The Wooden Walls of Thermopylae Page 28

  Lysias began to reply but Leonidas wasn’t listening anymore. There was a howling from the Persian ranks and he turned and rejoined the front rank, throwing back a strange last comment.

  “If you want to bid farewell to your friend, you’ll find him at the foot of the wall.”

  Cimon didn’t react; I think he still wanted to die with them. But I knew what Leonidas had meant. I moved back to the wall and after a few moments picking my way through the dead and dying I found him: Brasidas. He wasn’t dead; well not quite dead but close, soon his spirit would fly wailing to join the other dead. The broken off stump of a javelin protruded from his shoulder, his leather corselet was gashed and pierced, most of his blood was seeping into the dry earth he lay on. He was conscious, recognised me.

  I began to loosen the straps on the corselet to make him more comfortable. He stopped me.

  “Don’t, Mandrocles, the hurt’s too bad, my guts will spill out, don’t want that, I’m a dead man anyway, rather die looking like a soldier.”

  His lips were dry and cracked I tried to give him some water, he didn’t want that either.

  “No, not with a stomach wound. Fought well here; made up for the stain on our reputation at Marathon.”

  He coughed up more blood and began to choke, then with a great effort of will that I think took the last of his spirit he said,

  “Never had a son. You’re a good boy, Mandrocles, fought well at Marathon, was proud of …”

  Then his eyes glazed over and he was gone, the only Spartan friend I ever made. Lysias touched my shoulder.

  “We have to go now, Mandrocles.”

  I staggered to my feet; none of this seemed real. I felt like I was walking through a dream. Cimon still stood twenty yards in front of the wall watching the Spartans; he wouldn’t come when we shouted, so we had to fetch him. As we were pulling at him a remarkable thing unfolded before us. The seventy or so surviving men with Leonidas at their head charged at the massed Persian ranks. Suicide.

  The Persians let fly a dense black cloud of spears and arrows. Leonidas stumbled, turned half round and crashed to the ground along with half his men. There was a desperate struggle around Leonidas’s body like something out of the heroic poems of Troy. It lasted less than a minute and the remaining few Spartans, with the body of their king, withdrew to a small mound upon which grew a desiccated stump of a tree, the only other living thing in this arid, deathly pass.

  There they stood in a circle with the king’s body in the centre. The Persians massed round them, then stopped; the two sides stared at each other. The ragged Spartan survivors with their broken spears and jagged swords protecting the body of their king, and the thousands of fresh Persian troops who’d been fed through from the rear for their turn to fight.

  We grabbed Cimon and legged it for the boat and just in time because on the road behind the wall on the Greek side, we could see the skirmishers of the army that had come over the mountain pass heading straight at us. At the top of the path down to the Athene Nike, Cimon shrugged us off and turned to look back. We turned with him. That’s how we came to see the end.

  Don’t expect to read what the stories say, reader. Don’t expect the myth about the Spartans fighting to the end with fists and knives because their weapons were broken. Believe me, you can’t fight thousands of men, hefting long spears, with fists and knives. You can’t do that because you can’t get beyond the spear points.

  The way it ended, the Persians didn’t use their spears. These fresh troops didn’t even need to get their hands dirty. They just watched as their Scythian archers launched volley after volley of shafts into the small circle of men standing on the mound. The Spartans disappeared under the rain of arrows; it took only seconds.

  The other Greeks we’d seen earlier huddled behind the wall threw down their weapons and waited for whatever fate had in store for them. It was all over, the pass was taken, the battle lost, the fleet outflanked.

  We scrambled down the track, into the sea and were hauled over the side into the Athene Nike, which pulled away from the shore with Theodorus calling the stroke. I don’t think the Persians even bothered to fire any arrows after us. Cimon was weeping.

  And that’s how it happened. I was there, I know.

  The famous story about the Persians threatening to block out the sun with their arrows and the Spartan reply that it suited them to fight in the shade; I don’t think that happened and they didn’t fight with fists and teeth at the end, that certainly didn’t happen. They stood and were mown down like grass for fodder.

