The Gates of Athens

by Conn Iggulden

  Somehow, he stopped himself from going on. It all sounded so weak now that he had said the words aloud. Miltiades seemed to agree, as he smiled and shook his head.

  ‘I sent those orders when we needed a reserve, Xanthippus. I held the wing back to lure in their archers and slingers. Was I wrong? Did we not carry the day?’

  Xanthippus could have let it go. He understood by then why Miltiades had called for him, then dismissed his slaves. The man was afraid of an accusation. He wanted to know if Xanthippus was his enemy, or if he could return to Athens as a hero. If he had been twenty, perhaps Xanthippus would have bowed his head and gone along. Yet he thought the man before him was a traitor. He could not swallow all the bile that rose in him.

  ‘We carried the day because I disobeyed your order to stand, Miltiades. The men followed me – and we charged the archers, not at your order, but in spite of your orders. How is it then your victory?’

  Miltiades shook his head again and Xanthippus saw spite and fury in his expression.

  ‘You are mistaken. I held a reserve until the moment was perfect. You never heard my order to attack, it seems. Perhaps I should report your disobedience in the heat of battle to the Assembly. I wonder how your wife’s family would receive that news?’

  Xanthippus felt his grip tighten on the spear, so that he became aware it was a weapon he held. He had killed men with one just like it, that very day. He felt anger rise and he crushed it, ruthlessly. Accusations would hurt them both, he realised. If he was made to give an oath of honour, he could not deny he had disobeyed an order. It would not matter if he claimed the results had been vital. The Assembly would make an example of him. So too, for Miltiades. The glory of his victory at Marathon would be tarnished if one of his own strategoi called him traitor.

  They could destroy one another, if they chose to. The awareness of it crackled in the air between them. Xanthippus felt the anger drain once again, so that he felt exhausted.

  He had wrestled too many bouts to recall each one, in gymnasia around the city and in private grounds. It was a hard and bloody sport, as were the boxing matches favoured by men like Themistocles for fitness. Yet the Spartans would not train in either discipline – because each bout ended with one man’s surrender. Spartan trainers said they did not want to accustom their people to giving up, that surrender had to mean death. Xanthippus sensed the philosophy was flawed, even as he admired it. Yet he was Athenian. He could take a loss – and wait for another chance.

  ‘The midst of a battle is a confusing place,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I mistook your intentions.’

  His voice grated, but he saw instant relief in the older man. Xanthippus saw how much Miltiades needed his victory – and it was a victory. He struggled with a pang of regret, a thought that he should have fought harder for justice. On that night, the air smelled of blood and fennel and he was just too weary, too numb.

  ‘I am glad you understand,’ Miltiades said. ‘It was an extraordinary day. We are Marathonomachoi, now and for ever. Whenever I taste fennel seed, I will think of this place.’

  Xanthippus bowed to him, giving him honour he did not deserve, then limped back down the slope to where his friends lay and snored. He did not think he would sleep, but he did.

  9

  The herald, Pheidippides, had carried the news of victory the night before, making the run back to Athens along the coast in record time. As he reached the Agora, he had cried, ‘Rejoice! Victory is ours!’ then sat on a bench as the cheering spread, rubbing the centre of his chest as if it pained him. When they thought at last to bring him wine, he was dead, his great heart still.

  That small tragedy could not mar the celebrations of a city. When the hoplite column came into sight, it was met by children running along the road and what looked like all Athens turning out to greet them. There were women everywhere and they had draped themselves in flowers to kiss the returning soldiers. Slaves had been given a day free of labour on such an occasion and even the metic workers of foreign states turned out to witness men of bronze coming back from such an extraordinary victory.

  Xanthippus wondered how many of the cheering crowds had slunk back in from the hills when they discovered their hoplites had won. He’d seen a stream of people and carts leaving the city as news spread of the Persian landing. Many would still be heading away, unaware the warriors of Athens had crushed the invasion and removed the threat.

