The Gates of Athens Page 32

  ‘You will worry anyway,’ Agariste said. ‘But I will keep them safe.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, breathing deeply. ‘I’ll come back, Aggie, if I can.’

  Epikleos put an arm around his shoulders and guided him away down the road to the port.

  ‘There is a fleet waiting for you, old friend,’ Epikleos said. He still seemed moved. ‘They are a fine family. You must truly be very proud of them.’

  Xanthippus looked at the younger man, seeing the pain in him.

  ‘They are your family as well. You know that, of course?’

  Epikleos could not reply as they broke into a jog with thousands of others, heading towards the fleet. After a time, he patted Xanthippus on the back, a gesture that said all that was needed.

  When they reached the port, every fishing boat and merchant had been pressed into service to take crews out to the triremes. Xanthippus caught sight of Themistocles on another one, heading to his flagship. For once, Themistocles looked stern with all that lay ahead. He seemed to sense Xanthippus watching and grinned when he recognised him. Both men acknowledged one another before they were out of sight.

  ‘There is a part of me that relishes this,’ Epikleos said.

  Xanthippus shook his head.

  ‘Please. Please don’t anger the gods today.’

  Epikleos chuckled, acquiescing. The trireme that would carry them to battle lay ahead, long and grey in the morning light.

  ‘I just meant that there is no more complication, do you see? No politics. Aristides is gathering the army. You and I go to meet the enemy, because we have the courage and will to do it. All else falls away. I find the simplicity… comforting.’

  ‘You are a madman,’ Xanthippus said. ‘But I am pleased you are here with me.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if you have any other friends,’ Epikleos said, smiling when Xanthippus looked at him in surprise.

  39

  Xerxes lay back on a long couch, closing his eyes in relief to find solid ground beneath him. He had not appreciated what a luxury it would be not to have his cabin rocking back and forth at all hours of the day and night, never ceasing, never still. He could not recall the last time he had slept for more than a few hours. He actually felt himself drifting into a doze and sat up.

  His pavilion was a place of peace and calm, the world beyond shut out. Slaves burned incense and waited with platters of fruit, gathered from where he did not know. Perhaps Mardonius had brought them with him, as a gift.

  He opened his eyes, looking on the general of his armies. Mardonius wore his beard in black ringlets, bound together with a single gold cuff. It reminded the king of an otter pelt. Once more, Xerxes experienced a delicious shudder at the trials of a campaign. He had wanted such things, safe in his palaces. He had not known then how the rocking sea would make days pass in a misery of sickness and loose bowels, or how hard it was to be clean without pools and slaves dedicated to the task. He sighed. He had not known a thousand things he knew then. How often the entire fleet had to stop for water, so that they crawled from stream to stream along the coast. It was not the wild charge he had imagined, but the alternative was watching men die, or so he had been told. It seemed the rowing slaves could survive on just a little food, but they needed water every day, to fill every cask they possessed. Even so, some of them expired and were thrown overboard. Each morning began with corpses committed to the deep. They bobbed in the wake of the fleet and the first ones drifted past the ships behind, so they were seen. Little sharks bumped and tore at them then, so he had been told, like dogs feeding on deer.

  He felt his thoughts drifting and cleared his throat, making Mardonius look up from his respectfully downcast gaze.

  ‘I am ready to hear your report, general.’

  ‘Majesty, there is nothing of great note,’ Mardonius began. ‘We lost men in fighting in Macedonia, as you know. Some of our injured have succumbed to their wounds since then – three in the last few days. I hanged a few dozen for rape or theft – not enough to affect our strength.’

  He hesitated, wondering if the king should be told of desertions. It was impossible to move hundreds of thousands of men through a foreign land without having a few wander off, drawn to some lonely farmhouse, or following a pretty face glimpsed in a market. Outside of the Immortals and senior officers, his men were often simple types, Mardonius knew. He could have told a thousand tales of regiments marching for days in the wrong direction, or losing the only map to a food store, or watching vital supplies ridden over a ravine by one drunken fool. Armies wore out on the march, that was just the truth of it. He did not think the young king wished to hear of that, however.

