by Jodi Taylor
We stared at him. ‘Which limb had you broken that time?’
‘Appendix.’
‘Ah.’
On the third day, I awoke from a restless sleep to find that the storm had blown itself out. It was still hot – steam curled from wet rocks as the sun appeared through the clouds, but the air was fresher. And that wasn’t the only benefit. Looking across to the bay, we could see pieces of driftwood bobbing about in the always-restless waves. Over there was a broken mast, still tangled in its own ropes. And another. Sodden sails twisted in the water. Broken oars littered the shoreline. The Persian ships, caught in the storm, would not be assisting Xerxes’ land forces at Thermopylae. They hadn’t fared well and now Xerxes, who had a huge army to provision, had a problem. He couldn’t afford to wait. He must move now.
We watched the Spartans spend what little was left of the day and most of the night making themselves and their weapons ready for battle. We catnapped, waking at the slightest sound.
Just before dawn, the Greek contingent marched forwards to the narrowest point of the path. Men spread themselves between the cliff wall and the sea. They stood easily, leaning on their spears, exchanging the odd word. Waiting.
‘Nervous?’ asked Peterson.
‘I wouldn’t think so. This is what they were born to do.’
‘Not them, imbecile.’
I paused. Was I?
‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
‘Me too.’
‘Me three,’ said Markham. ‘Let’s not forget there’s a lot resting on this.’
‘You mean the fate of the western world?’
‘No, I mean my own much more important personal fate if I don’t get you back safely to Chief Farrell.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much,’ said Peterson. ‘He’s known her a long time. His expectations won’t be high.’
‘Yeah, but I gave my word.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, slightly annoyed. ‘We’ll all be fine. We’re all the way up here. What could go wrong?’
What indeed?
At dawn on the fifth day, a vast, dirty cloud signified the approach of the Persian army. Even on the side of the mountain, we could feel the vibration of thousands and thousands and thousands of approaching feet. It was Xerxes’ proud boast that he would cause the land to shake at his approach and he certainly had achieved that. All around us, we could hear small stones tumbling as the tramp of his army dislodged them.
I had all my recorders trained on the Greeks. Peterson was doing the same to the Persians. Markham crouched off to one side, watching out for us. We were all wearing wide-brimmed hats, mottled grey and green fatigues to blend in, boots to prevent snake bites and scorpion stings, sunglasses, and four or five buckets each of sun cream. We could only hope no shepherd stumbled across us.
Below us, a single voice barked a command and there it was, miraculously assembled within seconds – the famous phalanx. Four densely packed ranks of men, stretching from one side of the path to the other. From the cliff to the sea. A mouse couldn’t have got past them. There were the crested helmets. There were the scarlet cloaks. There were the infamous bronze Spartan shields with their inverted V. They weighed about thirty pounds each and should a Spartan ever be careless enough to have lost his weapons, he could easily use it to bludgeon a man to death. No Spartan would lose his shield. You came home with it – or on it.
Each man was armed with a spear some eight feet long. Each man carried two swords; the short xiphos – excellent for groin and throat damage; and the kopis, a curved sword used for hacking – heads, limbs, whatever. Each man extended his spear over the shoulder of the man in front. Each man planted his feet in the ground. Each man had implicit faith in his comrades. No man would budge. To me, they looked impregnable.
Until I turned my head to watch the approaching Persians. The ground shook with the majesty of their approach. The tiny Greek army stood firm. What were they thinking at that moment?
Whatever it was, they weren’t thinking it for long. The Persians halted and only seconds later, the sky darkened as hail after hail of arrows hissed viciously through the air, bringing sudden death from the skies.
Except that they didn’t. Almost contemptuously, the Spartans crouched and raised their big bronze shields and these, together with their helmets were easily able to deflect most of the arrows. A few men fell and were carried away. Their comrades shuffled up to cover the gaps as reinforcements arrived from the rear.
