right, facing Miltiades.
They were formed exactly the way they’d formed the day before. My Plataeans faced the cream of their army.
It steadied me. Being the underdog has its advantages. And in that moment I knew what I’d say.
They came closer, moving swiftly across the plain like hunting hounds or wolves. Hungry wolves.
I had Leontus on my right. I left my shield with Teucer and ran to Leontus — a stade each way, thanks. ‘I’m going to charge them as soon as they reach bowshot,’ I said, pointing down the field.
He was taken aback. ‘Is that what Miltiades wants?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know what Miltiades wants,’ I said. ‘He’s five more stades that way, if you want to ask.’ I shrugged, no easy thing in twenty pounds of scale armour. ‘But as soon as they stop to shoot, I’m going at them.’
He was eyeing the Persians. His men would be in the arrow storm, not mine. ‘I’m with you, Plataean,’ he said.
I tapped his aspis by way of a handshake, and ran back to my place, and his tribe cheered me as I ran by. They were getting their shields off the ground, pulling their helmets down, and when I reached my own men, Idomeneus had already given the orders.
The enemy was still three or four stades away.
So I walked, forcing myself to take my time, all along my front rank. I met the eyes of every man there — some said a few words, some nodded their heads so that their plumes rippled, the horsehair catching the sea breeze. I walked all the way to Hermogenes.
‘Fight well, brother,’ I said.
‘Lead us to glory, polemarch,’ he said. I could see his grin inside the tau of his face slit.
By the gods, those words went to my heart.
Then I walked back — making myself walk, even while the Persians and Medes were slowing, closer than I’d expected — faster than I thought possible. Their mounted Persians — the best of the best — seemed close enough to touch, close enough to ride over and gut me before I could take shelter in our ranks.
I stopped in the middle of my line, turned my back to the enemy and raised my arms. Then, with the kind of gesture that Heraclitus taught us, a broad orator’s sweep of my right arm, I indicated that I would speak.
‘I could talk to you of duty,’ I shouted, and they were silent. ‘Of courage and arete, and of the defence of Hellas and all you hold dear.’ I paused, and forced myself to look at my own men and not to turn my head and look at the enemy, who came closer and closer to my back. ‘But you are Plataeans, and you know what is excellent, and who is brave. So I will say two things. First — yesterday, many of you were slaves. And for the rest — no one here expects us to beat the Persians. We are the left of the line and all Athens asks is that we take our time dying.’ I paused, and then I pointed my spear at the enemy. ‘Horse shit, brothers! We are Plataeans! Every man here is a Plataean! Over there is all the wealth of Asia! The gods have given us the Persians themselves, every one of them wearing a fortune in gold. You were a slave yesterday? Tomorrow you can be an aristocrat. Or be dead, and go to Hades with the heroes. Whatever you were, whatever you are at this moment, however much you want to piss or creep away — tomorrow is yours if you win today! All of that gold is yours if you are men enough to take it!’
My Plataeans responded with a roar — a sharp bark. Only then did I sneak a glance at our enemies. They were a stade away, or more. I returned to my place in the ranks. I put my aspis on my shoulder and grasped my spears — my fine, light deer spear in my right hand and my heavy man-killer in my left, sharing the hand with the antilabe of my shield.
I turned to Idomeneus. ‘How was that?’ I asked.
He nodded. He wore a Cretan helm that showed his face, and his smile was broad. ‘Everyone understands gold,’ he said. ‘Arete is more complicated.’
‘See the mounted bastard in the gold helmet?’ I said. ‘I’ll take him. But he’s got to go, and if I fall or I miss, you take him. Understand?’ I tapped my spearhead against his, and saw his grin.
‘Good as dead now,’ Idomeneus said.
‘Yes,’ I answered.
He smiled his mad, fighting smile. ‘Sure,’ he said.
I turned to Teucer, who was tight to my back. ‘Hear me, friend — do not take that man’s life. I want his men to see him go down to
‘Aye, lord,’ he said. He was doubtful.
Opposite me, the whole enemy line — every bit as long as ours, and at least as deep — was slowing. It didn’t stop all at once. It takes time for a line fifteen stades long to stop and straighten.
‘Ready!’ I roared. ‘Spears up!’
Idomeneus hissed ‘Close our order!’ at me.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ I said.
The Athenians obeyed me as fast as my own men, and three thousand men raised their spears over their heads, spear-point just clear of the rim of your shield, spear-butt well up in the air so that it doesn’t foul the man behind you or, worse, catch him in the teeth.
We were one stade from the enemy. The Persians were settling down, planting shafts in the ground. The cavalry were actually lagging behind their main line, with a few men trying to pick a way through the scrub to our flank and struggling. But giving me heartburn nonetheless.
I nodded to Idomeneus, and he blew the horn — two long, hard blasts, and the pause between them was thin enough for a sword blade to fit and not much more.
And then we were off.
Ever run a foot race? Ever run the hoplitodromos? Ever run the hoplitodromos with fifty men? Imagine fifty men. Imagine a hundred — five hundred — three thousand men, all starting together at the sound of a horn.
We were off, and by the will of the gods, no one stumbled in all our line. One poor fool sprawling on his face might have been the difference between victory and defeat. But no man fell at the start.
On my right, the Athenians moved as soon as I did, and the Persians and the Medes raised their bows and shot — too fast, and too far. Men in the rear ranks died, but not a shaft went into the front.
It’s a tactic, honey bee. They halt at a given distance, a distance at which they practise, and pound the crap out of you — if you stand and take it. But if you move forward. .
Every step was a step towards victory. We were on the edge of a wheat field, tramped flat by psiloi over the last few days, and the hobnails on my Spartan shoes bit into the ground as I ran — full strides, just like the hoplitodromos.
That’s why I didn’t close our order, of course. Because men need room to run.
I was neither first nor last — Idomeneus was ahead of me by a horse-length, just heartbeats after he blew the horn. My old wound kept me from being first. But I was not last. I looked over the rim of my shield. We were facing Persians, Medes and a handful of Sakai, and every man had a bow.
Ten more paces and the Persians were loosing again — a rippling volley — and an arrow skipped off the gravel in front of me and ripped across my greave at my ankle and vanished into the ranks behind me. They’d shot low. This time, men fell — a few Plataeans, and more Athenians. And other men fell over the wounded. A man can break his jaw, falling with an aspis at a dead run, or break his collarbone or shield arm.
Just opposite me, and a little to my left, Golden Helm was bringing his Persian nobles forward. I saw him raise his hand, saw him order them forward — saw his hesitation.
The Persian polemarch had spear-fighters — dismounted nobles — for his front two ranks. But he had sent them to the rear for the archery phase — his archers would shoot better and flatter if they didn’t have to lift their shots clear of the front rank. The problem was, we weren’t waiting to be pounded with arrows. And now his best fighters — killers, every one, like Cyrus and Pharnakes — were in the eleventh and twelfth rank.
If he rotated them again now, his men would have to stop shooting.
I read this at a glance, because there were no shields facing me, only round Persian hats and bright scale armour like mine.
A third volley flew at us. It is a fearful thing when the arrows come straight at you — when the flicker of their motion seems to end in your eye, when the shafts darken the sky, when the sound is like the first whisper of rain, growing swiftly into a storm.
