Spartan (17 page)

‘Hard-headed Spartan!’ burst out Themistocles, bringing his fist down on the table. ‘He’ll be slaughtered like a bull at the altar. He doesn’t want to understand
that they’ve decided to sacrifice him – just so that they can throw his blood in our faces when the time comes for the fleet to defend the isthmus of Corinth.’ He dismissed the
messenger, remaining alone to measure the limited space of his cabin with nervous pacing. He walked out onto the deck and looked towards land.

On his right he could see the flickering of a thousand fires in the Persian camp, on the left the nearly extinguished bivouacs of the small condemned Greek army. He moved his lips, as if
speaking to himself. ‘We can’t wait any longer,’ he said to an officer who had approached to him. ‘Give the order to depart.’

From the side rowlocks, the greased oars plunged silently into the waters of the channel of Euripus. Dawn was breaking.

*

Before lying down to rest that night, King Leonidas gave instructions for the following day. He had one of his men, young Kresilas, who was in the throes of a terrible eye
infection, taken to the nearby village of Alpeni. As the youth was nearly blind, he certainly would be of no help in a battle. Having dismissed Aristarkhos, Leonidas collapsed onto his cot. After
only a few hours’ sleep, he was abruptly awakened by a sentinel.

‘My Lord, we are lost. We’ve just received the news that a traitor has conducted the Persian army to the mountain pass of Anopaea. The Phocians on guard there retreated to the top of
the hill to attempt resistance, but the enemy didn’t even come near them: they’ve taken the path on the other side of the mountain. They’ll be upon us before the sun is
high.’

Leonidas left his tent without even taking up his arms; he threw a cape over his shoulders and assembled the troops. ‘Warriors of Greece,’ he said, ‘great and worthy of praise
has been your valour, but valour counts little against betrayal. Someone has indicated the path of Anopaea to the enemy and we will soon be encircled. It would be useless for thousands of valorous
warriors to die in vain. Your spears will be able to strike down the barbarians in the many battles that will surely follow all over Hellas.

‘So, the allies shall now retreat, each group returning to its own city, to exhort their fellow citizens to have courage and to continue to resist the enemy. The Spartiates will remain
here to protect your retreat.

‘Do not imagine that you are acting in cowardice: you have already demonstrated your valour and no one can accuse you of having shown fear. You are only obeying the orders of your
commander.

‘Go now, little time remains to you.’

A heavy silence met the king’s words. Slowly, in groups, the warriors left the assembly to prepare for departure. Only the Thespians remained, knowing well that their own city would be the
first to be destroyed. King Leonidas thanked them, embracing their leader, then returned to his tent and fell exhausted into a chair. Aristarkhos entered soon after.

‘Lord,’ he said with a firm voice, ‘we will combat at your side until the end. Our warriors do not fear death.’

‘I thank you,’ said the king. ‘But now go, we must prepare for the final hour.’ He extracted from a chest a leather scroll of the type that was used to write messages. He
then called the guard and gave him an order.

A few moments later, Brithos and his friend Aghias reported to the commander’s tent, both armed. They stiffened in salute and then, at a sign from Leonidas, sat down.

The king spoke. ‘The pass is lost and we have few hours left to live. It is essential, however, that the elders, the ephors and King Leotychidas receive this message.’ He indicated
the leather scroll on his bench. ‘It is of the utmost importance, and I could only entrust it to two warriors as valorous as you are. You are capable and clever men; you will be able to
overcome the dangers of the long journey from here to Sparta. You belong to the
krypteia
and you are the best men for this mission. Remember: the message must be delivered directly into the
hands of the ephors in the presence of King Leotychidas.’

Brithos paled. ‘But, sire, how can you order us to abandon you in this moment? Please, allow me to speak. Won’t Sparta learn in any case that the Thermopylae is lost as soon as our
allies reach their homes? We have followed you never to abandon you.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘Or, perhaps . . . perhaps my father Aristarkhos, blinded by his love for me,
has—’

King Leonidas interrupted him, springing to his feet, anger flashing on his face: ‘How dare you!’ he shouted. ‘How dare you make such insinuations on your father’s
honour? He has no idea that I’ve called you here. I haven’t told him a thing because I knew he would have opposed me. That’s enough now, you have received a precise order from
your king; carry it out.’ He sat down, pulling his cloak over his knees.