The barrage continued for some minutes until someone must have reported back to Xerxes that he was wasting time, effort, and arrows and it ceased.
Silence fell.
‘Are you getting this?’ said Peterson, softly, all his attention fixed on the Persians.
‘Yes,’ I said, all my attention fixed on the Greeks.
‘I’m fine too,’ said Markham from somewhere vaguely behind us.
Trumpets sounded and it was time for the main event. Having failed to soften up the Greeks, Xerxes now sent the Medes to march upon the Greek lines, obviously reckoning ten thousand of them should be more than enough to do the trick.
My equipment was working fine, so I was able to spare them a quick glance. The Medes were good soldiers, well armoured, with dome-shaped helmets and chain mail over brightly coloured tunic and trousers. Good soldiers they might be, but they were outmatched from the start. Their short swords were no match for long Spartan spears and those who did actually manage to reach the Spartan lines found their light wicker shields couldn’t turn back the Spartan weapons. They went down in their scores. The Spartans had an effortless rhythm. Stamp, stab, and twist. Stamp, stab, and twist. The Persian front rows fell, dying. Those behind slipped and fell in the gore. There were Persian bodies everywhere, twisted and tangled together in their own blood.
All the time, the sun beat down mercilessly. Xerxes’ superior numbers meant he was never short of fresh soldiers and he hurled wave after wave of them into the attack. Leonidas rotated his troops, regularly sending them back for rest and water. Unlike the Great King who had thousands to choose from, he had no spares.
Hours passed in what seemed like minutes and the Persians had made no progress at all. The sun passed its blistering zenith and began to drop in the sky. Now was the time when Xerxes might expect the Greeks to be tiring as they toiled in the endless heat, so he sent in the most dreaded of all his soldiers.
The Immortals.
So named because they all wore blank metal facemasks and one could not possibly be distinguished from another. When one fell, another identical soldier would immediately take his place, apparently unkillable. Hence their nickname – The Immortals.
Leonidas responded by sending his Spartan bodyguard to the front. The fighting was fierce for a while, and then, suddenly overwhelmed, the Spartans turned and ran. The Immortals broke ranks and streamed after them. At a single shouted command, the Spartans turned as one, raised their shields, and the entire Persian front rank, unable to stop, impaled themselves upon their spears. It was over in seconds. The Spartans regrouped.
Wave after wave of Immortals advanced and every time, the Spartans turned them back. The huge numbers of dead and dying began to make it almost impossible for them to reach the Greek lines. The light was fading. Xerxes called it a day.
So did we. We checked over our equipment, pulled out the used tapes, shut everything down for the night, took it all back to the pod, and had something to eat. Markham made the tea while Peterson and I reviewed the tapes, making sure our angles were good. That took half the night. We ate and worked at the same time. Markham was ordered to get his head down because at least one of us should be fresh in the morning.
That night there was another thunderstorm. I listened to the rain drumming on the roof and spared a thought for all the soldiers out there, unable to light a fire, wrapped in their cloaks, trying to keep their weapons dry, watching all that dust around them turn to mud.
‘Here’s a thought,’ said Peterson, raising his voice abo
ve the wind and rain. ‘How about Markham and me nipping west tomorrow, to catch Ephialtes and the Immortals crossing the River Asopus? We might actually get a glimpse of his face. What do you think?’
‘Brilliant idea,’ I said, when actually a better phrase would have been, ‘Bloody stupid idea, that’s just asking for trouble.’
We stumbled from the pod in the pre-dawn gloom, burdened with food, water, more tapes, spares for just about every piece of equipment we possessed, and a first aid kit.
Both camps were already busy. I wondered how much sleep the Greeks had had. Probably not very much, except for the Spartans who were so used to this way of life they could probably have slept during the battle itself.
