Xanthippus found himself panting, his mouth gummed. Four hundred paces separated him from bank on bank of Persian archers. His lines were broken and without the overlapping shields held overhead, they could be slaughtered. It was the archers’ dream, which was why some of them were still running back, determined to take advantage. They were forming up two stades from where he marched. There was only one thing to do, though in the heat and in bronze armour, he did not know if it was possible. Four hundred paces, filled with death.
He took a flask of water from the next man in line, grunting his thanks as he wet his lips.
‘Charge, Acamantis! Advance, Athens! For Athena! Charge!’
Xanthippus raised his shield clear and pelted towards the enemy. He was looking at thousands of archers and they all seemed to be aiming at him. He caught sight of Epikleos racing at his side. They were fit enough to sprint in armour, though Xanthippus felt his knee sending increasing spikes of pain up his leg.
Behind him, the rest of the left wing saw Acamantis tribe break into a run. It was too much for them. They roared in support and sprinted across the sandy ground, closing the distance as fast as they could. The weight of greaves and shield and sword and spear began to tell on them. They grew flushed and shone with sweat, but they did not slow.
Arrows passed overhead as the massed archers hit the ones who had lagged behind, misjudging the speed of the mass of armoured men coming at them. They were used to hammering slow-moving targets, not spear-wielding maniacs, howling as they came on.
Xanthippus lowered his shield once more as he reached the archers. He used it as a battering ram, with Epikleos at his side. The smallest unit of the Greek army was its pairs – men who had mentored and trained together for years. They and their families were friends and Xanthippus was pleased Epikleos was there to die with him.
The lines of Acamantis and Plataea crashed through the archers like a feast-day sacrifice. They cut a bloody swathe and routed them in short order, so that they ran, back to the others on the beach who would know better than to rejoin the battle. Xanthippus found himself laughing in something like relief as the Acamantis phalanx re-formed around him.
Their presence had not gone unmarked, by either side. The closest Persians were twitching their heads again, looking for fresh orders or some way out. The Greeks in the centre were calling tribes they knew, as much in anger as welcome. There was work to be done and Xanthippus waited as the men settled and shields were overlapped. Miltiades had come with them, he saw. The archon did not even look in his direction, though he was as red-faced as anyone, as if the sun had burned him. Perhaps it had, while he’d stood and watched. Xanthippus wondered if Miltiades would risk complaining about his strategos. If he did, Xanthippus vowed he would make his own accusation. They had remained too long on the wing doing nothing. If that had not been treachery, it might as well have been.
The left wing moved forward as one, all divisions and rivalries forgotten as they hit the Persian flank with a roar. Even then, as Xanthippus and the rest crashed into the enemy and took the first lives with their spears, he was not certain. No. He was. In his heart, he knew Miltiades had been bought.
Battle was joined across the full line, with only the marshes preventing the whirling, hacking, bloody front spreading too far. Xanthippus fought in grim silence as the light changed with infinite slowness to the paler colours of early evening. He loved that time of day above all others, when the air cooled. He stood with the men of his city and he killed with them, though his knee felt like it was on fire and he could not trust his full weight to it.
Themistocles and Aristides fought well in the centre. On the left, Xanthippus and Epikleos cut Persians down with dark delight, with spears and then blades, going forward in formation to stab and withdraw and take another step. Lunge, pull, block with the shield, go forward. Those who fell under their heels were crushed and gashed until they could not rise again.
The Persians broke, though their king watched them. Xanthippus saw the pavilion coming down before he felt the shift, so that he could not have said which caused the other – whether the king had decided to retreat to his ships and so stolen the heart from his men, or whether the imminent rout forced the Great King to run before he was trapped on the beach.
The battle became a brutal slaughter. Xanthippus found his voice had gone completely, so that Epikleos had to relay his orders to keep discipline. The Immortals could feel the sea at their back as they retreated. In their panelled coats, they could not swim. When they felt waves lapping at their feet, the fighting became utterly desperate. It was then that holding the line of shields proved its worth. The sea frothed with red as Persians fell, slowly tumbling in the waves. A ship accepted their king into its hold and was hauled into deep water. His personal guard stood three deep as it was heaved off the sand, determined to allow him to get free, though they had no ship themselves.
Xanthippus saw Miltiades among the officers who pressed them while they stood in the shallow waters, cutting and battering until the king’s guards had fallen with the rest. He thought the Persians had lost the will to keep fighting by then or they might have done better against weary men. His citizens of Athens fought for more than just a king. Perhaps that was it.
Themistocles took his centre tribes forward in a block to butcher the remaining slingers and archers. They were hard men, Ethiopians and Egyptians with knives and clubs. Yet they died like lambs to hoplites in bronze armour. The killing went on until darkness came – and then Aristides set the last beached ships on fire so they could see. No Persian would be left alive to rob, rape or kill innocents after they had gone.
Bodies bumped against one another as the sea grew calm, like apples on the surface. In the end, it was done, with the moon rising high in the summer evening. Miltiades set guards and sent his herald Pheidippides running back from Marathon to Athens with news of the victory. There would be celebration in every house that night. The women and the elderly, the lame and the sick and the children would give thanks to the gods for being saved.
