The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae

by Nick Brown

  We’d reached the point where the track begins to slope down towards the city when it happened. It was clinical, like the way a skilled surgeon will swiftly cut an arrowhead from a man’s flesh. The path forked and the shanties on either side faced right on to it making it darker. We never saw them.

  It was like men cutting out a goat from the herd for sacrifice. They had no interest in the others; they were herded like a flock downhill by about twenty assailants. They probably didn’t get time to notice I wasn’t with them. I think even in that moment of terror I knew they weren’t in any danger.

  For me the path downhill was blocked by three burly men; they hadn’t even bothered to wear hoods, must have known there’d be no one to identify them when it was done. As they were forcing me back against one of the sheds I understood this was Metiochus’s reckoning.

  He was too high-born to involve himself: this way I got shame and death. Fear gives you wings, I slipped round the side of the shed evading their hands into the mouth of a foul dark alley. I ran, screaming for help. Me, I’d fought next to Miltiades at Marathon; now there was just terror, never occurred to reach for my knife or fight, just squeal and run; it’s all about context.

  I ran, slipping and sliding over rough ground through the shit and refuse littering the earthen track. I didn’t know where; I ran stumbling blindly. I’d no plan, I just wanted to live; I’d have let Metiochus do whatever he’d wanted to me if I’d known this would happen. I think I was screaming his name when they caught me like they were always going to do.

  They knew the ground; one had taken a different path and came out in front. I saw him, massive and threatening, blocking the way. Out of instinct, nothing else, I backed against a wall as they closed on me. Whatever they say about last thoughts isn’t true. I didn’t think of my mother, Elpinice or Lyra. I’d have given any of them to these men if it saved my life.

  I just wanted to live, to see another day. So I blubbed and begged but saw in their eyes there’d be no negotiation – just death. Perhaps that made it easier, it certainly made it simpler. I fumbled for my knife, felt it slip from my sweaty palm. They crushed me back into the wall; I smelt their reeking breath, felt their callous hands. Then I felt the bronze knifepoint against my throat and my bladder emptied.

  Chapter Five

  My face was splashed by gouts of blood but there was no pain. The man with the knife stumbled, grabbed at my shoulder for support, then his legs gave way and he slipped to the ground fumbling at me weakly as he went, leaving a trail of blood on my tunic to mark his passing. Right where he’d been close up by my face, there was another man looking no better disposed towards me. Seemed I must be already dead of the wound and this was a frightening antechamber of Hades where you were assessed for punishment.

  “Don’t think that I like you any better than he did, boy. Just thank whatever daemon watches over you.”

  His hood was pushed back exposing his face; it was vaguely familiar but in my dazed state I couldn’t place from where. Behind him, on the ground, was another man, deader than my most proximate assailant who was making the kind of whooshing noise a squid does after it’s been lying on a dry deck for a few minutes. My interlocutor turned the body with his foot and the whooshing rose a pitch. Then he picked up my dagger and put it in my hand. I followed all this in a dream like it was happening to someone else.

  He closed my hand round the knife handle then closed his own massive hand over that. I remembered where I’d seen him before but before I could make sense of any of this he grasped my wrist with his other hand. Then with a strong jerk he pulled my hand and the blade down into the upturned stomach of the man still wheezing for air. With the full force of his strength behind it, my hand and the blade slipped in easily. I tried to withdraw but he held fast and began to stir my hand round inside like he was checking the consistency of oatmeal porridge. I think I was sick and maybe blacked out momentarily because the next thing I remember was him shaking my bloodied hand in front of my face, saying,

  “There that looks better, the hand of a hero fighting against odds.”

  The whooshing noise came to an end with a sigh that sounded almost peaceful – not that I looked down to check.

  “Just the finishing touches, hold him tight.”

  Two men who I hadn’t registered grabbed me and forced me back against the shed wall and I began to believe this was a punishment of the Gods; but theological reflection was pushed out of my mind by memory. Must have shown on my face because he leered at me saying,

  “Wondered how long it’d take you to place me.”

  I noticed he had my dagger in his hand and was holding it close to my face. I gasped out.

  “You were with …”

  But he made the first cut, slicing through my cheek between my jaw and left ear. So quick and clinical it just felt cold. I tried to bring my hands up to my face but they were held too tight. There was a slight shift in his balance and he gashed me from shoulder to forearm. So I was going to die after all.

  “Now this next bit’s going to hurt a bit more.”

  I didn’t see it coming. He headbutted me and I felt my nose splinter and blood flow down over my lips. All I could think was why do this to me? It’s not fair.

  “Everything has to end, boy, even for you.”

  I felt something hard smash into my lower ribs, heard them crack, knocking all the breath out of my lungs. The men released me and I began to slide to the ground. He grabbed me by one hand beneath the chin and held me upright, blocking my windpipe.

  “No sleeping now, Mandrocles: if you can’t walk you’re no use to us. So make your choice. Stand up or die gasping for breath like your friend down there.”

  I didn’t know what was happening, I think I was crying but I got enough force into my legs to keep me upright.