  He had woken early, so stiff he’d had trouble just sitting up. Despite the discomfort, he’d joined the younger men in runs along the beach and simple balances to stretch out his bruised limbs. It was astonishing how many times he’d been scraped or bashed without noticing it. His chest and right arm were mottled and there were odd welts on his thighs as if he’d been raked with claws. Half the bodies in the bay had vanished overnight, though there were others still bumping along in the shallows, held down by weight of armour. The smell was already growing stronger and Miltiades had declared burying the dead was not labour for hoplites. They had done their work the day before. Digging tombs, recording the weapons and valuables, could be handled by the seconds and slaves from the baggage carts. They had lazed their way through the battle, after all.

  Though it was true the strategoi had lost the formal authority granted by the Assembly of Athens, the fiction of it was still in place, at least until they passed the walls of the city. Miltiades and Themistocles, in particular, seemed to expect complete obedience from the men. They were everywhere as the sun rose, giving orders, bringing structure to those who were still stunned, hardly able to believe they lived. In the process of counting the dead, Miltiades had chosen a dozen men to remain on the beach and complete the tally. No one who had seen the gold bands worn by the Immortals argued they should be left to rot. There were fortunes lying on the sand. It would be hard enough to stop boys from the city coming out and spending the next few days camping there, lost in fantasies and digging for rings and coins. Someone too had to be left to watch for ships returning, perhaps making a raid for slaves. They had lost children before in exactly that way – and there were still Persian vessels out there, somewhere. No one thought they would dare return, but who knew the minds of Persians? They were strange folk.

  The column that came back to Athens was smaller by almost a thousand hoplites. Some four hundred of those still lived, but were too wounded to march with the rest. Their greaves, shields and spears were piled on carts, along with the equipment of the fallen. For the six hundred Athenian dead, those things would have been the most valuable items they possessed. Each was marked with a family stamp. They would be returned to the tribe, deme and individual heirs – to be sold, or perhaps worn with pride by another generation.

  All those things were behind, as Xanthippus walked in the sun with Epikleos at his side. On such a day, it was simply good to feel it on the back of his neck, to know he was alive. He wondered if he would ever smell fennel again without thinking of the battle in that place.

  The sound of cheering could be heard some way off. It raised his spirits as the crowds caught sight of them. He had not returned from many campaigns – and never before from a battlefield almost in sight of the city. Truly they were Marathonomachoi, as Miltiades had said. Men of Marathon. He wondered if it would be the defining day of his life and whether he would always be satisfied with his part in it. Memory was a difficult path at times. Already, he knew the previous night’s conversation with Miltiades would weigh on him. His time in the front line was there in bright flashes. Xanthippus recalled his throat had been dry the whole day. Parts of it had lost their connection to the whole, so he could not remember the exact order of events. Yet his suspicion of Miltiades was as fresh and certain as ever.

  The crowds adorned Miltiades with wreaths of crocus and amaranth, the eternal flower that never lost its deep red, even when dried. The archon was even persuaded to carry a branch of it, thick with blossom. With green vines woven around his right arm, he walked proudly at the head of the column. The men with h
im smiled and waved, their shields worn on their shoulders so they could embrace anyone who dared to dart out and kiss them. Xanthippus tried not to frown, though he saw Epikleos glancing aside, amused at his expression.

  ‘You have never liked this…’ Epikleos shouted over the noise of cheering. ‘The crowds of Athens, the people. See Themistocles there! He adores the attention.’

  It was true, of course. Themistocles was strolling alongside Miltiades, beckoning for more blooms and allowing one young woman to take as long as she liked winding a green vine from his shoulder to his wrist. He was laughing with her and let his hand drop casually to her waist, pulling her closer as he bent his head and said something that made her blush.

  Themistocles at least claimed the adulation of the city with no embarrassment. Xanthippus could only shrug at that. The man had led his tribe and the centre with cool bravery, rallying them under pressure and breaking the heart of the Persian Immortals. Themistocles deserved the acclaim.

