Marathon: Freedom or Death

engagement.

But fifteen to a hundred was long odds at the best of times.

I pondered this, gathered my marines and my officers amidships on the fighting platform and told them what I knew. I pitched my voice to carry so that my oarsmen could hear everything I said.

‘We’re going to sail downwind on our boatsails, so lay everything on deck and stand ready,’ I said to my sailing master. He was a black Libyan with a barbaric name like a noseful of snot, but we all called him ‘Black’ and he answered to it. I’d bought him on the beach at Lade and freed him on the spot — he’d been a helmsman way out west at Sicily, and I knew quality when I saw it, for all that he was new to my ship. Paramanos was black, and look how good he was.

‘Then we’re going to drop sails, turn back west and attack the tip of their pincer,’ I said. ‘I’m going to guess that Lord Miltiades will try to lure them into a luffing match upwind — their rowers against ours — until we hit the shore. If we do that, nothing matters except how far east and north of the battle we can lure the bloody Phoenicians. Don’t get locked in a boarding fight if you can con your enemy into trying to outsail you. And friends — we in Storm Cutter can outsail anything they offer, can we not?’

They shouted back at me, and then I went forward to watch as Black had his sailors lay out the boatsail and Mal coached his rowers while Galas took the helm. I had promoted him to helmsman when I purchased Black. He watched Black with a critical eye.

I kept my eye on the Persians — though there probably wasn’t a Persian among them, except for a dozen noble archers on twenty or so of their command ships. Somewhere was Datis himself. He’d have a deck full of them. But the rest of their fleet’s people were vassals and slaves — and Cilician pirates, of course. Men just like us.

As I watched, there was a flash and a ripple all along the front of the Persians as their oars came out. It wasn’t neat, or well drilled, but the mass of their great half moon began to move. It was a terrifying sight, truth to tell — they outnumbered us so badly, and their line filled your eye, almost horizon to horizon. They must have taken up fifty stades of ocean — more than five hundred ships. Until then, no one had ever seen such a fleet.

I refused to be terrified. Today was the day Apollo would smile on the Greeks, the day I would win Briseis, fulfil my destiny and go to glory. I had half a notion that I might die in the victory — it would suit all I had heard of fates that I die achieving my ambition, and my curse to Briseis.

Death held little fear for me.

I was still young then.

Heads up, sailors!’ I called from the bow. ‘Attention to orders!’

Miltiades was turning out of the line, and he had a square torn from his big red awning flapping at his stern.

‘Hoist the boatsail,’ I called, and Black echoed it in his curious singsong accent.

We turned with the steering oars, the rowing oars held clear of the water but ready to engage — all to save the rowers’ strength. I looked back along our line, and I saw them come from line abreast pointed north to line ahead pointed east in fine style — one of the very manoeuvres that Dionysius had made us practise, in fact. Nearchos followed us, and eight of the Chians came out of their line and followed us — Neoptolemus and his contingent, I later learned. That made me grin — twenty-five ships were shorter odds, and now the Phoenicians couldn’t just ignore us or we’d wreck them. I wondered what the Samians were doing to avoid envelopment at their end of the line, but fifty stades is a long way to see on a hazy morning.

We sailed due east with a strengthening breeze at our backs, and the water tore down our hulls, and we sang hymns and drinking songs. Miltiades sent an oarsman over the side, and he called out to each ship as it passed, ordering us to prepare to turn to port and form line ahead facing north when the red square flew again. I understood well enough, and I expect that all the other captains did, too — again, Dionysius’s training paid off.

Opposite us, the Phoenicians and the Aegyptians didn’t react to our manoeuvre, but carried straight forward under oars. The Aegyptians were in a mix of heavy ships and pentekonters, light ships that we Greeks would no longer put in the line of battle.

We got three stades to the east before they reacted, and by that time Miltiades’ Ajax was even with the eastmost ships in the Phoenician division, so that we were actually threatening to outflank their fleet. For those of you who have never fought ship to ship, and I think that’s every one of you, a rowing ship is most vulnerable to a ram in the flank, or the long side of the ship, where the bronze beak can roll you over or split the planks of your side and leave you to swim in the deep dark sea. Or sink in your armour and feed the fish.

We watched them with the avidity of men watching a sporting event. Late — very late — the tip of their crescent began to turn east to face us, but they were rowing and we were sailing, and although they were able to keep pace, their squadron began to string out over the sea, losing all hope of formation. We were strung out too, but the wind moves at the same speed for all, I suppose, and we still held our line. And they were rowing flat out to race against us.

Miltiades was the best fighting sailor I served under. Later, every man would praise Themistocles. He was a rabble-rouser and a politician, and he made Athens the greatest sea power in history, but Miltiades — like Dionysius of Phocaea — was a pirate and a seaman.

We raced two more stades to windward, and the breeze continued to grow behind us — the hand of the gods, we said to each other. Miltiades began to wave, and I sent a runner to signal Stephanos, astern of me. We were about to turn.

Miltiades stood on the helmsman’s bench of Ajax, the red square bundled under one arm, his other arm hooked in the bent wood of the trireme’s stern, watching the ships behind me. On mine, Black had the bow full of sailors standing about the boatsail mast, and Mal had the oars out and peaked, ready to stroke. Galas had a grin from ear to ear, the oars steady under his arms, ready to turn.

‘Prepare for a hard turn to port,’ I roared. ‘On my command!’

By the gods, I thought, this is going to be glorious, win or lose. I had seldom gone so fast in a trireme — the wind directly astern had such power. I wondered if we could carry any of it through the turn.

I also noted that Miltiades was stiffening his ship by sending his marines and extra deck crew to the windward side, and I followed suit. Anything to get that railing down as we turned — or rather, anything to keep the leeward rail out of the water. I’d never heard of a trireme rolling over in a turn, but I didn’t want to be the first one to do it, either.

Heartbeats — my heart thudding against my chest, as if it would pulse right through the new Persian armour I wore. The hushed expectancy — the sound of the wind, and a gull screaming.

Miltiades let fly the red cloth, and I raised my fist.

‘Hard to port,’ I called.

Galas called his orders, and long training and good discipline told. Every port oar dipped together, and touched water — held. The starboard oars gave way. The ship heeled like a chariot on a turn — over, over farther — until my heart was in my throat and every man on deck had to hold the rail, and the port-side rowers had their oars so deep in the water they couldn’t withdraw them. Somewhere amidships there was a scream as an oar broke and a man took the shaft in his guts.

And then we were around, and the sun was shining, and our ram was pointed at the Phoenicians, and we were racing like a spear thrown by Poseidon for the flank of the enemy line. Miltiades was around in style, and Stephanos was at my side like an eager dog — our line filled out even as I watched. The Cretans were no slower, and the Chians trailed away in some confusion, but that only served to make our line look longer.

As soon as the Phoenicians saw us turn, they began to turn to meet us, but they were fifty or so individual ships, not a squadron. And their rowers were tired.

The wind was so strong that it was pushing us even with our turn, even with our sails down. I began to eye the beach and the rocks at the foot of the bay — the east end — with a professional eye.

Then I ran amidships to the command platform.

‘Diekplous,’ I called to the helmsman. ‘Oar-rake and right through. Then turn upwind — west.’ Miltiades and I were facing four or five of the fastest Phoenician vessels, but they were the very eastmost. And if we oar-raked them, there was no point in lingering — they’d never come back to the battle. Right? Understand, lad? Because if we broke their oars, they couldn’t row, and Poseidon would take them to the bottom of the bay and wreck them.