  ‘Majesty, your army is lean and strong, made into wood and leather over hundreds of miles. They are devoted to you, as am I. We will be there, alongside the fleet.’

  Mardonius bowed his head again, wondering how long he would have to endure the king’s drowsing mood. His back hurt and one of his fingers had filled with pus from a simple splinter of iron that had gone deep. The damned thing had to be drained again. He could feel it throbbing. Of course it was his right hand, so that it hurt doing almost anything. He could feel the prickle of sweat on his brow as he sat there, wasting a morning with a son of Darius. The old king would never have drunk the milk of the poppy on campaign, no matter how stiff or sore he had become. Mardonius hid any distaste he felt as the young man seemed to drift off once more. Xerxes was no sailor; they’d all learned that much. He’d insisted the fleet and the army should advance in sight of one another, regardless of terrain or the conditions at sea. Mardonius thought the young king was responsible for the loss of over a hundred ships when he’d refused to let his captains seek safe harbour, all while a gale rose around them. All because the army had not come into view! Mardonius repressed a shudder. He still remembered that march, with his scouts riding themselves ragged and killing precious horses to pass back news of the fleet. He’d lost men too that day, men who had fallen and refused to return to their place in line. He’d stained the earth in his wake with their blood – and in truth, he had no time for weakness. Their lives – his life – were to be spent in service of the Great King. Mardonius might pray not to be thrown away, not to be wasted, but it was the whim of Xerxes and the elements that would decide his fate, long before he met the Greeks.

  ‘Would it raise the morale of the men to have me inspect them?’ Xerxes said, his eyes snapping open.

  Mardonius struggled to hide his dismay, but the king was not watching him, instead lying back and looking to the billowing cloth above his head, suddenly fascinated by it. Even so, Mardonius did not think he could ignore the question.

  ‘Majesty, they are a ragged crew, after so long on the march. I think, with your permission, that they should show you greatness by shedding the blood of your enemies. God smiles on us, Majesty! To be here, in the land of the Greeks, with their cities open-legged before us, ready for the plough. We stand in the shadow of your light, Majesty, and it is glorious.’

  The king did not respond for a time and Mardonius subsided. An inspection would delay them for a week or more. It would take that long just to parade the men and wash the worst dust and grime from them. He prayed in silence that the king would not follow through on his threat.

  ‘I am… overjoyed, Mardonius, as you say,’ the king said dreamily. ‘To be here, after so long. How far is it to Athens now?’

  Mardonius cleared his throat. His finger was throbbing along with his heartbeat, quite extraordinarily painful. He wanted to mop the sweat from his brow, but he did not wish to seem nervous.

  ‘The scouts report a range of mountains four days’ march from here. We will find the passes through, of course. I’m told Athens is three or four days of hard marching beyond.’

  Xerxes sat up, his gaze sharpening.

  ‘So close? Truly? Have you seen sign of their armies?’

  ‘Only Spartan scouts, Majesty. They appear sometimes, to watch us on the march. I send out archer
s, but we have not yet brought one down.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Xerxes said, with a wave of his hand. ‘Let them see and fear me. They scorned my messenger, my offer to accept them as vassals. Perhaps they regret that now that I have come!’

  He rose to his feet and stood swaying, so that Mardonius felt a cold horror. If the king’s excesses brought him to fainting, his general could not lay hands on him, not even to catch Xerxes as he fell. Yet if he stood by and did nothing, his life would surely be forfeit. He decided to prostrate himself on the canvas floor.

  There was no crash. The king chuckled, lost in imaginings.

  ‘Don’t hurt their scouts, Mardonius. Let them carry what news they wish of me. I want them to know, to fear. I want them to feel the earth tremble! Now, I will go back to my ship and you will go back to your men. Keep my ships in sight! We will sweep them…’ He waved in frustration, unable to find the words. Instead, he clapped both hands together, his expression suddenly vengeful, so that small white teeth showed. ‘No… we will crush them between us.’

