wanted was for him to succeed and be a hero, and when we were done embracing, I hurried to the roadside shrine and poured a little of Pater's honeyed wine on the statue of the Lady and prayed that he would be brave and succeed in battle.
I had no doubts that he'd be brave.
Before my first battle story is told, I think I have to speak about courage, honey. Are you brave? You don't know, but I do. You're brave. And when it's your turn to face the woman's version of the bronze storm – when a child comes from between your knees into the world – you may scream, and you may be afraid, but you'll do it. You'll get it done. No one expects you to like it, but all your friends, all the womenfolk who've borne their own children, they'll crowd around you, wiping your brow and telling you to push.
It's the same for men. No one is brave. No one really, deep down, wants to be Achilles. What we all want is to live, and to be brave enough to tell our story. And older men who've done it before will call out and tell the younger men to push.
The thing is, hardly anyone is such a coward as to stand out. You are there with the whole community around you. Courage is asking a girl to marry you, alone against her parents. Courage is standing before the assembly and telling them they're a pack of fools. Courage is fighting when no one will ever see your courage. But when the phalanx is locked together, it's hard to be a coward.
Fucking Simon. He was no coward in other ways, but when the phalanx formed, he lost his wits. Gods, how I still hate him.
Our phalanx looked a poor thing next to the Athenians. They had blue and purple and bright red and blinding white, and we had all the homespun colours of peasants. Pater had a good cloak, and so did a dozen men – all Miltiades' friends. The son of the basileus's sister looked as good as the Athenians. The rest – even some of the better men – looked drab and dun.
We formed our boys in a thin line in front of our fathers. We saw the Athenian psiloi. They were a poor show compared to us – all slaves, and half of them didn't even have rocks. So we joked that there was one thing we did better than the men of Athens.
We were still forming when the Spartan helots came across the ground at us. They had rocks in bags, and they threw hard. I caught one on my shin and I fell. That was the glory of war. Just like that – the first rock, and I was down.
Two or three of us fell, and the rest of the boys ran like deer on the mountain. I hadn't even had time to think about how I might be a hero. I hadn't even thrown a spear. But my pater was right there, so close I could almost touch him, and I was not going to run. Besides, as I got up, I found that I couldn't. My shin hurt too much and there was blood.
The helots were almost close enough to touch, too. In fact, two of them had just begun to lob rocks at our phalanx. They ignored me.
I killed the one closest to me. Deer Killer knocked him flat, just as she had done a dozen times to deer.
That got their attention. A rock came so close that it brushed my ear like the whisper of a god, telling me that I was mortal. I planted my feet, ignoring my shin, and a beautiful blue-tipped spear killed a second helot. They died. This is no boyish boast. We were as close as your couch and mine, honey – and I threw to kill.
They broke. They were slaves, and like our slaves, they had nothing to gain from bravery. They didn't even care about avenging their comrades. Slaves have no comrades. They turned and fled as our boys had just moments before.
That's when I learned that Calchas had come into my body when I burned his corpse, because when they fled, I killed another. I liked it. I cocked back my arm and threw my spear into the back of a fleeing slave and I liked it.
Then I hobbled forward and retrieved my javelins.
Behind me, the left-most Athenians and the right-most Plataeans were cheering. They were cheering me. It went to my head like unwatered wine. The other boys came back fast enough. They weren't cowards. They just hadn't understood the game.
We still didn't understand. Callicles slapped my back and we ran forward together. I tried to angle across the Spartan front, because I knew we'd be safer on the flank, but I was slowed by my shin.
When I looked up, the Spartans terrified me. It's not like being in the phalanx, out there in the middle between the armies. And the Spartans – they all look the same, with matching shields of bronze, like the richest Athenians, and with almost identical helmets. I actually wondered who made all those helmets. They looked very fine. And they scared me.
But I couldn't flinch now. Although a curious reaction hit me – I still remember it. I felt cold as I hobbled forward and I began to shake. Then the other boys began to throw. We were too far away and Callicles started to yell like a real officer, pushing them forward. He turned his back on the Spartans and yelled at us to come on, come on, throw from closer.
I was near him when I saw the Spartan file-leader call an order and four hoplites burst out of the front of the shield wall. They came so fast, they were like javelins themselves. They were all athletes in high training, of course, not boys. I knew from the first long leg kicking that they were faster than I was when I wasn't injured. There were only four of them against thirty of us.
Callicles died first. The fastest Spartan singled him out. I remember that the Spartan had a smile on his face under the helmet. I screamed at Callicles to run, but the fool stood his ground and threw my second-best spear, and the Spartan ducked his head and it passed him. He never even slowed, and his long doru went into Callicles above the groin and drove out of his back like some wicked growth, and then there was an explosion of blood, front and back. I'd seen it a hundred times hunting. Callicles was a dead boy.
All four of them killed a boy, like farmers cutting weeds. The leader killed a second boy next to Hermogenes.
Hermogenes fell to the ground without being touched, and then used his javelin to trip the lead Spartan. He went down in a clatter of armour, but he was up in less time than it takes to tell the sentence. Yet he was off balance and he was using his shield hand to push himself off the ground. Calchas had taught me better than that.
It was my worst throw of the day. I was terrified and elated at the same time, and my Deer Killer went into his left arm behind his shield, pinning the arm against the shield back. And he couldn't get it out.
The others stopped to help him, because he was bellowing, and then Hermogenes grabbed me and helped me run.
By all the gods, my thugater – I thought those were my last moments, and when we were clear of the Spartans, I vowed that I would never, ever put my body in front of the phalanx again. I vowed it like a drunkard vowing not to drink.
Hermogenes and I got clear of the right flank. We had no idea where the other boys were. Then we lay down in the grass and heaved. Ares! We were alive. Wait until you bear a child, honey – you'll feel the same rush of eudaimonia unless Artemis comes for you. Avert!
But when we looked up, the Spartans were charging.
They came forward to the music of pipes. And all the giants going to war with Father Zeus couldn't have looked more dangerous or noble.
The rest of the Peloponnesians hesitated, and the Athenians came forward cautiously, but they came on, and the Plataeans weren't cowards. They went forward into the Spartans.
The two lines hit each other like – well, like two phalanxes coming together. Imagine every cook in this town with every bronze kettle and a wooden spoon flailing away at it. Imagine every man bellowing with all his might. That is the sound of the storm of bronze, the battle line.
Hermogenes and I watched from the safety of the far right. And we saw what happened when the Spartiates hit our fathers.
They reaped them like wheat, that's what happened.
What made the reputation of Plataea was not that our men were great fighters – at least, not that day. What forged our reputation for ever was that our men wouldn't run. But Hermogenes and I watched men die. It was horrible – and awe-inspiring. The two blocks of spearmen crashed into each other at the same speed, and not a man flinched. Spartans tell me that they remember that day well – because so few foes withstand the impact, yet the men of Plataea slammed in, aspis to aspis. And then the killing started.