The second day was a repeat of the first. Xerxes probably hoped the tiny Greek force would have worn itself out after their efforts of the previous day, but that turned out to be wishful thinking on his part. Once again, the Greeks resisted everything he threw at them and in the end, the Great King called a halt and returned to his camp, presumably for a bit of a rethink. And, of course, to meet his surprise visitor, the traitor Ephialtes who would offer to guide the Persian army along the goat track to the rear of the Spartans.
Halfway through the afternoon, Peterson and Markham had packed up their gear and set off across the rocky hillside. They left their com open and I could hear them, slipping, sliding, and cursing their way across the landscape, until eventually, as the light began to leave the sky, they arrived.
‘We’re here,’ said Markham. I heard faint sounds as they bedded themselves down behind a rock.
‘Can you see anything?’
‘Are you kidding?’ said Peterson, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. ‘There’s a bloody great column of soldiers crossing the river at this very moment.’
‘Is he there? Can you see Ephialtes?’
‘Hold on. There’s a small band advancing up the hill towards us.’
That made sense. Hydarnes, the general commanding this expedition, would send out a token force in case of ambush. No one trusts a traitor.
Markham intervened. ‘They’ll pass very close to us, Max. Radio silence.’ Everything went quiet. I sat at the console and waited for them to re-establish contact.
And waited.
I wasn’t too worried. Ten thousand men would take a long time to pass by. Peterson would be recording. Markham would keep him safe. No, I wasn’t too worried.
‘Max?’ Just a whisper.
‘Yes?’ I said, stifling the instinct to whisper myself.
‘Markham’s missing.’
‘You’ve lost Markham? How the hell did you manage that?’
‘He had to go.’
‘Where?’
‘No, he had to go.’
‘For God’s sake – didn’t you go before you came out?’
‘Of course,’ he said, defensively. ‘We are professionals, you know.’
‘Where could he possibly have gone?’
‘How should I know? Knowing Markham, he’s been stung by a giant scorpion or even snatched by aliens. I’m going to check.’
‘OK.’
He kept the link open, so I could hear every word.
I could hear his heavy breathing as he eased his way cautiously through the rocks.
‘Shit!’
‘What?’ I said, more alarmed than I would admit.
‘Shit!’
‘What?’ I nearly shrieked, frantic by now.
‘Bloody hell, Markham!’
‘What? What’s going on?’
‘Max. We’re in trouble.’
‘What’s happened? For God’s sake, tell me.’
‘I’ve found Markham.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s fine, yes.’
‘Then what’s the bloody problem.’
Silence, and then he said. ‘Tell you what – I’ll let him explain things himself.’
There was a short pause and then Markham said tentatively, ‘Max?’
‘What the f – I mean, what’s happening? Tell me or die.’
He told me.
I decided I’d kill him anyway.
Chapter Eighteen
People think that Leonidas was the most important person at Thermopylae; or possibly the Great King, Xerxes; but actually, the most important person at Thermopylae was that bastard Ephialtes. The traitor. The man whose name, even now, is Greek for ‘nightmare’. The man who led the Persian troops over the mountains so they could fall on Leonidas from the rear as dawn broke. Without Ephialtes, the whole course of History might have been different. You could certainly say Ephialtes was the key player.
So, when Markham inadvertently slugged someone with a rock, thus rendering him deeply unconscious for the best part of twenty-four hours – guess what his name was.
‘What were you thinking?’ demanded Peterson, which for him was the equivalent of a thundering bollocking.
‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said defensively. ‘You know what it’s like. You squat there with your tunic up round your waist, making sure to avoid the prickly plants, and worrying about scorpions and snakes … It’s always a bit of a nightmare for me, so when this bloke suddenly came round that big rock there with his todger in his hand and fell over me just as I was having a bit of a vulnerable moment, I thumped him one with a rock before he could raise the alarm. It really wasn’t my fault at all. It was instinct.’
‘Shit,’ said Peterson, again.
I sat at the console -and tried to think. Even if he opened his eyes now – this very moment – there was no way Ephialtes was ever going to be in any condition to lead the Persians over a rough mountain track. In the dark.
