The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae Read online

  “But we’re only the advance guard: the ones who could be mustered straight away. The main army will follow. It’s probably already en route. Once they get here even the gods would be hard put to shift us. Let’s go back to my tent and remember Marathon over some good Spartan wine.”

  The wine wasn’t any better than I remembered, sour and overwatered, but it was good to sit and drink with an old friend. Interesting too, being able to watch how the Spartans live in their war camp. Some were practising with sword and spear; others were oiling and plaiting their long hair. What none of them were doing was fraternising with the other Greek forces.

  We ate with Brasidas and his tent mates that night. It was of a better standard than we’d ever had in Sparta. One of the tent mates, also strangely enough called Brasidas, explained why. He was a grizzled man who’d had several teeth knocked out by a sword jab, giving his mouth a shrunken sour look.

  “We’re not going to run short of supplies here. We came in the way Xerxes’s army will and we’ve stripped every bit of food out of that area, burned what we couldn’t carry. So the bastards either wait for supplies or starve to death on the march.”

  He laughed, which twisted his mouth into an unnatural angle which the lamplight emphasised. His mates roared with laughter though. He was evidently what passed for a joker in the Spartan ranks. But it was a good-spirited night. Partly because we were friends of Brasidas but mainly, I think, because we’d fought at Marathon.

  Later we walked back through the camp to the ship, stopping briefly by the wall they were strengthening. Somewhere beyond it in the darkness was the full might of the Persian army preparing to attack a crumbling wall defended by only three hundred Spartans and a ragbag of troops who distrusted each other.

  The night in that pass was disturbed by strange noises. Maybe just the wind gusting through rock crevices and across the ridges but I think ghosts walked in the night at Thermopylae even before the battle.

  Next day as we were preparing the Athene Nike to sail, Themistocles and Habronichus returned from Leonidas’s tent where they must have stayed the night. Leonidas and some of his officers came with them, but not Brasidas I was sorry to note. Spartans are not prey to the emotions of other men, but it was clear that between Leonidas and Themistocles there had sprung up a respect and trust which bordered on friendship. They embraced before Themistocles climbed aboard and we pulled away from the shore.

  Leonidas and his men stood and watched us leave. Above them towered the cliffs leading up into the high mountain and somewhere up there lay a path that bypassed the pathetic little wall they were trying to defend.

  I was relieved as we pulled away from Thermopylae; even then there was a reek of death about the place. Once out in the channel the rotten smell of the hot springs was replaced by clean sea air. But the mood on board didn’t lift as I’d expected. Maybe that was down to Themistocles. Whatever he and Leonidas and had talked about obviously hadn’t been optimistic for the Greek cause. No point in asking Themistocles.

  But I’d learned enough about him to know that having few close confidants, he needed someone to unburden himself to. Someone who could be trusted and was of no account and therefore couldn’t use the information for personal gain. I’d also learnt that there’s nothing like feeling yourself alone at sea to loosen a man’s tongue.

  Towards sunset I was sitting in the prow with Cimon and Aeschylus, watching the sun sink red in the west as we were approaching a mooring for the night. The winds had dropped but it was still too risky to consider sailing through the dark to rejoin the fleet. Themistocles, who’d sat like a stone figure in the trierarch’s chair, suddenly said,

  “So what do you make of the chances of our small band of Spartans?”

  Cimon answered him.

  “Their lives depend on factors outside their control. I wouldn’t want to be with them at the mercy of events beyond my control.”

  He’d summed their situation up perfectly; I couldn’t have come up with an answer like that. Themistocles looked surprised and asked,

  “And what factors would those be then, son of Miltiades?”

  He always retreated into this formal and pompous style when put off his guard. Cimon replied,

  “Well, when are the reinforcements going to arrive? And when is the location of the track over the mountain that outflanks their position going to be revealed to the Persians by a traitor?”

  Themistocles grunted something then said more clearly,

  “I doubt if the whereabouts of the pass will remain a secret for long, and I’m not much more optimistic about the reinforcements.”

  Aeschylus said,

  “So, it’s the old tragedy then: the great betrayal.”

  He almost sounded pleased as if what he was hearing strengthened his bleak view of life and its purpose. Cimon protested.

  “They promised to support him with a full Spartan army, without it the strategy is doomed.”

  I saw Themistocles and Aeschylus exchange a glance. Themistocles said gently,

  “That’s the way it will happen though, I don’t think there will be any help. They’re on their own.”

  “The Spartans would never betray their own like that.”

  For such a successful leader as he became, Cimon always had a weakness in that he tended to take statements at face value. Particularly statements made by Spartans. He never learned and look where it got him.

  Themistocles leaned back in his chair and wearily spelt it out.

  “It’s not a betrayal, more a matter of common sense and logic. When Leonidas was in Sparta offering to lead the advance party they promised him support and I’m sure they meant it.”

  Above us in the darkness a burning star flashed across the heavens to disappear beyond the mountains. We paused a while to appease the gods, then Themistocles made his point.