  The courage, though? Well, that’s a different matter; we saw that. Or was what we saw merely pride? Perhaps the two go together. Whatever; they ended up doing what Spartans do best: dying hard. They died very hard.

  The Persians thought so too. They’d fought against them for three days and what they probably thought would be not much more difficult than a stroll though the meadows cost them more lives than they could ever have imagined. I think that’s why they mutilated Leonidas’s corpse the way they did. Emasculated him in death the way they couldn’t while he lived.

  Then they cut off his head and stuck it on a spike to watch over the pass he’d defended so well. I believe his spirit watches it still.

  The real legacy of the three hundred was that they showed Greece they were prepared to die for a cause. They created a myth and the legacy of that myth, inspired other Greeks who otherwise would have given up. I still hate the bastards, but …

  We didn’t talk much on the voyage; there are things that kill the desire to talk. We sat there, each man wrapped in his own thoughts. Sometime later Aeschylus tried to get me to explain what I’d seen and felt back there. He was looking for material to use in his plays. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t; so think yourself lucky, reader, because you’re the first one I’ve ever told.

  The voyage back was more difficult, it started out fine but darkness fell as we hit the stretch of water where the currents are most treacherous. We nearly snagged on a small island in the shadows, and after that had to pick our way very slowly. So it was late when we got back, the early hours of the morning, the time when those near to death give up the struggle and ghosts stalk the earth.

  The fleet was back on its beach and they’d been hard engaged. We knew because before we even heard the rasp of the surf across the pebbles we could smell the smoky residue from the funeral pyres on the shore. Once you’ve fought with the fleet, that’s a smell you never forget. The sentries challenged us; we beached the ship and were taken to Themistocles.

  Themistocles hadn’t turned in for the night; he was sitting with the leaders of the other contingents huddled round a small fire outside his command tent. In the flickering half-light he looked weary and wore a cut across his left cheekbone from the day’s fighting. We didn’t need to say much: he could read everything in our eyes. In fact it was he who spoke first.

  “So, it’s over then, they’re dead?”

  Lysias answered for us.

  “They fought well, we caught the end of it.”

  A faint grimace from Themistocles. He asked,

  “And Leonidas, did he still live when you arrived? Did he have a message for me?”

  “We saw him. He sends his regrets but your flank is now exposed and the fleet’s position is no longer defendable. He died well.”

  I think Lysias had been rehearsing this speech ever since we left Thermopylae. He didn’t need to say more. The news of Leonidas’s death drew groans from the others round the campfire, particularly Eurybiades the Spartan.

  Themistocles asked,

  “Anything else?”

  “He bid me tell you he kept his promise and urges you to …”

  Themistocles signalled him to stop, got to his feet and spoke to the other Greek leaders. I remember his words and set them down here; they are worth your attention if you want to know true leadership.

  “Leaders of the free Greek fleet, we must prepare our ships to leave. I hate the thought
of leaving Artemisium to the enemy and slinking away like a thief in the night. But we are now the only hope. We must preserve the fleet as all Greece depends on it. Today was bitter, we had worse of it, but remember: over three days fighting we’ve bested an enemy twice our strength and learnt much.”

  He pointed towards our battered fleet on the beach.

  “At sea we have nothing to fear from the Persians, and next time in waters of our own choosing we will destroy them however many they are. On that day, we will revenge the sacrifice of Leonidas and his noble Spartans. Then it will be Persian women who weep and mourn. Now get your ships away from this place, leave campfires burning to confuse the enemy. Well fought, generals; Greece is grateful.”

  And that was how he answered the dead Spartan king and kept his side of the bargain.

  It should of course have been Eurybiades saying this but he went off as instructed like all the others. There was no rest for the crew of the Athene Nike during what remained of the night; no sooner had she been beached than she was dragged back into the sea. We rowed dead tired and next day when we passed Thermopylae, keeping a good distance, we saw the smoke from the mass burial pyres and smelled the terrible smell of men’s bodies roasting.

