes lifted it, returning the gesture.
*************
“That is Pandora?” Leonidas asked Cyra as he lowered the Staff.
“Yes.”
“Xerxes does not seem pleased with her.”
“She is just a pawn, as is he. When such pieces are allowed to think, sometimes they make the wrong move.”
“And am I just a pawn?” Leonidas asked.
“I hope not,” Cyra said as another skiritai ran up and reported the Egyptians moving up the path.
Leonidas looked down on the Spartan troops assembled in front of him. “I want fifty men. Each squad leader give me one man. We are going to meet the enemy.”
Leonidas leapt off the wall as the chosen men quickly lined up. He led the way, across the open space in front of the wall and then into the trail that descended to the north. He went about two hundred meters, then halted. The trail was only twelve feet wide, with a precipitous drop to the right and a cliff wall to the left. It went down about twenty meters in a straight line before curving out of sight to the left.
“Three deep,” Leonidas ordered.
Without further instructions, the Spartans formed three ranks, completely blocking the trail with a wall of metal, leather, wood and flesh. The three rows of spears bristled, point’s level. Leonidas stood in the exact center of the front line, the Naga Staff blade shining more br
ightly than the spears to the left and right, but held up straight into the sky, not level like the others.
The first rank of Egyptians appeared around the bend in the trail and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of the Spartans. There was confusion for several moments before an officer made his way to the front and surveyed the situation. Leonidas could clearly see the man, less than fifteen meters away. His cheeks were rouged and he wore silk over his finely wrought armor. But the man’s eyes were sharp as they swept across the Spartan line and took in the tight terrain. He yelled orders in his tongue and his soldiers began to awkwardly fill the space.
Leonidas had expected this and had prepared his men. He snapped the Naga Staff down to the horizontal and the front two Spartan lines, without an order yelled or any other sound, charged forward, reaching full speed in less than five strides. Even as they moved, the left side of the Spartan line edged ahead of the right, so that when they smashed into the as yet unformed Egyptians, the left hit five paces ahead of the right. It was like a housewife sweeping her porch of dust mites.
Those not immediately slain were pressured back against those behind. The angle of the attack pushed them back toward the drop-off and Egyptians began to tumble off, many screaming on their way down the rocky face before being silenced when crashing into the thin shoreline below.
Leonidas met the Egyptian commander. With a swing of the Naga Staff he sliced through the man’s shield and into his chest. The man fell to the ground dead and Leonidas pressed forward. Within twenty seconds the pass to the bend was empty of live Egyptians.
Leonidas went to the bend and peered around. He could see the rest of the trail—over a mile—to the plain below. It was crammed with more Egyptians. “Follow me,” Leonidas yelled over his shoulder as he spotted the closest Egyptian with the Naga Staff.
The Spartans charged down the path eight across, killing everyone in their way or knocking them off the cliff. Some of the enemy fought, but many were killed from behind as they turned and tried to run, but found their way blocked by their own forces.
Atlantis: Gate Page 20
