every battle we’d tried with the damned Persians. But I swallowed my fears, like a man should. I nodded, and my voice barely caught when I spoke.
‘About twelve thousand, give or take. Not as deep as we fight.’
‘Deep enough, though.’ Miltiades gave half a grin. ‘We need to fill the plain, too.’
‘Hah!’ I said. I could see it — if our hoplites brushed against the hills and the sea, the cavalry had no way to slip around us — and no hoplite feared a horseman in front of him.
Actually, that’s bravado. All men on foot fear cavalry — but a mass of spearmen who keep their nerve are not really at risk, however loud the thunder of hooves.
‘Plataeans on the left, then the tribes in order or precedence,’ Miltiades said. ‘That puts your men on the far left and mine on the far right. You ready for five hundred new citizens?’
‘What, tonight?’ I quipped. But in my heart, I was afraid. My Plataeans, against the Persians. It was not just a matter of whether we could win. It was that I was taking my friends, my brother-in-law; by the gods, I was taking my city into action with the most dreaded foe in all the bowl of earth.
‘I’m about to free every slave in the camp,’ Miltiades said, and his eyes sparkled. ‘Then I’ll send them to you. The free men and the psiloi — I’ll arm them and fill the back of my tribes with them.
‘Half of them won’t have spears,’ I pointed out.
‘They’ll take up space,’ he said. ‘They can get up in the rough ground on your flank if you have to spread out — or help thicken your charge if you need. And if the cavalry gets around you,’ he shrugged, ‘well, they’ll buy you time while they die.’
I nodded. ‘Are we going to run at the barbarians? Or walk?’
Miltiades chewed on his moustache. ‘I thought we might tell off the picked men to go at a run — starting at long bowshot. The way Eualcidas did it.’
I shrugged. ‘Why don’t we all run at them?’ I said. ‘I’m not saying anyone will shirk — but if we’re all charging forward it’s hard for anyone to take a step back.’
‘We’d end up with holes in the shield wall,’ he said.
‘We’d scare the shit out of them,’ I countered.
He sighed. ‘This is a big risk, and you want to do something new,’ he said. He nodded. ‘I’ll think on it. I’m going to free the slaves.’
‘I’ll get a feast together,’ I said, and grinned.
The sun was still up when a crowd of poor men — recently freed slaves — appeared in our camp. Themistocles led them.
‘Plataeans!’ Themistocles said. ‘Athens has freed these men, and asks your aid in enfranchising them.’
I had Myron right there. I had warned him, and he rose to it like — well, like the archon of Plataea.
‘Freedmen!’ he said, and they were quiet — probably still delighted to hear that they were freed. ‘Many of you are, in your hearts, men of Athens. Perhaps you will always feel that way. But Plataea is honoured to have you — and if you will let us, we will make you feel honoured to be Plataeans. Welcome! Come to our fires, and let us feed you your first meal as free men and citizens.’
We had bread and olives, pork and wine all prepared, and we fed the poor bastards a feast. Our own men joined in. I went over to Gelon and tapped him. ‘You’re free, too,’ I said.
He grinned. ‘You’re all right,’ he said, and went to stand with the freedmen.
They ate the way starving men eat, and drank like men who never saw enough wine. Our citizens joined them, and moved among them — speaking to one, learning the name of another. And serving them, like slaves.
Makes me weep — sorry, honey bee. I need a moment.
When they were done with libations, and being blessed by our priests, and eating, I stood on my aspis.
‘I was once a slave,’ I said.
That shut them up.
‘I was once a slave, and war made me free. Now I am the polemarch of Plataea. I know how well a freed slave fights. So I won’t give you a long speech.’ I pointed out of the firelight, towards the barbarians. ‘Right now, not one of you has the value of a medimnos of grain. But over there, in that camp, are your farms and your ploughs and your oxen — your house and your barns — for some of you, your brides. Every Sakai wears the value of a Plataean farm on his back — some Persians are worth three or four.’ I pointed at the men who had marched here with me. ‘Tomorrow night, we will pool everything we take — every item we win with our spears, and men who fight will each take away a share. Everyone will share. Now,’ I said, and I hopped off my aspis to stride among them, ‘who has a spear? Stand over here. A helmet? Anyone?’
It took for ever — the sun slipped below the western rim and I was still trying to build my phalanx. My Plataeans were generous — men who’d picked up a good helmet offered their old one to the new men, and men with a spare leather hat traded it round, and so on. It went on and on. Men with two spears shared one. Men gave slaves a pair of sandals. A chlamys. Anything that would help the poor bastards to live a minute longer.
I received four hundred new citizens, give or take a few, and we managed to arm almost two hundred of them as spearmen, if not hoplites. Most had to roll up a cloak and use it as a shield. Many had neither helmet nor hat, and behind them stood men with a bag of rocks or a pair of javelins or a sling.
But when I had them all placed, and as well armed as I could, I sent them to bed. ‘Sleep well,’ I said. ‘Dream of a rich farm in Plataea.’ I hoped that they would, because I knew that it was as close as most of them would ever get.
18
I slept badly. I hope you won’t think the worse of me if I admit that the night before Marathon, despite my head telling me that we had the men and the will to win, I lay awake and worried. Not about death. I never worry about death. It was failure that troubled me, and I lay on my bearskin with the sound of snoring around me, and nervous whispers, and probably the occasional fart — and wondered what I could do better.
The night raid haunted me. I’d been lost, and I hadn’t told my men what I needed, and I’d made a dozen other errors. So I lay awake, thinking through my actions in the morning.
When you’re in command, you worry about the damnedest things.
I worried about getting my armour on and needing to take a shit. I worried about what I should say — a polemarch is expected to give a speech. I worried about sleeping too late, about what my armour looked like. Gelon was free now and my helmet hadn’t been polished since I left Plataea. A hero should look the part.
I worried about how to deal with the rough ground that would be on my left all day, and I worried about the effect of four hundred untrained men at the back of my phalanx.
Hades, friends. I can’t even remember all the things I worried about the night before Marathon.
And when I thought of my wife — my glorious wife — all I could think was that if she were there, we could make love, and that would cheer me up. Except that she was well along in pregnancy by then, and they say making love when the belly is round is bad for the baby. I don’t believe that making love is ever bad for anyone, myself, but people say these things.
I think that’s when I fell asleep. Thinking of her.
No, that’s a lie. My mind was its own traitor, and I’m here to tell the truth. My last thoughts were of Briseis. If we won. .
If we won, would I be closer to her? And where was she? I said Sappho’s poem to Aphrodite in the dark, for Briseis. And
I awoke in the dark, and I could hear the snores — but as soon as my eyes opened, it all came in, the way animals come in an open gate when there’s food in the mangers and they haven’t been fed. All my worries.
I got up. The dog star was going down, and morning wasn’t far off, and besides, I was cold.
Idomeneus had snuggled close in the night, and as I rose, he rolled over. ‘Ares,’ he said. ‘Morning already?’
I tossed my heavy himation over him. ‘Sleep another hour,’ I said.
‘Aphrodite’s blessing on you,’ he smiled, and went straight back to sleep, the Cretan bastard. Odd that he