  “But now Leonidas is stuck at Thermopylae, miles from Sparta, and the Ephors having listened to the counsel of his rivals will see things differently. All the ones who wanted to stay and defend the isthmus will be talking that strategy up while the advocate of holding the Great King at Thermopylae is miles away and can’t argue against them. If I were one of the Ephors or Leotychidas I think I’d be inclined to agree with them.”

  Cimon came back at him.

  “But what about the alliance, what about us?”

  “Never expect much from agreements, young man, they always change. I was surprised to get Leonidas here, I don’t expect him to be reinforced any more than he does now. No, I think he’ll have to fight alone. They won’t throw more men’s lives away and weaken Sparta for the alliance. Think about it, now our fleet’s engaged: they’ve already got what they wanted even though it’s cost them a king.”

  “But the strategy to stop the Great King here, what happens to that?”

  “I don’t think there was ever a chance of stopping him here.”

  Cimon looked on the point of tears as he asked,

  “So what are we doing here with our fleet?”

  Themistocles replied quietly,

  “We’re buying time. Time for Athens to make the only decision it can and in buying time we’ll buy experience for the fleet. Next time we’ll fight them on grounds of our choosing. If things go badly with us here we can withdraw.”

  “And Leonidas?”

  “No, there’s no withdrawing for him. He’ll have to stand and die.”

  Then Aeschylus, who had said nothing, spoke.

  “There is something about him, I felt it. He’s in love with death and he knows Thermopylae is where he’ll find it. That’s why he’s not bothered to put a Spartan officer in charge of the Phocians who are guarding the pass.”

  I was compelled to ask,

  “But that seals his fate?”

  Aeschylus gave a bitter laugh.

  “Exactly, he gets his place in the heroic legends. Betrayed and fighting to the end, the man becomes a myth.”

  “And the alliance?”

  Themi
stocles answered.

  “His sacrifice achieves the purpose of strengthening the alliance. The Spartans stand and die for it miles from home and we get a heroic martyr thrown in, and let me tell you …”

  But he never got the chance to; there was shouting ahead and out of the gathering gloom we saw the lights of a ship bearing down on the Athene Nike.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  So he never got to tell us whatever he was going to, and we never got to beach the Athene Nike and camp that night: the ship tearing hell for leather towards us was carrying a message. The skirmishers of the Persian fleet had been sighted and the main body wasn’t far behind. The moment of our testing had arrived.

  There was good news as well. Bad as the weather had been in the narrow straits where our fleet was pulled up onto its sandy beachhead, the weather out in the open sea was far worse. The great Persian fleet had got caught up in a storm off the coastline of Magnesia. The more experienced commanders had anticipated this and pulled their squadrons into sheltered inlets or beached them. But that’s difficult for a fleet spread out along thirty miles of treacherous and hostile coast.

  For the squadrons with less experienced or diligent commanders it was a very different story. A storm at this time of year in these waters rears up out of nowhere: there’s not much time to save yourself if you fail to recognise the early warnings. About half their fleet either didn’t recognise the change in the weather or failed to act on it. When the storm broke they had no choice but to try and ride it out at their sea moorings.

  Not a position you ever want to find yourself in, reader. In a bad blow even strong, well-sailed ships, if clustered, get swirled about and smashed against each other like they’re being stirred in a pot by a hungry giant. The Persians in the open sea were tossed about and ground together like kindling shredded for a fire. Each ship’s splintering timbers become a lethal hazard to its neighbours. Enemy or not, no sailor likes to think of seamen tossed about like grains of chaff in the murderous maelstrom of towering wave, howling wind and fractured beams and spars.

  In the morning, with the storm blown out, the surface of the waters resembled a murky wood soup. We learnt this from the crews of a couple of Chian triremes pressed into the Persian service who took opportunity of the confusion to escape and defect to us. They reckoned the Great King must have lost upward of four hundred ships in the blow. Evened up the odds a bit and Themistocles made sure the story spread rapidly throughout our camp.

  I never worked out how many ships they lost, but after the Athene Nike was sent out on a reconnaissance a couple of days later I understood pretty well how many they had left. We reckoned we were up against at least eight hundred triremes and maybe twice that number of support ships and troop carriers; well over twice our number.

  And, reader, remember back in those days, despite our experiments with extending the outrigger to accommodate a few more hoplites, their ships were bigger. Much bigger and carrying more fighting men. Get boarded by one of those fuckers and you were outnumbered and it was backs to the wall. So any optimism we’d felt because of the storm was wiped out when we saw them approaching the islands of Skiathos and Skopelos. There they’d establish their fighting station, pinning us back into the narrow channel, outnumbered and outmanned.

  Wasn’t just us taken aback at the size of their fleet close up and sailing our waters. No, whatever fears we harboured, our leaders had them worse. Of course the popular story today is of the heroic Greek fleet, secure in their ability, confronting the overwhelming Persian numbers. You probably believe the account where Themistocles and the other leaders brought us together and inspired us with the example of the Spartans at Thermopylae.

  It wasn’t like that, nothing like it: the way things really were we almost didn’t confront them at all. Even amongst the Athenians there were as many of us who wanted to cut and run for Athens as there were those who wanted to stand and fight.