  * * *

  King Leonidas stretched out as he increased the pace, feeling his limbs loosen and his old hip injury ease. At fifty, he was proud of his strength and fitness, though he was not the sort of fool who denied the effect of time on him. It still felt right to swing along the road, his red cloak fluttering. His helots bore his shield, sword and spear. They were smaller men than the Spartan king, less powerful of frame – born to a race who had been slaves as long as the histories of man. Hundreds of them trotted like hounds in his wake, carrying the battle kit of all his guard.

  At the head of the column, three hundred Spartiate warriors swung along, lost in contemplation. Some of them had talked quietly that morning, but as the day waned, the grim mood of battle was settling on them, stifling laughter and light talk. They could all see the mountains ahead, rising slowly green and brown, with the sea dark on their right flank. They had reached the city of Plataea the night before, having marched two days from Sparta and through the barricades on the isthmus. Men of Plataea had joined them then, running for their weapons and armour as the Spartans came loping through. Others had joined the column as soon as they saw the red cloaks. Leonidas looked back to Demophilus of Thespiae, with seven hundred warriors alongside. Those carried their own spears, never having earned the labour of helots. The man seemed in awe of the Spartan king, as he should have been. Leonidas had not told him all that lay ahead, nor that there would be no greater army of Sparta coming to join them. He found one fist clenching as he strode along, putting the stades behind on the road. With an effort, Leonidas relaxed.

  The priests had come close to making him break his word, given by his brother to the Athenians. When they’d said he could not march against the Persians, not until the festival was over, Leonidas had been caught between obedience and outrage. Just the thought of it made his fist clench once more, this time unnoticed. War was forbidden during the festival of Apollo Carneios. In all his life Leonidas had never disobeyed the ephors, nor scorned the gods. Sparta was a dry place, a precarious place, without the natural gifts of other regions. They survived only with the blessings of Apollo and Ares. No man could pit himself against the gods of the sun and of war, not without destruction.

  Even so, he had stood stunned for a time, with torches spitting and hissing at his back. Leonidas was a man used to making decisions. He had given his word to his brother to swear an oath. They would fight alongside Athens, though he despised those Greeks for the effete whores they were. Even so, he would not see their vanity exposed by Persians, their blood spilt. Yet he was not allowed to complete that oath and take the ten thousand and their helots out to the field of battle. He had to wait three more days, while the Persian flood approached a range of mountains where they could be stopped!

  In that moment, when he had stood like stone and despaired, the priest had reached out and touched him on the shoulder. He’d felt the coldness of an old man’s bony hand and he had remembered what had been forgotten.

  Years before, when he’d been made king on the death of his older brother, Leonidas had visited the oracle at Delphi. He’d crossed the gulf of Corinth in a small boat and walked alone to see what his reign would hold. He remembered the priestess sitting above the crack in the stone, where Apollo’s sleeping breath wreathed her in smoke. She had been beautiful, he recalled, though her eyes were terrible, as one who had seen and known too many things.

  She had promised him a terrible choice, on a day then far ahead, between the destruction of Sparta, and his own death.

  He smiled as he walked along, remembering her surprise when he’d laughed. He’d been so young! So certain of his strength and youth. He’d feared the revelation of some greater catastrophe, some twisted riddle of the gods that would lead to betrayal or dishonour. Instead, she had offered him a choice he would always have made, a thousand times over. His death, to save Sparta? Leonidas knew he could throw it away with a shrug. He would fling his life from him.

  As the priest had touched his bare shoulder, he understood the time had come upon him. In quiet dignity, he had thanked the old man and knelt to him for his blessing. When he rose, Leonidas had summoned his personal guard of three hundred. After that, he had called the perioikoi – the warriors who lived around Sparta but were not of the elite. They had not been bound by the laws of the ephors, any more than his personal guard. Leonidas frowned as he considered the thousand men who had answered that call. They owed him loyalty unto death. Had he skirted his oath? No, he was certain. The men who marched with him that day were of the Peloponnese, but not of Sparta. With his helots, with those who had joined him from Plataea and Thespiae, he had six thousand, marching towards the mountains.