  But worse than that was that despite all we sacrificed, we were retreating to the city of the Goddess. Retreating to a city we couldn’t defend.

  Chapter Thirty

  The boy, Ephialties, has gone to help with the harvest; he will be gone some weeks, good for him I think, but I will miss him. I am not entirely alone; his grandmother, the old woman, is here to ensure that I do not injure myself by eating too little or drinking too much. She has grown stout and short of breath so we spend time sitting together, particularly early evening when there is much to watch below us on the streets of Piraeus. We don’t speak much: we don’t have to.

  Whatever I might have done differently it’s strange to reflect that this is how we have ended up. What fools life makes of us, still, a better ending than Aeschylus would have thought possible under the rule of the Gods. I wonder why I prevaricate and bother recording such commonplace reflections.

  But no, even that is dishonest. I am trying to put off writing what comes next. You, reader, will understand this whoever you are. You will understand it because although I don’t know you I do know that you are an Athenian and therefore something in you will feel the same dread of anticipation that I do.

  You could feel that dread pouring out of the city in waves as we approached the harbour at Piraeus. However bad things had been for us, imagine the feelings of the women, children and old left in the undefended city. A city into which rumour and fear entered with each indrawn breath, engendering a frenzy of panic.

  The most terrorstruck were already leaving; laden merchant ships, their decks crowded with refugees, passed us heading for Salamis and points beyond.

  We pulled into the crowded harbour and queued for a mooring; we could see ships from our reserve fleet already there, all the sea power of the Greeks crowding into one threatened city. Standing on the quay waiting for Themistocles, worried and uncertain, were Xanthippus and Aristides. I watched as he was rowed from his temporary flagship stuck further out in the slow moving mass of warships to join them. I saw him scramble up to the quay and be embraced by his former enemies: war, it seems, turns everything on its head.

  When the Athene Nike finally reached her berth and we’d pushed our way through the crowds on the harbour front to Aeschylus’s bar, it was dark. But no one was going home, the city was waiting. Waiting to see if it had any future or, as some of the rumours said, it would be abandoned and its people would migrate to found another city amongst the Greeks in Italy. Tomorrow these and other matters would be debated by the assembly and the Demos on the hill of the Pnyx. Cimon set out for the house of Callias to find his sister.

  I remember Aeschylus speaking some lines at me, perverted lines where he took the image of nature and growth and turned them to blood: he was rambling about something ‘Blossoming like a sea of blood’ and ‘Pain flowering on a man’. Maybe some other time I’d have been interested but not now, when we stood on the verge of destruction.

  I thought of going to look for Lyra but where would she be? Was she still in Athens? Anyway I was dead beat so after a couple of drinks with Aeschylus, who fortunately had talked himself out and was on the point of slipping into sleep himself, I went up to the sleeping loft. That night I dreamt of Thermopylae and Brasidas.

  In the morning the streets were still full; throughout the night there’d been the sound of people on the move, of cries and whispers. Somewhere out on the sea and marching across the mountains towards us were the fleet and army of King Xerxes, now reunited. So all our effort and the blood of Leonidas and his Spartans had been for nothing. All I knew for sure was that the men of the fleet were ordered to stay close to the ships, except for a contingent who would be at the assembly to make sure that whatever motion Themistocles proposed was carried.

  Strangely the streets were eerily empty next day. Even the refugees streaming in from the surrounding countryside were avoiding the city, heading straight for the port. The city was emptying so the only crowds were at the gates and on the harbours. We made our way up to the Pnyx without any difficulty, but arrived to find a sullen, brooding atmosphere.

  The proposal to evacuate the city and move the women and children to Troezen, birthplace of Athenian hero Theseus, was put by Themistocles and supported by Aristides and Xanthippus. It was heard in silence but before the motion could be passed a greybeard who I didn’t recognise got up to speak. He put one question.

  “What about the protection of the wooden walls?”

