Marathon

by Christian Cameron

  There was a cry – something like a war cry, something like a

  sigh.

  ‘Charge!’ I caled, and we went at them.

  The Medes were ready for it. They broke as soon as they

  saw us come, and only our boldest and fastest caught any of

  them. I certainly didn’t – the Mede I had my eye on vanished

  into the near-dark of the bushes up the beach.

  Idomeneus, bless him, sounded a single blast as I hit my

  forty-seventh stride, and we turned together, like a figure in the

  Pyrrhiche – which it is – and ran. We were off down that beach

  like frightened boys chased by an angry parent, and every man

  understood that we had to break contact now, or die when the

  sun rose.

  But Persians have good soldiers, too. Somewhere in the

  But Persians have good soldiers, too. Somewhere in the

  scrub was an officer who knew his business, and within seconds

  of us running, they were chasing us and arrows began to fal.

  Then it was every man for himself. Some of my boys cut inland,

  across country. A few ditched their shields. Most didn’t – when

  archers are shooting you, the last thing you want to give up is

  your shield.

  I stuck to the beach, and most of the Medes folowed, worse

  luck. Had they stayed a little longer, run away from our false

  charge a little further, we might have made a clean exit, but we

  were not so lucky.

  After a few minutes of running, I looked back and they were

  gaining. After al, they had light body armour, which most of

  them were not wearing anyway, as they’d been awakened by

  our attack. They had neither helmets nor greaves.

  They were cautious, but they were getting the measure of us.

  An arrow hit the middle of the back of the yoke of my

  armour. Thanks to Ares’ hand, it turned on the two layers of

  bronze, but the power knocked me flat. As I rose, another

  arrow hit the same place, then another glanced off my shield,

  heavy arrows, and another rang on my helmet, and I thought –

  Fuck, this is it.

  I got my feet under me and turned.

  One of the Medes fel to the beach, his life leaking out

  between his fingers as he grabbed at the shaft embedded in his

  guts.

  Teucer was right at my shoulder, shooting calmly. One, two –

  and men fel.

  and men fel.

  ‘Turn a little left,’ he said.

  I did, and two arrows hit the face of my shield, and he shot

  back – zip, pause, zip.

  With every shot, a Mede fel.

  Another arrow into my shield, but now the Medes were

  scrambling for cover – Teucer dropped four right there, coughing

  their lungs out in the sand.

  ‘Run,’ I said. I gave him three steps while I stayed – another

  arrow off the top of my helmet – and then I turned and ran.

  My breath was coming like a horse’s after a galop – I

  sucked in air the way a drunkard sucks wine and my legs burned

  as if I had run ten stades. The wound Archilogos had given me in

  the fal of Miletus had a curious numbness to it against the pain of

  al my other muscles, and sweat roled down my forehead and

  into my eyes.

  The light was growing. I was running down a beach that was

  wel enough lit for target practice, and I was going more and

  more slowly.

  Ares, it makes me want to spit sand to remember it: fleeing

  like a coward, and knowing – knowing – that in a few moments

  I would be dead anyway. When it is your last – when al is lost –

  it doesn’t matter whether you were a demonstration or a

  deception or a last stand, friends. No one worth a shit wants to

  die with his back to the foe.

  So I turned.

  An arrow meant for my back screamed off the face of my

  An arrow meant for my back screamed off the face of my

  shield.

  I meant to take one with me, but I was out of everything, the

  daimon had no more to give me, and I – the great fighter of the

  Plataeans – slumped down behind my shield. I got smaler and

  smaler as the arrows thudded in.

  But I could breathe, and I did. I panted like a dog, and I

  couldn’t think of anything, and arrows fel on my shield like hail

  on a good crop – twice, arrowheads blew right through the face

  of my aspis.

  Oh, children, that hour was dark. When I had my breath

  back, I knew it was just a matter of how I chose to die. I could

  make it last, down under the rim of my aspis, until they got a man

  into the brush to my left who could shoot me in the hip or the

  arse. No laughing matter. I could try to turn again, but to Hades

  with that. My legs were gone. It seemed to me that the best

  course was to attack them. It would get the whole thing over

  with the quickest, and if anyone watched me – if there was a

  single bard left in Greece to sing after this debacle – at least men

  would say that Arimnestos died with his face to the foe.

  I took a dozen more breaths, rationing them, taking the air in

  deep. Then I alowed myself five more – the margin of life and

  death. Five breaths.

  Arrows continued to slam into the face of my shield.

  On the edge of the fifth, I rose to my feet. I sneaked a last

  glance down the beach behind me – and my heart leaped with

  joy. It was empty. My men had got away.

  In some situations, nothing would be grimmer than to die

  In some situations, nothing would be grimmer than to die

  alone, but in this one, it filed me with power. Being alone made

  me feel less a failure. More a hero.

  I leaned forward, into the arrow storm, summoned up power

  in my legs I didn’t think I had and charged.