  As the land rose near the coast, Leonidas could see galleys out on the waters, with the red sails of Spartan ships leading them. More ships than he could believe. He knew Eurybiades for a good man. Leonidas turned his head and whistled to the helots trotting in his wake, calling the name of the one he wanted. Dromeas was one who seemed born to run, who loved the freedom of it. The young man was in his twenties, with a black beard marked by the jagged scar that had brought him to Leonidas’ personal group of helots. Dromeas had outrun a group of three young Spartiates in training and, of course, they had beaten him savagely in response, leaving him with a great scar from his forehead to his chin. Leonidas had offered the man a place in his retinue – if he managed to beat them again. Though blood had run down his chest and spattered his thighs, Dromeas had summoned his will and left them in his dust for a second time that day. Two of them had left the training – one to join the perioikoi, another to family in Corinth. Dromeas had run a thousand days since then for the Spartan king who had seen his value and his will.

  Leonidas clapped Dromeas on the shoulder as the bearded young man came alongside.

  ‘I have a task for you, Runner,’ he said.

  Perhaps another would have taken the nickname as an insult. Dromeas wore it with pride. Leonidas was a man to follow.

  ‘Go down to the coast and find a fishing boat, anything that will take you out to the fleet. Find the ships with red sails and seek Eurybiades. My message is for him.’

  ‘Red sails. Eurybiades,’ Dromeas replied. He began to breathe long and slow, readying himself for the run. He was far leaner than the warriors in that column, bones showing beneath tiny fluttering muscles around his chest.

  ‘Tell him, “Leonidas will hold the coastal pass.” That is all.’

  Dromeas did not wait to be dismissed, but set off, his bare feet raising little swirls of dust. Leonidas nodded. Every one of his helots was extraordinary in some way. He had chosen them all carefully, as befitted men who would stand at his back in the midst of battle.

  The ones who marched with him that day had come because he was the battle king and he had called, in a time of crisis and war. They did not know Leonidas marched to his death. He accepted it, as he had always known he would. He would give the priests the
time they asked of him, to honour the god Apollo – and gather the army.

  Leonidas felt a pang at the thought that he would not lead them then, when they came out, ten thousand strong – the army of Sparta, without equal in the world. They would be his answer then, to the Persians. They would be his vengeance. He smiled as he marched. The air was sweet and clear. The sun shone and the sky was a perfect blue. It was a good day.

  40

  The sea was calm as the fleet raised sail to clear the headland. Over the previous weeks, Xanthippus had taken charge of fleet training. Under his watchful eye, they had worked themselves to exhaustion, over and over, building fitness in the rowers and hoplites alike. At times, he had put hoplite crews into the rowing benches, so that they had some idea of the limits of that labour. They would never again complain as a trireme fell behind, not after an experience that had left them panting and stiff for days of pain. Nor had it hurt the free rowers to drill with sword and shield. If they were boarded, they would have to fight.

  Whenever they’d returned to Athens, Xanthippus had organised runs against the hoplites training with Aristides, right round the city. Little by little, the contests had become more serious. The army had led for a time, but the fleet had slowly reeled them in, keeping a close tally. The honours had still been roughly equal until the week before, when Cimon had led forty sailors to cross the line first. It was not a small thing. Xanthippus had accepted the victor’s wreath from the hand of Aristides, then passed it to Cimon, to a roar of acclaim from his crews.

  Under sail, the fleet seemed a vast enterprise as it hissed and cut through the sea, each crew turning a single yard beam back and forth to catch the wind and swell the cloth. They were not as fast as when the oars rattled out, but the rowers did not complain as they rested like hunting dogs, lean and strong, fed better than they had known before Xanthippus returned from exile. He had insisted on eggs and meat and wine for them, over and above the slop of beans and pulses they usually consumed. Even in a few short weeks, the results showed in their muscle and health.