  “Good lad; see, it gets better when you cooperate.”

  He turned back to his henchmen. There were more than two of them. How had I missed them?

  “He doesn’t look so beautiful now lads, does he? Be no more jobs for you as a catamite.”

  They laughed the way men will laugh at cruelty. I knew he’d broken more than just my body.

  “Now listen carefully, you little shit, because I’m going to explain this and once I’ve finished you’d better start running.”

  I knew who he was: one of the democrats. Why would a democrat want to kill me?

  “You must be wondering why after I’d chased you so hard with my two mates I killed them and not you.”

  He was right, I was wondering that, amongst other things.

  “Well, when Metiochus said he wanted you killed on the way home I volunteered to join the men he detailed to do it. I could see this puzzled him so I told him it was to show that when it came to killing Athenians, the Persians could trust all the factions on this island.”

  He took a bit of time out to enjoy my reaction, then,

  “And under normal circumstances that’d be true. But these aren’t normal times: war’s coming and when it does our Persian friends might not have the political subtlety to distinguish between Athenian democrats and those from Aegina. So I prefer to back both wrestlers in this particular bout. That’s why I did you this favour, see?”

  I didn’t. It must have been obvious.

  “Hades boy, how dim are you? Your little expedition here was about much more than looking for support. In fact it wasn’t about looking for support at all. So you tell your master.”

  I was confused and asked,

  “Xanthippus?”

  This time he laughed with genuine amusement while his men looked confused.

  “I’m surprised you’ve lasted as long as you have, you witless idiot. Of course not Xanthippus. He’s probably only just begun to work out what I’m telling you. I mean the man who’s played you all and us. Fucking Themistocles. When you get back you go tell him what happened to you tonight.”

  To my amazement he doubled up laughing and it took a few moments before he co
uld carry on.

  “You tell Themistocles that once we finish our war with Athens there may well be men here who will be prepared to fight the Persians alongside them, providing we get the right terms.”

  “Who shall I say sent the message?”

  “You shan’t; he’ll know. Oh I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy messing you up. But it was necessary. If you’d come back unscathed who’d believe you’d killed those men by yourself? Now I hope you can move because you’re going to stumble off down the hill. After a while you’ll come to the track where, if they have any balls, you should find some of your mates heading up to rescue you.”

  I must have just stood looking at him, too stunned to respond, because he turned me round towards the slope and gave me a sharp push, shouting,

  “Go on, get going or we’ll give you some more scars to take back with you.”

  That was enough for me: I turned and legged it down as fast as I could but had to stop and slow to a crawl because of the pain from my ribs. If you’ve rowed on a trireme you’ll know what I’m talking about, I doubt there’s any rower on a war ship that hasn’t had his ribs cracked a few times. It’s not just the agony, it’s the lack of breath. I turned and looked back up but they’d gone. Aegina’s a dark and frightening place and I made a mental note never to come back until we’d crushed them and taken their fleet.

  I was lucky on two counts: I didn’t have too far to stumble and my mates did have the balls to try and find me. To my surprise they were led by Xanthippus, sword in hand. I was almost touched.

  “Hades Mandrocles, what have they done to you? You’re covered in enough blood to have been killed three times over.”

  By now I’d recovered my wits sufficiently to remember my script.

  “Most of it’s not mine.”

  “We feared you were dead.”

  He even looked like he meant it. Speaking with broken ribs, smashed nose and flaps of your cheek hanging loose isn’t easy so I kept it short.

  “If you really want the answer you’ll find a couple of bodies up there, you can send them the cleaning bill.”

  Writing this after all these years it sounds so glib. It’s certainly not the language that those who suffer in Aeschylus plays chant out to the masses packed into the Agora. But it was an act: there are things that befall you in life you never recover from. The body recovers but not the inner daemon, the bit that’s only you and no one else.

  You keep going, keep living but there’s less happiness, less confidence and less trust in the world and its occupants. That night on Aegina was one of those things and I don’t think I ever fully recovered. Immediately after the world seemed darker, more anxious and for months after I woke every morning with a dry mouth and fear of what the day would bring. Fear that only abated in the evening with the third cup of wine.

  I disappeared inside myself, closed myself off from other people. Maybe if they hadn’t done what they did to me I’d have been able to respond to Lyra properly when she tried to say those private things when I got back to Athens. Maybe if I hadn’t been taken apart on that shitty little island I could have … if only …

  I couldn’t write after that: it brought back something best kept buried. Now after three days I’ll try to scratch down some more. They helped me back to the ships and treated my wounds. Xanthippus paid for the best surgeon he could find, a Persian strangely enough. He straightened my nose and kept it that way with a couple of small splints which hurt and irritated for days. Sewed up the flaps of my cheek, telling me I’d always have the scar. He just laughed when he examined the ribs.

  “You’re lucky they’re not broken, just cracked, so no danger of puncturing the lungs and dying painfully of the complications.”

  I wasn’t laughing, just asked him,

  “So what can you do about them?”