  Anyone asleep?

  Hah! You flinched, thugater. You think perhaps I died there,

  eh?

  Pour me a little more wine, lad.

  Yes, I charged. As soon as I got my face over the rim of my

  aspis, I could see that they were wel bunched up, about fifty

  strides away – that’s why so few arrows missed, I can tel you.

  I remembered running with Eualcidas, at the fight in the pass.

  Here, like there, my feet crunched on gravel. I kept my shield up,

  and the arrows fel on it like snow on a mountain.

  And then they stopped.

  There were screams – screams of pain and screams of terror.

  I lowered my aspis a finger’s breadth and peered forward,

  though the pre-dawn murk, the sweat, the slits of my helmet.

  The Medes were faling – a dozen of them were down and

  the rest were scattering. When I reached them – alive, of course,

  you daft woman – not a man was alive, and they looked like

  porcupines for the arrows in them.

  I turned away from rosy-fingered dawn and the pale sea.

  There were men coming out of the bush – a hundred men, with

  bows.

  The Athenian archers had found me.

  I laughed.

  I laughed.

  I mean, what in Hades can you do but laugh?

  When you write this, I suppose you’l leave out al the little men –

  the archers and peltastai. And when I say ‘little’, I mean s
mal in

  the eyes of the great. But they were good men, as you’l see. The

  psiloi. The ‘stripped’ men who wear no armour. This is the story

  of the little men, and you can ignore what happened next if you

  wish. But it had more effect on the battle than most of the heavily

  armed men and the gentry would ever want to admit.

  The archers were elated – they’d saved a famous hero and

  laid waste to the Medes, and I knew that as long as those men

  lived in their little houses and their shacks on the flank of the

  Acropolis, they’d tel and retel that story in their wine shops, at

  the edge of the Agora, in the bread stals.

  Several of them – the boldest – sprinted down the beach and

  tore a souvenir loose from the huddle of corpses. The first man

  to pass me shot me a grin.

  ‘You alive, boss?’ he asked as he ran by.

  I had falen to one knee. I gave him a smile, got to my feet

  and wandered after him.

  In the distance, the Medes began to raly. Did I mention that

  they were first-rate soldiers? Just lost half their numbers in an

  ambush, and they were coming back. I hate any man who says

  the Medes and Persians were cowards.

  The Medes on the sand were wearing gold and silver –

  professional soldiers wearing their pay. The Athenian archers

  were poor men and my friend, the first who passed me,

  were poor men and my friend, the first who passed me,

  whooped when he reached the bodies. But he was a public-

  spirited man, and he held something aloft that flashed in the new

  sun and he shouted ‘Gold!’ and the rest of the archers came

  pouring out of the scrub at the edge of the beach, some men

  jumping down the bluffs and sand dunes.

  They stripped those corpses like men who knew their way

  around a corpse. I cast no aspersions, but by the time I caught

  up with them, there was nothing left but skin, gristle and bone.

  ‘Better look to your bows, lads,’ I said, pointing down the

  beach. I stepped forward and fielded an arrow that might have

  hit a man, scooping it on the face of my shield, and the muscles in

  my shield arm protested hard.

  ‘Lad, my arse,’ an older man said, but he grinned. He had

  thick arms and heavy shoulders – an oarsman, I suspected.

  ‘You’re that Plataean, then, eh?’

  ‘I am,’ I said. Then I put some iron in my voice. ‘Bows!’ I

  shouted.

  Most men jump when I say jump. The archers did.

  ‘Who’s the master archer, then?’ I asked.

  After most of them had loosed a couple of arrows – with no

  effect beyond driving the Medes back up the beach – the older

  man turned to me again. ‘With the other half of the boys – they

  went for the centre of the camp. We couldn’t find you. And I

  kept getting lost – so I made for the beach.’ He gave a lopsided

  grin. ‘I’m a sailor – or was. Beaches make sense to me.’

  I had to laugh. ‘We need to get out of here,’ I said.

  I had to laugh. ‘We need to get out of here,’ I said.

  ‘That’s sense, too. We’ve had our lick at the Persians.’ He

  looked around. ‘And we’ve got whatever they brought.’ He

  caled to the men by the bodies, ‘Got al the bows? Al their

  quivers? Arrows?’

  To me, he said, ‘Al their kit is better than ours – better

  bows, by far.’

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  ‘Give me a Persian bow anytime,’ he said, flourishing his

  own.

  ‘These aren’t Persians,’ I said. I pointed at the low felt hats

  and boots. ‘They’re Medes, a subject people of the Persians –

  similar, but not the same. They wear less armour. Sakai are

  different again – bigger beards, more leather and better bows.’

  ‘Ain’t you the sophist, though.’ The former sailor held out his

  arm. ‘Leonestes of Piraeus.’ Arrows began to drop al around

  us.

  ‘Let’s run,’ I said.

