Marathon

by Christian Cameron

  I kept my eye on the Persians – though there probably wasn’t

  a Persian among them, except for a dozen noble archers on

  twenty or so of their command ships. Somewhere was Datis

  himself. He’d have a deck ful of them. But the rest of their fleet’s

  people were vassals and slaves – and Cilician pirates, of course.

  Men just like us.

  As I watched, there was a flash and a ripple al along the

  front of the Persians as their oars came out. It wasn’t neat, or

  wel driled, but the mass of their great half moon began to move.

  It was a terrifying sight, truth to tel – they outnumbered us so

  badly, and their line filed your eye, almost horizon to horizon.

  They must have taken up fifty stades of ocean – more than five

  hundred ships. Until then, no one had ever seen such a fleet.

  I refused to be terrified. Today was the day Apolo would

  smile on the Greeks, the day I would win Briseis, fulfil my destiny

  and go to glory. I had half a notion that I might die in the victory

  – it would suit al I had heard of fates that I die achieving my

  ambition, and my curse to Briseis.

  Death held little fear for me.

  I was stil young then.

  Heads up, sailors!’ I caled from the bow. ‘Attention to orders!’

  Miltiades was turning out of the line, and he had a square torn

  from his big red awning flapping at his stern.

  ‘Hoist the boatsail,’ I caled, and Black echoed it in his

  ‘Hoist the boatsail,’ I caled, and Black echoed it in his

  curious singsong accent.

  We turned with the steering oars, the rowing oars held clear

  of the water but ready to engage – al to save the rowers’

  strength. I looked back along our line, and I saw them come

  from line abreast pointed north to line ahead pointed east in fine

  style – one of the very manoeuvres that Dionysius had made us

  practise, in fact. Nearchos folowed us, and eight of the Chians

  came out of their line and folowed us – Neoptolemus and his

  contingent, I later learned. That made me grin – twenty-five ships

  were shorter odds, and now the Phoenicians couldn’t just ignore

  us or we’d wreck them. I wondered what the Samians were

  doing to avoid envelopment at their end of the line, but fifty

  stades is a long way to see on a hazy morning.

  We sailed due east with a strengthening breeze at our backs,

  and the water tore down our huls, and we sang hymns and

  drinking songs. Miltiades sent an oarsman over the side, and he

  caled out to each ship as it passed, ordering us to prepare to

  turn to port and form line ahead facing north when the red square

  flew again. I understood wel enough, and I expect that al the

  other captains did, too – again, Dionysius’s training paid off.

  Opposite us, the Phoenicians and the Aegyptians didn’t react

  to our manoeuvre, but carried straight forward under oars. The

  Aegyptians were in a mix of heavy ships and pentekonters, light

  ships that we Greeks would no longer put in the line of battle.

  We got three stades to the east before they reacted, and by

  that time Miltiades’ Ajax was even with the eastmost ships in the

  Phoenician division, so that we were actualy threatening to

  Phoenician division, so that we were actualy threatening to

  outflank their fleet. For those of you who have never fought ship

  to ship, and I think that’s every one of you, a rowing ship is most

  vulnerable to a ram in the flank, or the long side of the ship,

  where the bronze beak can rol you over or split the planks of

  your side and leave you to swim in the deep dark sea. Or sink in

  your armour and feed the fish.

  We watched them with the avidity of men watching a sporting

  event. Late – very late – the tip of their crescent began to turn

  east to face us, but they were rowing and we were sailing, and

  although they were able to keep pace, their squadron began to

  string out over the sea, losing al hope of formation. We were

  strung out too, but the wind moves at the same speed for al, I

  suppose, and we stil held our line. And they were rowing flat out

  to race against us.

  Miltiades was the best fighting sailor I served under. Later,

  every man would praise Themistocles. He was a rabble-rouser

  and a politician, and he made Athens the greatest sea power in

  history, but Miltiades – like Dionysius of Phocaea – was a pirate

  and a seaman.

  We raced two more stades to windward, and the breeze

  continued to grow behind us – the hand of the gods, we said to

  each other. Miltiades began to wave, and I sent a runner to

  signal Stephanos, astern of me. We were about to turn.

  Miltiades stood on the helmsman’s bench of Ajax, the red

  square bundled under one arm, his other arm hooked in the bent

  wood of the trireme’s stern, watching the ships behind me. On

  mine, Black had the bow ful of sailors standing about the

  boatsail mast, and Mal had the oars out and peaked, ready to

  stroke. Galas had a grin from ear to ear, the oars steady under

  his arms, ready to turn.

  ‘Prepare for a hard turn to port,’ I roared. ‘On my

  command!’

  By the gods, I thought, this is going to be glorious, win or

  lose. I had seldom gone so fast in a trireme – the wind directly

  astern had such power. I wondered if we could carry any of it

  through the turn.