Bonfires lit the beach, with great bushes of fennel thrown onto them to sweeten the air. Xanthippus spent time checking the men of Acamantis were safe and not bleeding from wounds. There were bandages with the baggage train that came up. Gashes were sewn by the light of the fires, washed out with wine. The dead would have to be tallied in the morning, when there was light. Most of the survivors just sat or knelt where they stood, exhausted and stunned by all they had seen, all they had done.
8
Xanthippus stood with his eyes closed in the darkness. Orange gleamed through the lids as the bonfires crackled and snapped. Sleep had been impossible, though he ached in every joint and his knee was almost useless. It had swollen to twice its usual size and he had to concentrate not to make sharp sounds of pain whenever he moved. It was easier to stand and let Epikleos throw him a skin of watered wine that was probably half and half, at least. Xanthippus hadn’t asked how his friend had found such a thing, with every man and officer wanting the same. The wine had slowed his thoughts, like a net thrown across a river to catch fish. Even in his exhaustion he could not drift away, not with every scene of the day to play out, over and over.
He had wandered down the shore for a while, hoping to find peace in the wash and hiss of the surf. Too many things still tumbled there, making him shudder. He thought he’d heard something thrashing further out and he had visions of beasts rising from the deep to snatch the dead. There had been no peace in that place and he’d returned to where his tribe had camped and Epikleos had collected his greaves, shield, spear and sword. The lion on his shield had taken a battering. Even in the firelight, Xanthippus could see it had been raked right across in stripes that gleamed bright. Yet he had not taken a wound. He would remember to tell Agariste the lion had taken his cuts for him. She would be pleased.
The ground was more sand than earth where Acamantis tribe rested. Xanthippus could hear the snores of weary men lying on their backs with
their mouths open. Others were still talking in quiet groups, discussing the day. He knew them all. He had bought grain from some and invested with others. He had listened to speeches and arguments in the Assembly from many more, nodding his approval and proposing votes. Some of the eighteen-year-olds had already recovered enough to walk the battlefield in the darkness, perhaps to find a few coins or rings, or those intriguing gold headbands the Immortals had worn. There were fortunes to be found wherever the Persians made war, so it was said.
Xanthippus knew the men of his own generation better, of course, but on that day, they were all Athenian. They gathered in the same part of the Agora in time of war – and they knew one another. Sometimes, that was all it was. When Xanthippus had been a beardless youth, he recalled men in their forties and fifties. The oldest lay like the dead after a battle, with backs and knees and elbows swollen, or wounds that drained them of life like a leaky old skin. Yet they had marched and fought even so, grizzled and patch-bearded old bastards to a man. They had come because they were needed, sometimes to oversee the ones they had trained, like Xanthippus himself. He had done the same for a few young lads who’d hardly known one end of a spear from the other. That was the compact between them, the honourable labour.
He frowned at the thought. It had not escaped his notice how many had been gasping like birds after that long charge in armour. Their fitness was not what it could be – what it should have been. Above all else, his old trainer had told him. If a man could remain fresh for longer, while an enemy bent to vomit, or clutched his knees and grew red, he would win. Fitness meant speed and speed meant victory.
Xanthippus remembered the old words with a smile and felt something ease in him. He would train Acamantis. With a little luck and perhaps the support of Aristides or even Themistocles, he would institute a new training regime. Many more races in armour for a certainty, over long and short distances. That wild sprint to hit the archers had nearly ruined half the men.
Lost in his thoughts, Xanthippus did not hear footsteps approaching. The first he knew of it was Epikleos stepping out of the shadows and bringing a knife to the throat of the stranger, making him grunt and freeze in place.
‘Why, I’ve caught myself a Persian,’ Epikleos said.
The messenger swore. ‘No you haven’t, as you know very well. Strategos Xanthippus?’
Epikleos jerked his head to Xanthippus, putting his knife away. The messenger regarded him sourly as he rubbed his neck.
‘Archon Miltiades waits upon you. If you’ll follow me, I will lead you to him.’
‘Shall I go with you?’ Epikleos said. He tapped his belt, his fingers resting against the hilt of his knife.
Xanthippus understood the signal, but shook his head.
‘I imagine the archon wishes to congratulate me on our victory,’ he said. ‘I will be perfectly safe, Epikleos.’
‘Are you sure?’ Epikleos said. ‘I could call up an honour guard, quick as thought.’
His jaw was tense, though he forced a smile. The messenger was already angry at him for the scare. The man spoke with acid in his tone.
‘The enemy are in the sea, sir, I believe you’ll find. The strategos needs no guards, not tonight.’
‘Is that a rebuke?’ Epikleos snapped. ‘I know very well where the enemy are. I should, I killed enough of them.’
The messenger decided against provoking the man further and merely waited, his eyes bulging slightly. Xanthippus took a deep breath. His leg was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, which was odd. He eyed his spear and Epikleos understood and brought it to his hand.
‘Take me to Miltiades, then,’ Xanthippus said.
He tried not to limp at first, making the sort of young man’s vow that he would not show weakness, no matter what it cost him. Yet the knee was so swollen, it thumped against the other and made him stumble, so that he had to lean on the spear.