  We did. After a few hundred strides, they had to carry me – I

  was mortified, to say the least. One young sprig took my aspis

  and another peeled off my helmet.

  We left the beach when it began to angle away from our

  camp and we ran inland. It was easier in daylight – I could see

  the line of hils and mountains at the far edge of the plain and the

  rising ground that marked the shrine and sanctuary of Heracles.

  As soon as we left the beach, we lost the Medes. I think

  they’d finaly reached the end of their enthusiasm. My Plataeans

  must have put down twenty of them – perhaps as many as fifty.

  must have put down twenty of them – perhaps as many as fifty.

  It’s never good when armoured men face unarmoured. And then

  the ambush by the archers probably dropped at least another

  thirty. Fifty dead is more like a bad day’s battle than a couple of

  skirmishes before breakfast.

  The Medes retired to lick their wounds. We carried on

  across the hayfields and wheat fields and falow barley fields,

  jumping stone wals and avoiding hedgerows. We were about

  halfway to the sanctuary of Heracles when I felt the ground

  moving. I needed to stop – my lungs were white-hot with pain.

  Other men must have felt the same – as soon as my group

  stopped, al of them did.

  The feeling that the earth was trembling increased. I looked

  around – and saw the dust.

  ‘Cavalry!’ I panted. ‘Into the brush!’

  To our right was a falow field with low stone wals and

  patches of jasmine and other low bushes. It was also ful of

  rocks.

  We piled in, in no particular order.

  ‘Get to the wal. This one! You – stand there! Bows up!’

  That was me – the orders flowed out of me as if I was

  channeling the power of Ares.

  Leonestes joined me. ‘Form a line – get your arse to that

  wal, boy! Bows up – you heard the man! Get a shaft on the

  string, you whoreson.’

  The cavalry was almost on us. But as is so often the case on

  a real battlefield, they hadn’t seen us. They had other prey.

  ‘The first voley wil win or lose this,’ I said. My voice was

  ‘The first voley wil win or lose this,’ I said. My voice was

  calm. I remember how al the fear of the night raid had been

  replaced by my usual steady confidence. Why? Because in the

  dark I had no idea what I was doing, did I? Out here, it was just

  a ship-fight on land.

  Men on the flank of the galoping cavalry saw us, of course –

  but far too late to make any change of direction for the mass. But

  if Miltiades had raided the horses, he hadn’t had much effect, I

  remember thinking to myself.

  I glanced at Leonestes, because he was taking so long to give

  the order that I wondered if he was waiting for me to give it.

  He winked. Turned his head to the enemy – raised his bow.

  ‘Loose!’ he roared. ‘Fast as you can, boys!’

  The next shafts rose while the first flight were in the air. Rose

  and fel, and a third voley came up, far more ragged than the first

  two. Some of the Athenian archers were little more than


  guttersnipes with bows, while others had fine weapons and

  plenty of training – probably archers from ships.

  So among a hundred archers, there were maybe twenty real

  kilers, another fifty halfway decent archers and thirty kids and

  makeweights.

  Same in the phalanx, realy.

  The arrows fel on the cavalry and they evaporated. I

  remember that when I was a child snow fel on the farm – and

  then the weather changed and the sun came out, hot as hot, and

  the snow went straight to the heavens without melting. The

  cavalry went like that: a brief interval of thrashing horse terror, al

  cavalry went like that: a brief interval of thrashing horse terror, al

  hooves and blood, and some arrows coming back at me – a man

  took one and died just an arm’s length from me – and then they

  were gone, out of our range, and ralying.

  That fast.

  They slipped from their horses, adjusted their quivers – and

  came at us. A couple of dozen began riding for our right flank –

  the flank closest to the sea. They did this so fast that I think they

  must have practised it. For the first time, I understood the fear

  the men of Euboea had for the Persians. These were real

  Persians – high caps, scale shirts, beautiful enameled bows.

  I ran across the ground to the men we’d just kiled – the

  horses were stil screaming. Six. Our briliant little improvised

  ambush had put down only six men.

  I picked up two bows, scooped the big Persian quivers off

  their horses while arrows decorated the ground around me and

  ran back towards the thin line of Athenians.

  I got a fine bow – wood so brown that it seemed purple, or

  perhaps that was dye, and horn on the inside face of the bow,

  with sinew in between. There was goldwork on the man’s

  quiver, and a line of gold at the nocks on the bow.

  ‘Anyone who doesn’t have a Persian bow, get back,’

  Leonestes shouted. ‘Way the fuck back, boys. A hundred

  paces.’

  The dismounted Persians in front of us – about fifty of them –

  walked confidently forward. Even as I watched, they stopped.

  Most of them planted arrows in the ground for easy shooting.

  The cavalry reaching around our right flank was making

  The cavalry reaching around our right flank was making

  heavy going of it – they’d found the tangle of wals and

  hedgerows. Some of the younger Athenians began to drop shafts

  on them, as if it was sport. It’s always easier to be a hero when