  I also noted that Miltiades was stiffening his ship by sending

  his marines and extra deck crew to the windward side, and I

  folowed suit. Anything to get that railing down as we turned – or

  rather, anything to keep the leeward rail out of the water. I’d

  never heard of a trireme roling over in a turn, but I didn’t want

  to be the first one to do it, either.

  Heartbeats – my heart thudding against my chest, as if it

  would pulse right through the new Persian armour I wore. The

  hushed expectancy – the sound of the wind, and a gul

  screaming.

  Miltiades let fly the red cloth, and I raised my fist.

  ‘Hard to port,’ I caled.

  Galas caled his orders, and long training and good discipline

  told. Every port oar dipped together, and touched water – held.

  The starboard oars gave way. The ship heeled like a chariot on a

  turn – over, over farther – until my heart was in my throat and

  every man on deck had to hold the rail, and the port-side rowers

  every man on deck had to hold the rail, and the port-side rowers

  had their oars so deep in the water they couldn’t withdraw them.

  Somewhere amidships there was a scream as an oar broke and

  a man took the shaft in his guts.

  And then we were around, and the sun was shining, and our

  ram was pointed at the Phoenicians, and we were racing like a

  spear thrown by Poseidon for the flank of the enemy line.

  Miltiades was around in style, and Stephanos was at my side like

  an eager dog – our line filed out even as I watched. The Cretans

  were no slower, and the Chians trailed away in some confusion,

  but that only served to make our line look longer.

&nbs
p; As soon as the Phoenicians saw us turn, they began to turn to

  meet us, but they were fifty or so individual ships, not a

  squadron. And their rowers were tired.

  The wind was so strong that it was pushing us even with our

  turn, even with our sails down. I began to eye the beach and the

  rocks at the foot of the bay – the east end – with a professional

  eye.

  Then I ran amidships to the command platform.

  ‘Diekplous,’ I caled to the helmsman. ‘Oar-rake and right

  through. Then turn upwind – west.’ Miltiades and I were facing

  four or five of the fastest Phoenician vessels, but they were the

  very eastmost. And if we oar-raked them, there was no point in

  lingering – they’d never come back to the battle. Right?

  Understand, lad? Because if we broke their oars, they couldn’t

  row, and Poseidon would take them to the bottom of the bay

  and wreck them. Got it, my blushing beauty? I’l make a navarch

  of you yet, my dear.

  of you yet, my dear.

  Galas tapped his oars – a little to the west, and a little more,

  to compensate for that wind. Our rowers were puling perfectly.

  My ship was half a length ahead of Miltiades when we engaged

  the first Phoenician. I can’t be certain, but I think we were the

  first to engage that day.

  Galas overcompensated for the wind, and we crossed the

  bow of our target fifty feet out – a deadly error had we been

  moving at the same speed, but we weren’t. We were faster, and

  he leaned hard, having learned his lesson, and Mal caled for

  extra effort from the port-side oars, and we heeled over again

  and slammed home into the Phoenician’s cathead, shattering his

  row-galery with the reinforced beam at the top of our ram. The

  whole starboard side of his ship seemed to explode as our beak

  ripped down the benches, and his seams opened and he was

  gone under the waves. That’s what speed does for you in a fight.

  ‘West!’ I roared, elated. It was the cleanest sea kil I’d ever

  seen. Apolo was at my side and the liberation of Greece was at

  hand.

  Miltiades’ men were cheering as they rammed the second

  Phoenician and went straight at the third, roling him over, two

  kils in the time it takes to tel the story. Stephanos’s helmsman

  made the same error as Galas, overcompensating for the wind,

  and he missed his diekplous and swept past, but as luck would

  have it his bow caught the enemy ship’s oars at the end of a

  sweep and broke them, kiling as many oarsmen as our more

  spectacular strike.

  Some ships missed their attacks altogether, and after our

  Some ships missed their attacks altogether, and after our

  initial success, the Phoenicians ralied and struck back, but their

  rowers were tired and the only ship they kiled was one of

  Nearchos’s, rammed amidships with its beak stuck in its prey, as

  can happen when a ship strikes too hard.

  At least ten of their ships died in that first strike. We had lost

  our god-sent speed now, but I had led the turn west, and other

  ships had falen in with me. Miltiades was behind me, gathering

  up our stragglers, and the Chians were just engaging to the south

  – that is, on my left.

  The bulk of the Phoenician squadron was ahead of me, and

  they were in confusion, because they couldn’t choose whether to

  turn south and face the Chians or east and face me.

  I was back in the bow, looking for their navarch. Somewhere

  in that huddle of ships was the command ship, and there lay the

  most glory, the most fame and a chance to kil the head of the

  Hydra.

  But I couldn’t make him out in the time I had. The ships

  closest to us had chosen to fight us as the most immediate threat,

  and we obliged, hurtling towards a wel-manned ship at ful

  speed. He had good rowers, and the colision threw me flat to

  the deck. We must have struck bow to bow, but his bow gave

  way – Tenedos worm, or dry rot – and his ship settled like a

  rock, even as his marines came over our bow like hungry

  wolves, and died, spitted on the massed spears of our marines.