  Themistocles replied,

  “The wooden walls are the ships, we’re using them.”

  The greybeard replied,

  “The wooden walls are not ships. Since the birth of the city, the shrine of the Goddess Athena has been protected by an ancient and sacred thorn fence. The shrine has never been desecrated; the fence has protected it. That fence is the wooden wall.”

  Themistocles, frustrated by this as time was running short, snapped back at him.

  “The wooden walls are the ships, I should know, I was there at Delphi when the oracle gave us the message.”

  “So, you have suddenly become a pious man have you, son of Neocles? To those of us responsible for the sanctuary of the Goddess your recent posing as an expert on the oracle has come as a surprise.”

  Aristides, seeing how this was going, interjected.

  “No one will dispute religion with a man of your pedigree, Teisamenus, but within days, maybe hours, the advance guard of the Persians will be here. Themistocles speaks true: we can’t fight them in Athens, our only chance is to flee until our fleet and the Spartans prevail.”

  “So, you too have become a seer, young Aristides? Well let me be plain, the oracle spoke clearly, the ancient wooden walls of thorn will protect the city if we have faith and rebuild them.”

  I’ve found in life, reader, that you can argue with any but the mad and those whose religion has convinced them of their own rectitude, however extreme. None of Themistocles’s political tricks would sway the man and his supporters. Precious time was slipping away. You could feel anxiety and impatience running through the crowd; men were looking down towards the sea as if they expected the Persian fleet to appear at any moment. It became clear how intractable the impasse was when a decrepit accomplice of Teisamenus asked to be heard and spoke in a surprisingly commanding voice.

  “No argument will sway us, but if the virtue of our pleading does not persuade you then perhaps this will. There are other reasons why we will stay with the Goddess. Many of us are too old and infirm for a sea voyage and the precarious life of exile that follows. We did not quit the city when the Great King tried to destroy us. If I remember correctly it was you who counselled us to stand and fight back, Themistocles, and at Marathon we won the victory. The Gods were with us then and they are with us now. You ru
n if you want to. We will remain and defend the Goddess.”

  There was even a faint cheer for this and at that moment Themistocles knew he wouldn’t win them over. He put the motion to the vote and it was carried, but not by much. Thus was the city divided. Those of us for whom wooden walls were the ships headed down to the harbour while the rest went up to the Acropolis to prepare the defences. Themistocles had the decree which he’d written the night before read throughout the city. It was a surprisingly long document loaded with justification but its message was clear: prepare to leave the city immediately.

  Whatever they tell you now about the courage of the Athenians in leaving their city let me tell you now, reader, the God Pan spread fear like an infection. I knew what it would be like, I’d had my fill of close escapes; I remembered the panic and slaughter when we’d had to pull out of Khardia back before Marathon. And I wasn’t disappointed: there was now a mad dash for the harbour front.

  Our fleet wasn’t prepared; triremes aren’t designed to carry large numbers of people and the only way they can is to strip out two rows of rowers and pack the hold. This makes them even more unstable and slow. We couldn’t afford to convert all the triremes as we’d be defenceless if the Persians sent a fast squadron ahead. There was worse news for me: the Athene Nike, minus Cimon who was too precious to risk, being named for the Goddess was to be the last ship out. So I got to watch the tragedy at close quarters.

  The crush at the water’s edge was intense as women and children pushed for the boats. Every so often a surge, occasioned by a rumour the Persians were murdering and raping their way down to the harbour, led to the weakest slipping beneath the herd of trampling feet. The first ships to fill and sail were merchant pentecontors and a stream of them, crawling with refugees, struggled low in the water towards the harbour mouth. The Gods will need to help those on board if even a moderate wind begins to ruffle the sea.

  Where the fighting ships were berthed it wasn’t quite as bad; the marines kept such order as they were able so the crowd couldn’t surge over the decks. The only way to deal with so many was to moor the ships side by side and feed people across the decks of the ships nearest the harbour to the one furthest out. When that one filled, we had to beat the crowd back until the next ship was ready to load.