‘Are you all right?’ the messenger said, looking back. The man was hurrying through the camp, passing light and shadow where the fires had burned down to embers.
‘I’m fine, thank you. Take me to your master,’ Xanthippus said, nettled by the man’s tone, or perhaps just his concern. He was weary himself. After being certain he could not possibly sleep, it was suddenly stealing over him and making his eyes heavy.
The messenger took them past the lines of sleeping men, past the few who were still awake. That fragile excitement was fading too, so that more and more of them lay down.
Xanthippus felt a prickle of alarm as he realised he had come through the outer lines. The sentries challenged him there and he gave his name and praised them for their alertness. The ground began to rise then and he struggled, leaning on the spear and feeling his knee had something sharp wedged between the bones.
He recalled the Persian king had raised a pavilion to watch the battle. The ground had risen there and Xanthippus found he was relieved when it levelled out once more. A single brazier sat atop the ridge, with Miltiades standing alongside. He had removed the studded coat and wore a loose white tunic with bare arms that emphasised his strength. Xanthippus was surprised to see the man had developed a stomach. It pressed against the soft material like the womb of a pregnant woman. In that moment, Xanthippus was glad Epikleos was not there to comment on it.
‘Strategos!’ Miltiades said. ‘Thank you for coming. You are limping? Are you injured? I am sorry, I was not told.’
‘It is nothing – and I am no longer strategos, Miltiades. The long day is over. All the appointments of the Assembly are at an end.’ Perhaps it was the pain in his knee and the fact that he’d been called to walk on it that made him add, ‘Nor are you archon any longer.’
Miltiades’ expression grew stiff and he nodded to himself, as if he had confirmed something.
‘It is strange, Xanthippus. I have spoken to a few of the strategoi from today. Poor Callimachus did not survive the fighting. He was not made for war, not as some are. Yet Themistocles came to me, as did Aristides. Arimnestos of the Plataean thousand bent a knee to me and asked if their debt was discharged.’
‘They fought well,’ Xanthippus said. ‘I hope you told him it was.’
Miltiades made an exasperated sound.
‘There it is again – that concern for proprieties, the rules of the Assembly, the titles. I released the Plataeans from their debt, Xanthippus, because that was the path of honour, after today. My point, though, was that all those others congratulated me on our victory. Each one of them took my hand in greeting and offered wine. Yet from you, who stood in my own wing, I am lectured on the rights and wrongs of titles? You are a strange man.’
Xanthippus thought he sensed movement in the shadows to his left. He could not run, not with a bad leg. With that chance removed, he let all tension slide from him and stood easily. If Miltiades wanted his life, he would take it.
‘Your silence is… strange, strategos,’ Miltiades said.
‘I am a free man of Athens, Miltiades. That is all I am.’
‘And no longer strategos, yes, you have said. Yet you are a Marathonomachos – a man of Marathon, just as I am. You fought amidst the fennel and the sand and salt. More, you are one of the Eupatridae, the landowners. As I am. And an Athenian, as I am.’
Xanthippus regarded the man before him, trying to discern his intent. Miltiades was sweating, he saw. Many men did sweat more after a battle, sometimes for hours. Or it could have been evidence of a weak heart. He had seen men fall the day after, sometimes recorded in the rolls as the last to die, though they clutched their chests and dropped under a different sun. In Miltiades, though, he thought it was both guilt and fear that drew wet lines from scalp to chin.
‘What do you want, Miltiades?’ he asked. ‘Is it just my congratulations on the victory? I am glad we won. I thought…’
He hesitated, unwilling to share an intimacy with a man he thought had betrayed them. Xanthippus had still not decided what to do about that. Battle was chaotic – orders could be misunderstood. Yet if
there had been treachery, it was a crime so vile that it made his stomach clench.
‘What is it… ? What did you think?’
By Athena, the man was like a lover Xanthippus had known, a woman who wanted to know what thought lurked behind every change of expression.
‘I thought we would not win,’ he said with a sigh. ‘They were so many – and the Immortals wouldn’t break with their king watching.’
He saw the tension go out of Miltiades in a great sigh, and it was suddenly too much. Xanthippus knew the dangers of the time after great exertion. He knew not to make a purchase, or get too drunk, or draw his knife in anger. His blood was still too rich with rage, as the old officer trainers used to say. For some men, the best thing to do was sit with trusted friends and say nothing until they had slept and woken again. Yet instead, he had been dragged across the camp with a sore knee and questioned by Miltiades, who thought he was a lot subtler than he actually was.
‘I thought, too, that you had been bought by the Persian king,’ Xanthippus added.
He could have cursed himself the moment the words were out, but it was too late. Miltiades watched him from under dark brows, his wrestler’s hands flexing. Xanthippus felt a thrill of fear and pressed on, preferring not to be made a coward on that night. Let the truth be heard, he thought.
‘I recalled you had lost your family fortune on silver mines – in Thrace, was it? And there we were, held back while Themistocles and Aristides were being battered by the Persians. You sent orders to hold, just when we were needed.’
The Gates of Athens Page 7