  I turned to Black, who stood behind my shield as if he was

  my hypaspist. Arrows had started to fly, and he was a target as

  my hypaspist. Arrows had started to fly, and he was a target as

  much as me.

  ‘If every Greek kils two Persians, we’l win,’ I said happily.

  He shrugged. ‘The biggest fight I ever saw,’ he said. He

  rubbed his jaw. ‘But I’ve seen a few, sir. This luck can’t last.’

  Nor could it. By then, we were like an arrow in the guts of an

  animal. We’d wounded the Phoenicians, but we hadn’t kiled

  them. My ship was scarcely moving and now my rowers were

  tiring. The first flush was over and there was still a sea of

  Phoenicians to fight.

  ‘Boys need a rest, lord!’ Mal shouted in my ear.

  I caught Idomeneus’s eye. ‘We board,’ I said. I ran back

  along the catwalk. ‘Wel rowed,’ I caled down into the thranites

  as I went past overhead. ‘Rest in two minutes!’ Down in the

  lower decks, they have little idea what is passing overhead –

  victory, defeat, death – hard to tel when al you see is the arse of

  the man above you and the length of his oar.

  I got to the helmsman’s station with a shower of arrows from

  a long ship ahead. I caught one on my shield.

  ‘Lay me alongside that bastard,’ I said. ‘We’l board him and

  give our boys a rest.’

  In fact, I was aiming at the northernmost ship in the

  Phoenician squadron – a ship at the ‘back’ of their now utterly

  confused pack. I hoped that by coming up the north side of this

  vessel, I’d get a few minutes’ respite from the arrows of the rest.

  He was having none of it, and he manoeuvred, and we

  manoeuvred, like two cats fighting in the dust – and we swept

  past each other at close range. There was a tal man in a Greek

  past each other at close range. There was a tal man in a Greek

  helm on the deck, and Idomeneus shot him in the throat – a

  wonderful shot, and he fel straight over the side.

  Then we were past, and there was another Phoenician close

  behind – a heavy ship like ours.

  He was apparently taken by surprise that we were so close,

  and our ram struck just aft of his bow, but he had his oars in and

  our momentum was too little and the angle too steep for a kil.

  That was fine with me, and my rowers. We coasted down his

  side with a keening screech.

  ‘Marines!’ I caled. ‘Deck crew!’

  Black had an axe in each hand – long-handled axes of the

  kind that horsemen carry. Axemen die like lambs in a sea-fight –

  no shield, no defence. I feared for him and my investment, but I

  needn’t have worried.

  As we slowed, I stepped up on the rail and took an arrow on

  my shield. I didn’t wait for our grapples to go home. I leaped.

  I had done this twenty times, yet I missed my footing and fel

  over the top bench. An enemy oarsmen kicked me, but his kick

  hit a l
ot of armour and I was getting up when the enemy marines

  came for me. I should have died, but an axe – a ful-weight axe –

  flew right through the hide face of the first marine’s shield and

  into his arm. Blood blew out through the shield, and I resolved

  on the spot never to go to war with the Libyans. Before then I

  had never seen a man throw an axe.

  Black threw his second axe into the next man, and it hit pol

  first – not with the blade – but the pol hit the man in the temple

  and down he went.

  and down he went.

  Then I was up, and kiling. I only remember Black and his

  axes – the rest is a blur – and then I was on their command deck

  with Idomeneus under my shield, shooting their officers at the

  distance a man could spit while I covered him and kiled anyone

  who came for me. There were two Persian noblemen, and some

  Mede guards, and a noble Phoenician in scale armour from head

  to knee. He had a beard as long as his scale shirt, and

  Idomeneus shot him in his unarmoured face while the remnants of

  his marines tried to cover him – ineptly – with their shields.

  The rowers were al Phoenicians, and they fought, as if to

  disprove everything I said earlier, but that was the navarch’s

  ship, honey, and he had the best of everything, and Apolo had

  given him to my spear. So my own rowers had to arm and come

  over the rail. It was ugly and went on far too long. If I had to

  guess, I’d say that the only enemy rowers who lived through the

  slaughter were those who leaped the rail and swam. Maybe six,

  out of two hundred men.

  That’s the hard way to take a ship. And when the rowers

  fight – Poseidon, that’s ugly. I have no idea how long it took, but

  it didn’t get my rowers the rest I had intended against a nice

  effeminate enemy.

  At Lade, there were no easy enemies.

  There was cheering from the west. The haze over there was

  burning off, but not enough to give me a clue what was

  happening.

  I went back aboard the Storm Cutter and found Galas in the

  I went back aboard the Storm Cutter and found Galas in the

  bow with a handful of oarsmen. Water was coming in just

  forward of the first rowing bench. It wasn’t coming fast, but it

  was coming in al along the seams.

  To the north, a smaler Phoenician was angling out of their

  mob, looking for a fight. Our ‘rest’ was over. He spotted us and