  The route they took would lead through the city to the Agora, with the hill of the Pnyx and the Areopagus to the south and west of it. Those outcroppings of bare stone were where the Assembly and the council met to discuss and vote. Such places were made sacred by their purpose. No doubt there would be speeches and sacrifices offered to Athena for their deliverance. Xanthippus would have to endure some of it, but he had a house nearby, where there would be cool water and silence. Agariste and the children would find him there, but perhaps not until he had let stillness and quiet seep back into him. He needed it, after so much clamour and noise, beating at him like wings. He needed to be alone, at least for a time. Men like Themistocles seemed to grow larger and brighter with the touch of hands, the weeping of grateful women. Epikleos too seemed delighted by it. Perhaps Theseus and Heracles had been the same, Xanthippus thought.

  He could see Aristides ahead, wearing a simple robe. He at least looked like an archivist or a scholar, out strolling through the markets. Aristides had played as vital a part in the victory as Themistocles, but there was no vainglory in him. It made Xanthippus proud to see the man’s dignity. Themistocles was touching every outstretched hand, his teeth showing as he laughed and cheered with the rest.

  It was all lead, all tin, Xanthippus realised. They had offered their lives on the field of battle, something only those who had been there would ever truly understand. It actually made Miltiades his brother, he realised. Perhaps that was part of the reason he had not spoken out. The man could make his counter-accusation of disobedience, of course, but he thought it was more than that. Xanthippus told himself it was – and suddenly he was choked and tears stung his eyes. He could not understand where the emotion had arisen and he longed more than ever for a place away from the noise and the heaving mob.

  He felt Epikleos pat him twice on the shoulder, returning him to the world.

  ‘Come on, Xan,’ the younger man said, his concern clear. ‘I’ve seen you like this before, after a battle. You need to rest, with a little wine and some simple food. Or a lot of wine.’

  Xanthippus smiled and nodded. He endured the crowds all the way to the Agora, where they were greeted by still more. Every road had filled with them, every open space crammed. More men and women than he could possibly count had come out, showing how much they appreciated what had been done. It should have been a glorious occasion, though Xanthippus felt the sun beating on his neck and arms and he felt dry-mouthed and grubby. Themistocles was somehow untouched by filth, though he had fought and sweated as hard as anyone. Or had the man changed his clothes? He had certainly found a cloak of pale blue from somewhere, Xanthippus noted. With flowers wound around his neck and arms, it made him look like a king, or the god of some sacred grove.

  Little by little, the column of returning soldiers drifted into the mass of people. They were greeted by tribe and deme as well as loved ones. There was weeping then for those who had not returned. Sobbing women and children were led away from that place, given space by those who understood their loss, taken home by sisters and parents. Around those small islands of crushing sorrow, the other citizens of Athens rejoiced, pounding the victors’ arms and shoulders in jubilation.

  In the Agora, Xanthippus saw Miltiades raised up on the shoulders of his tribe, so that he sat above them all and lifted his hands further, acknowledging their shouts and cheers. Xanthippus saw too that Themistocles had noticed the man’s rise in status and adulation. He did not seem delighted about it. Xanthippus watched the victor of Marathon – and Miltiades seemed to sense his gaze, looking across the crowd. The noise had lessened and Xanthippus knew if there was a time to speak, it was then.

  He saw Miltiades embrace a youth lifted up alongside. His son, Cimon. The young man was no more than sixteen or seventeen and gazed on his father with reverence. It was not too hard to imagine one of Xanthippus’ sons looking at him with such pride when they were older.

  Xanthippus made a final decision. Nothing was certain in a battle, nor in the hearts of men. He had no proof. He nodded to Miltiades. If the man noticed, he gave no sign of it.

  It was Themistocles who spoke first to the crowd, of course. Xanthippus raised his eyes to the heavens as the man’s voice boomed across the Agora. The sky was clear and dark blue and the sun beat down on a summer afternoon. Xanthippus felt tension vanish as he breathed out and out at last. There was a moment of perfect peace. He closed his eyes and drew in air and life and sound once more.

  ‘We give thanks to the gods for a great victory,’ Themistocles was saying, ‘for without their aid and their strength, we could not have triumphed.’

  He paused and Xanthippus wondered how much of the credit Themistocles would reserve for himself. It was an unworthy thought.