I sat, appalled, trying to force my brain to think of a way out of this situation. I even considered pulling us all out now – damage limitation – and leaving the Persians to find him, assume he’d fallen amongst the rocks, and try to find their own way around the mountain. There was a full moon tonight. Once they crossed the river and found the path, they could probably do it.
I was kidding myself. If they could have found their own way across the mountain then they would have done so by now. No, they needed Ephialtes to show them the way.
‘First things first,’ I said. ‘Is he still alive?’
‘Yes,’ said Peterson.
‘Right. Keep him that way. Check his airways and roll him into the recovery position.’
‘Done that.’
‘OK. How bad is the wound?’
‘Not deep – he’s not bleeding like a stuck pig. Breathing deep and regular. Pulse not too bad. He’s not going to die. On the other hand, he’s not going to be leading the Persians, either.’
Silence.
I heard the sounds of movement and Peterson say to Markham, ‘Help me.’
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, suddenly scared to death, because I knew exactly what he was doing.
‘I’m going to take his place. I’ll guide them over the mountain. We’ve recced the area. I know where the path is. We know the Phocians don’t hold the pass. I’ll get the Persians there and then –’
And then they’ll kill you.’
‘No they won’t. They didn’t kill Ephialtes.’
‘You’re not Ephialtes.’
‘They won’t know that. Only a few high-ranking officers will have seen him face to face and then only for a few minutes. I bet that to them, one Greek looks very much like another. Especially in the dark.’
‘You don’t speak good Greek.’
‘They won’t understand good Greek.’
‘They’ll be hugely suspicious. For all they know Ephialtes is leading them into a trap. And you barely know the area. If you get lost they will kill you.’
‘He won’t get lost,’ said Markham.
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Yes I do. I’ll be there, guiding him.’
‘How?’
‘Night vision,’ he said, simply. ‘I’ll follow on a parallel course and keep you on the
path. And if things do go horribly wrong then I’ll pull him out as quickly as possible and we’ll think of something else.’
‘They’ll have scouts out,’ I said, in despair. ‘You’re only one person.’
‘This is my fault,’ he said quietly. ‘You have to let me help put it right. You would do the same.’
He was right but I was in no mood to concede any points. I appealed to the marginally most sensible member of the team.
‘Tim, you can’t do this. It’s madness. And this is me saying that.’
‘I have to. This has to happen. This isn’t us changing History. This is us putting it right.
You don’t need to do this. Let them find their own way.’
‘I can’t. Suppose they get lost on the way. This is one of the pivotal events of the Ancient World. This must Happen.’
I was frantic. ‘Tim, listen to me. The Spartans can’t hold the Hot Gates. Without the ambush from the rear, they might hold on for a week or so, but they will fall eventually. Nothing will change.’
‘You know that’s not true. Yes, they’ll be defeated eventually, but the three days they hold the Persians here are critical. Three days are just long enough for the Greek fleet to get its act together, but not long enough for them to start falling out with each other. That must not happen. The weaker ones, the ones with less resolve, will drift away. The alliance will break up. Everyone will concentrate on defending just their own city and Xerxes will pick them off one by one. And that means that Greece will fall. And if Greece falls then there might be no Rome. No Rome – no civilisation of Europe. No Europe – no American colonies. Everything changes, Max. Everything.’
‘I didn’t save you from the Black Death last year so you can throw your life away now.’
‘Just because you once saved my life it doesn’t mean you own me.’
‘Yes it does, sunshine. I own you, body and soul.’
Markham interrupted. ‘If we’re doing this it must be now. They’ll be getting suspicious if someone doesn’t emerge from these rocks soon.’
Peterson sighed. ‘I have to do this. It obviously can’t be you, Max. You’re the wrong sex and you don’t have enough working knees. And Markham doesn’t speak Greek so it has to be me. I have to guide the Persians through the mountains so that Leonidas can lead his army to glorious defeat.’