  But the greatest threat to those who wanted to stand and fight came from the leader of the Corinthian contingent, a man named Adeimantus who rarely let a day pass without threatening to withdraw his ships and sail back to Corinth. There weren’t any public meetings; that would have been far too risky, exposed too many rifts and uncertainties.

  Whatever differences and arguments the leaders had, they conducted in private; they weren’t stupid. But the detail leaked out like piss from an old hound and you won’t be surprised to learn that as in any dealings between Greeks, they included elements of threat and bribery. It was said that Themistocles had to offer Adeimantus three talents in silver to remind him of his obligation to fight alongside his fellow Greeks.

  While this was going on and as the Persians conducted their manoeuvres in full view, our camp was riven with rumour. Rumours that the Persians had sailed round Euboea and outflanked us, that the Spartans were beaten, and most popular, that we were about to strike camp and run for it back to Athens. These rumours spread among the tents like wildfire.

  Then the Gods smiled on us; we had one last stroke of good fortune. I was sitting bored and morose watching Aeschylus scribbling. Before I forget, reader, I should point out that we owe a considerable selection of his writing to the nervous boredom of life in camp waiting for action.

  He was particularly preoccupied with the indifference of the Gods to our suffering and their spiteful response to any perception of our happiness. I think his great Promethean trilogy was engendered on that windswept beach at Artemisium. Then we heard the cheering spreading from the southward tip of the camp.

  Heard it without understanding, but beginning to cheer ourselves all the same. Then it got passed on: the news. The news that the detachment the Persians had sent round the far side of Euboea to cut off our retreat and attack us from the rear had been caught in another storm and badly mangled. Too badly broken up to carry on. An islander brought us the news and that night some of the Ionian Greek ships in the Great King’s fleet slipped anchor and came across to us. Things were turning round, we began to believe.

  It was then that Themistocles acted. Then that our leaders brought us together on that beach in the squadrons we’d fight in. There, they filled us in on Themistocles’s plan. We’d expected it I think but, shivering in the predawn chill as the surf growled on the shingle, the world felt like it was lurching. Each trierarch addressed his crew. Lysias was no great orator but we respected him.

  “The time’s come now, boys, what we’ve been waiting for.”

  He faltered and we knew something big was coming. Then after a pause it came.

  “We’re going out there to meet them.”

  Theodorus couldn’t help himself; he spat out,

  “What? Us taking it to them?”

  “You’ve got a problem with that, rowing master?”

  Wasn’t really an answer to that so Lysias continued.

  “They won’t expect it and anyway we need space for the way we’re going to fight, can’t afford to be boxed in.”

  Now we were interested.

  “We’ve not enough experienced crews and they outnumber us, so –”

  He paused and we waited.

  “So we’re going to use the manoeuvre we we’ve been practising: the hedgehog.”

  We hadn’t been practising it very well. It was a manoeuvre where the fleet formed itself into one great circle with the rams pointing out like the quills of a hedgehog. We understood then why we needed to fight in open water; get tangled up with each other and the formation becomes a shambles, fights the enemy’s battle for them.

  “So we go off, one ship after the other, follow my leader round and round and you’ll be pleased to know Athene Nike’s the leader.”

  There were grumbles of ‘what about the Spartan’ but deep down I think we were proud to be chosen. There was another cause for pride.

  “And Themistocles fights from Athene Nike.”

  The rowers picked up their oar loops and cushions and we eased the ship of the Goddess into the water. Lysias touched my
head for luck and climbed aboard. Sailors like tradition and value luck even more; they all followed suit and then I, as last man, climbed onto the deck. So it began.

  Artemisium was different to the other great battles in our death struggle with the Persians, in fact it was different from every other engagement I fought in and there have been plenty of them. It wasn’t so much a battle as a series of running fights that spread over more than three days, although the Athene Nike was only there for two of them as you’ll soon discover, reader; but I get ahead of myself.

  It was mid-afternoon before the fleet was sufficiently organised to move in rough formation through the straits; the weather was hot and sullen and the swollen waters beneath us rolled ominously. We sweated and worried in our impatience; Themistocles more than anyone.

  He had good reason to worry; we met no opposition and sailed on through the relatively open waters towards the Persian fleet moored at its station at Aphetai. Where were they? Were we being drawn into a trap? By late afternoon you could feel the indecision and doubts of our commanders like a physical presence. But by now we’d come too far to turn back. Then we saw them.

  Pulling out from creeks, inlets and harbours on the opposite coast were the disparate elements of the mighty Persian fleet. It seemed they’d been less prepared for fighting than we were. Equally clear that they were attempting to surround us and would hit us all along the circumference we were trying to construct as we moved into hedgehog formation. There was no order; the fighting would be random and disordered. And that’s the last coherent thought I had in the next forty eight hours.

  It took all the skill of Ariston, Theodorus and his rowers to prevent us getting fouled by our own ships; the sun disappeared behind a haze of light cloud, the waters beneath began to roll. During the wait we marines tried to stay still, not fidget, not disturb the equilibrium of Athene Nike. There was plenty of time to enjoy the customary stench of loosening bowls and bladders, the grunts of oarsmen, the slap of oar blades on churning water.