Aghias bowed his head, touching his chin to his chest, and saluted his king, turning to depart. He saw with surprise that Brithos had not moved.

‘Sire,’ Brithos found the strength to say, ‘sire, should there be the smallest possibility that you might change your mind, I beg of you, send someone else with Aghias. My
father will die with all of you and I want to be at his side in that supreme moment.’

The king’s expression softened as he approached the young warrior and laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Do you really think that your king hasn’t thought of all this? Brithos, our country can survive only if her sons continue to do what they must do, without letting their personal
desires get in the way. Our duty is to stay here and die if the gods so wish it, yours is to live and to bring back this message. Take your Helot with you. Your father has pointed out to me how
strong and agile he is despite his lame foot. You’ll need him during your journey. Go. Now. If you don’t leave now, it will soon be too late.’ The two youths saluted their king
and left the tent.

A short time later, having ordered Talos to bring two horses and a mule, they were ready to depart. Aristarkhos, intuitively sensing what was happening, hurried from the centre of the camp where
he had been giving orders to the Spartan and Thespian troops.

‘The king has commanded us to go to Sparta to deliver a message,’ said Brithos. ‘I could do nothing to dissuade him. I leave you with death in my heart, father.’
Aristarkhos watched his son with bright eyes.

‘If the king has given you this order, it means that it must be done. Don’t worry about me, son, this is the death that every warrior desires for himself.’ His voice had a
slight tremor. ‘Tell your mother that the heart of Aristarkhos beat for her with undiminishing ardour until the last moment.’

He gazed at Talos, who was waiting a short distance away on his mule. He stared at him with an intense and desperate pain, like that day down on the plain. Then Aristarkhos placed the crested
helmet on his head and returned to take his place in the ranks.

The sun was already high in the heavens when King Leonidas came out of his tent, his copper-coloured hair carefully gathered at the nape of his neck. He put on his helmet and accepted spear and
shield from his Helot, then took his place in the front line of the right wing. Aristarkhos was already giving instructions to the various detachments. They would attack immediately in the open to
inflict as much damage as possible on the enemy.

The Persians soon appeared at the entrance to the pass. King Leonidas signalled and the pipes began to play. The obsessive and monotonous music spread through the valley; only the measured step
of the Persian army echoed back.

King Leonidas raised his spear and the small army marched to its last battle.

When the forces were almost in direct contact, the Spartiates lowered their spears and charged furiously. The king, advancing like an unstoppable force of nature, massacred all those in his
path. The shield with the dragon, a reef of bronze against the invading waves, was raised at his side each time the Persians tried to strike him.

Behind the shield, Aristarkhos towered above the crowd of enemies, delivering cutting blows left and right, creating a void around him.

Each time that the Persians tried to encircle them, the Greeks ran backwards towards the narrow passage and then, turning suddenly, attacked again wildly, as if fuelled by some inexhaustible
energy.

From his throne, Xerxes observed the scene, pale and nervous. Demaratus watched as well, his jaw tense, his gaze hopelessly lost. This incredible carousel repeated itself time after time; the
Persians could not get the better of the swift and sudden movements of the small army. But slowly the energies of the Spartans began to flag, and their pace slackened as they were nearly buried by
the horde. Then an arrow struck Aristarkhos’ left arm, and he dropped the shield.

Before another man could move to take his place, a Persian sabre ran through Leonidas’ exposed side. The king’s face became a mask of pain but his arm continued to sow death as long
as he remained on his feet. Debilitated, dripping blood and sweat, Leonidas collapsed, dying, and a cloud of enemies flew upon him to finish him off and to seize his body.

In that moment Aristarkhos, who had wrenched the arrow from his arm, gripped the shield with both hands and flung himself on the mass of Persians, overpowering them and liberating the body of
Leonidas. His comrades pressed together to wall off the enemy, and an intense struggle ensued over Leonidas’ fallen body. At the same time, a terrible war cry rang out behind the Spartan
warriors: the Persian contingent was descending from the pass of Anopaea.