  ‘You will hear a thousand stories in the days and months and years to come – of all we did. We drove the army of the Great King into the sea and made it run red as wine.’

  The silence was absolute then. Xanthippus heard an intake of breath at the image. The crowd who had not been there hung on his words. Themistocles was witness.

  ‘I give thanks to the men who stood with me, as brothers, as Athenians. As Hellenes. We are Greeks – and we are victors.’

  Themistocles spoke almost sadly, Xanthippus realised, though whether it was artifice or exhaustion, he could not tell. The man looked across at him, as if he had heard the thought.

  ‘I give thanks for the strategoi who ordered the battle: for Aristides, who held the centre with me; for Xanthippus on the left wing, who raised the hearts of the men. For Miltiades, who kept us steady – and sent in the reserve at exactly the right moment, so that they smashed the Persian lines, all while their king watched.’

  The crowd cheered, the sound echoing across the entire city in ripples – those too far back to hear a single word nonetheless roaring their encouragement. He knows, Xanthippus realised. Themistocles knows exactly what happened, or at least he suspects. Perhaps he too had seen the way the crowd adored Miltiades, how they reached for his hands, just to say they had touched him! The man is beyond all criticism after such a victory. Whatever lies beneath, that is the truth.

  Miltiades had been lowered to stand once again. He stepped forward, though to Xanthippus watching, it did not look as if Themistocles was ready to give way. Nonetheless, he did so with good grace, leading the renewed cheers for the hero of Marathon.

  Miltiades beamed at them, basking in the approval. He did not let it go on for too long, choosing caution over vanity and patting the air for silence. Even then, the roars died away reluctantly. Xanthippus wondered what it had been like, waiting with slaves and metic foreigners to hear whether the army returning to Athens would be Persian or Greek. It was a reality – an agony – he had never known. He shrugged at the thought. Some men changed the world; some endured it. He knew he would always choose his fate, not let others choose for him! That was his right as a man – and a citizen of Athens. He put such thoughts aside as Miltiades spoke.

  ‘I was blessed to lead us. Only we
and the brave men of Plataea answered our call… just eleven thousand against four or five times as many, against slingers and archers and Persian Immortals – the best soldiers of their empire. Against war crews and hard-faced oar-slaves. Against their king, watching us. The day has gone. It is already a memory. Yet we who are Marathonomachoi know the only truth that matters. In that hour, we were enough.’

  The hush lasted a full beat as the crowd stared almost in reverence, then erupted once more. Someone had taken up drums and pipes and the noise of those competed with the crowd, making Xanthippus’ heart race at the sound of a battlefield, so fresh in his memory.

  Miltiades had to wait a long time to speak again.

  ‘Some of you may have heard the Great King was accompanied by Hippias, traitor and tyrant of Athens,’ he said.

  The sound of the pipes died with a squawk at that. A murmur of astonishment went around the crowd. Xanthippus too pricked up his ears, exchanging a glance with Epikleos at his shoulder. They all knew that name. Hippias had been forced out of the city years before, after attempting to overthrow the reforms that had given them the Assembly in all its noise and clamour. It was a debt they still owed the Spartans, for entering Athens at their request and surrounding the forces of Hippias on the Acropolis, forcing him to leave the city.

  Xanthippus remembered that day well, though he had been just a youth of eighteen. The Spartans had wanted to remain, of course, claiming some rights over the city they had liberated, though they had been invited in as guests. Word they would not go had taken wing and, without speeches, without a vote even, the streets had suddenly filled with every young man of Athens, surrounding them. Perhaps the crowds that day had been shamed by their inability to stand against the tyrant and his soldiers. It did not matter. They had found their courage in the end. They would not be ruled by tyrants ever again! Even the Spartans had realised they could not prevail against so many determined men. They had looked like wolves confronted with armed sheep. Yet that had been the day Xanthippus thought that democracy might actually survive. He had not known there were so many who cared about it as much as he did, before that day. Yet if there were men willing to die for it, if they loved it more than life, perhaps it was worth something.