  He found this even funnier.

  “Nothing. I can do nothing; they will hurt for weeks, every time you move there will be pain. Even when you don’t move and the worst will be when you move in your sleep.”

  He must have seen from my expression that he was enjoying himself too much, and he moderated his tone.

  “But then after some weeks you will think something is missing, and it will be because the pain is less. Now I will give you something that will take away the agony and send you into a strange dream-filled sleep.”

  He mixed a potion and watched while I drank it then helped me to find the least painful position to lie down on the camp cot Xanthippus had provided for me. All this time he’d been silently mocking me as if he knew the real cause of my wounds. Before he left he stooped over me and said softly,

  “I have a message from the man who did this to you. Your life is still in danger; your enemy knows you are not dead. You must get off this island before it’s too late.”

  He walked away but then turned back and I think began to say something about remembering my message but I can’t be sure because already the potion was taking me off to very strange lands.

  I woke late next day and wished I hadn’t; my head ached, my mouth was dry and that was about the best of it. It took some time for my eyes to focus but when they finally settled down it was to a scene of great activity: we were leaving, it seemed, and quickly.

  “Oh, so you’ve deigned to wake up at last?”

  Theodorus handed me a cup of wine.

  “Drink this then get up, they’ve rigged a seat for you on deck. Things are getting too hot for us here, we sail in one hour.”

  Less than an hour, as it turned out: an angry crowd gathered on the docks, its numbers growing larger by the second. They cursed and jeered us; as more arrived they became confident enough to begin to throw things. It was clear that before long they’d rush us and we weren’t going to wait for that to happen.

  Ariston blew his whistle, there was a burst of activity and I found myself standing groggily on the quayside watching as the rowers, bottom tier first, filed onto the Athene Nike. As they passed, some of the long established crew members touched me for luck. It was some time since that had happened; the story about how I’d survived the previous night must have been circulating.

  The seat they rigged was by the trierarch’s chair where an agitated Lysias sat fidgeting. I knew there were things he wanted to get off his chest and wasn’t surprised that after we’d pulled clear of the harbour mouth and the rowers settled to a steady stroke, he said,

  “I’ll never come back here unless it’s to burn the city and fleet and scatter the ashes.”

  He paused as if he’d said too much and sat there silent, choking on his anger. I’d spent too long with the General and Themistocles to imagine that he’d stay silent. Men get to a point where they have to let all the rage and bile spill out, it’s just a case of when. So I sat patiently waiting; it helped take my mind off the pain in my ribs. I wasn’t surprised when a few moments later,

  “Now we’re sent off before the others because we’re Themistocles’s men. Athene Nike, the ship with the best fighting record in the whole Athenian fleet, driven home in disgrace. Us a disgrace? The men on this ship fought their way through the Persian fleet to get to Athens then stood in the front line at Marathon. And now fucking Bubblehead Xanthippus …”

  He realised his voice was rising in pitch and that this was not the way a trierarch should behave in front of his crew. I knew that if I said anything, even one word, he’d clam up for good so I just sat; eyes averted, staring out to sea. I didn’t have to occupy myself with the placid waters for long.

  “I don’t know, maybe that’s unfair. Xanthippus thinks we were sent on a mission designed to fail. But what’s the point in that? Why send us out here to an island we’ll soon be at war with just to be humiliated? Xanthippus believes Themistocles wanted him out here to get him out of the way: he thinks that him being humiliated on Aegina was part of the plan. So now he’s angry, he wants revenge. Why would Themistocles want that? Xanthippus could re-unite the whole Alkmaionid clan.”

  He pause
d again then mumbled,

  “I don’t know, it’s beyond me.”

  I knew there’d be no more. Lysias wasn’t a great thinker, a good companion or a particularly skilful trierarch, but now looking back I’m inclined to think that he was a better man than he was ever given credit for.

  It’s only a short trip from Aegina to Athens and before long we sailed into the rocky bay that was beginning to transform itself into the great harbour of Piraeus. Standing on the only completed scrap of harbour wall waiting for us was Themistocles. Next to him was the year’s named Archon with, behind him, armed men. Next to me Lysias muttered,

  “So it begins.”

  As we disembarked, apart from a cursory nod towards Lysias the welcoming party ignored us. Themistocles blanked me when, remembering my message, I tried to make eye contact. He was wearing the expression he’d worn at Marathon; his killing face. It was directed beyond us out to sea where in the distance the ships of Xanthippus’s squadron were bobbing on the water.

  Chapter Six

  My plans to stay with Ariston changed the moment we stepped ashore. Aeschylus was there waiting. He was Themistocles man, in so far as a free thinking poet can be said to be anyone’s man. I’d assumed that he was there with the official welcome party but I was wrong: he had reasons of his own.

  “If it’s true that life is sweet to him who suffers grief then your life must be steeped in honey, Mandrocles.”

  Typical of Aeschylus to open our first conversation since my anger at him over Miltiades’s death with a quote, probably from a work currently being written. I didn’t respond, I hadn’t forgiven him.