Aristarkhos shouted an order, and the Spartan and Thespian warriors turned back towards a little hill to the left of the pass where they squared off for their last stand.

Waves of Persians attacked from all sides. The Spartiates continued to battle with wild fury to the last: with their shields, their nails, and their teeth after they lost their weapons, until
the officers of the Great King called off the infantry so as not to lose more men and sent in the archers.

Exhausted, riddled with wounds, the surviving warriors raised their shields to protect their king in his agony until they fell, one after another, on the blood-soaked ground.

B
RITHOS AND
A
GHIAS RODE
day and night, pausing only briefly to eat or to sleep, one of them often staying awake on guard. Talos,
on his mule, silently followed them at thirty paces.

They encountered scenes of panic everywhere; the terrified inhabitants of central Greece were abandoning their homes and seeking refuge on the mountains, carrying their humble belongings with
them. Those who could not move stayed behind, awaiting the worst. On the first day of their journey they passed Orchomenus and Coronea and arrived at Thespiae at dusk. This small city which had
lost seven hundred warriors at the Thermopylae was pervaded by the desperate wailing of women and children who had already had news of the deaths of their husbands and fathers.

Old men wandered up and down the dusty streets, bewildered by the unthinkable disaster. Others sat at the doors of the temples, invoking death. One old man, bent over with age and nearly blind,
approached the three horsemen at the doors of the city. He lifted his eyes, red and puffy with tears, to Brithos’ face. ‘Who are you?’ he asked with a quavering voice.

‘We are Phocians,’ responded Brithos without hesitation. ‘We have just come from the pass of Anopaea. And who are you? What do you want from us?’

‘My name is Diadromus. I am the father of Demophilus, the leader of the Thespian warriors who remained to combat under Leonidas. Please, tell me, is it true that no one was saved? That
they are all dead?’

‘Yes, old man, what you say is true,’ answered Brithos. ‘They would not abandon their posts . . . they died as heroes.’

‘But you . . .’ continued the old man, his voice shaking, ‘but you are not Phocians. I recognize the way you speak . . . you are Laconians, Spartans!’

Brithos shivered.

‘You are Spartans!’ gasped the old man. ‘Why are you here? You have fled the battle! You have abandoned your comrades!’

Brithos gave a signal to Aghias and Talos and launched his horse into a gallop down the streets of the nearly deserted city. The old man fell to his knees in the dust, sobbing. ‘You
abandoned them,’ he repeated, his eyes full of tears. ‘You left them to die . . .’

They rode to the pass in silence, in the darkness illuminated only by the crescent moon that was rising between the olive trees. Aghias watched his companion as they proceeded mutely;
Brithos’ head was sunken into his shoulders. Suddenly, oppressed by his prolonged anguish, Aghias burst out:

‘Enough! That’s enough, Brithos. The task that was given us is terrible and thankless, but someone had to take it on. Our duty in this moment is much more difficult than that of our
comrades who died gloriously next to King Leonidas. Their names will be sung by the poets, while ours will fall into the shadows, if not into complete dishonour. But could we have refused because
of this?’

‘Didn’t you hear what that old man was saying?’ Brithos answered roughly. ‘Didn’t you hear him, Aghias? He was grieving for his son, who fell with our men, and he
took us for cowards who had fled out of fear. And like cowards, here we are hiding, lying—’

‘Listen,’ began Aghias, ‘this message must be tremendously important; it must contain something more than just the news of losing the pass. If King Leonidas entrusted us with
such a hateful mission, it must be because he had something really vital to say to the ephors and King Leotychidas. Don’t you remember your own words? Our Peloponnesian allies will certainly
have brought the news of the defeat at the Thermopylae before we arrive.’

‘What you say is true, Aghias,’ said Brithos. ‘Our allies from Tegea started off before us, and they can reach Sparta in a few hours from their city. But then, why did King
Leonidas want to expose us to such dishonour?’

They continued their long ride in silence. From the top of a hill, they saw the waves of the Gulf of Corinth glittering below them and decided to stop for a bit of food and a couple of hours of
rest. They were empty and exhausted from the enormous strain of the days before, and both feverish from the wounds that they had received in the battles.