Spartan (23 page)

The situation was critical. Pausanias was furious with the allies, believing that they had abandoned him. He ordered his troops to form a compact front against the enemy and the two retreating
lines managed to unite, but not without heavy losses.

The Spartan and Tegean hoplites, the Athenian infantry, and the heavily armoured Plataeans were in the front lines. The Plataeans, who were fighting with the ruins of their city –
devastated by the Persians – at their backs, were animated by a determined desire for revenge. Pausanias gave orders to close the ranks and the word ran quickly from man to man. The
reinforced front began to have some effect against the enemy cavalry.

Meanwhile a messenger, travelling at full gallop, had reached the allies already drawn up in front of the temple of Hera. He enjoined them to return immediately to the line of combat, but was
answered with a refusal: since their order had been to close ranks at the temple, they would wait there for the others to join them; to move back out into the open would be madness.

Pausanias’ army, unable to sustain the retreat, and kept in constant check by the enemy cavalry, continued to hope for reinforcements. All this time the enemy infantry advanced, confident
of their numerical superiority and deploying the traitorous Thebans among their ranks.

The messenger returned on horseback, his mount steaming with sweat, and announced that the allies were waiting in formation in front of Plataea, and did not intend to move from there. Pausanias
realized they were lost, and discouragement spread like wildfire among the soldiers, worn out by their march and the continuous onslaught of the enemy cavalry.

Mardonios was preparing to deal the final blow, realizing the confused and frightened state of the Greek troops. He advanced on his splendid white horse to give the order to attack: a deadly
silence had fallen on the field strewn with dead and wounded soldiers.

In that moment, a cry that seemed to erupt from the mountainside echoed on the hills that surrounded the battlefield:

‘ALALALALAI!’

Everyone turned in the direction from which the cry had come, but all they saw were sun-baked rocks. The Greek hoplites, their faces dripping with sweat under helmets made red-hot by the
sun’s blaze, turned back towards the enemy. The war cry sounded again:

‘ALALALALAI!’ and on the grey rock appeared a lone hoplite who descended the slope between the two armies at a run, in what seemed to be but a moment; the three-crested helmet was
worn proudly and he gripped the shield of the dragon. He raised his spear towards the Greek army and with a voice like thunder he shouted once more:

‘ALALALALAI!’ Then, turning towards the enemy, he charged.

Talos, looking over the top of the rocky cliff, saw the gesture and shuddered: Brithos was attacking the enemy army alone! He ran down the hill crying, calling out desperately, tumbling crazily
forward. He jolted to a stop on his skinned, bleeding feet and began to shoot his arrows furiously at the point where Brithos was rushing in the course of his folly.

It was but a moment, and the miracle occurred: forty thousand spears were lowered threateningly and the immense phalanx, thick with spikes like some horrendous animal, wavered for an instant and
then exploded in that cry like a dry crack of thunder:

‘ALALALALAI!’ and without awaiting orders the infantrymen of Athens and of Plataea, the hoplites of Sparta, of Macistus, of Amyclae, of Tegea hurled themselves at the Persian front
like a river in flood bursting its banks.

They collided with the enemy infantry with a rumble that rent the leaden air, and a group of Athenian hoplites immediately attempted to force a passage to the point where the three black crests
waved amidst a sea of pikes.

Surrounded by the mass of enemies, Brithos swung his shield and his sword, cutting down anyone who got near him but, overpowered on all sides, his heart exploding in his chest, drenched in sweat
and blood, he felt his knees giving way. A last cry burst from his chest with all the force of his youth, as he poured all of his strength into the arm that continued to smite the enemy before
him.

Then he collapsed, cut at his heels from behind. He fell on his back holding his shield out still to defend himself, to strike with the last of his energy, until, pierced at his thighs, his
loins, his throat, he lay in a lake of his own blood.

But by then the Greek spears were repelling the screaming tide from his mangled limbs, by then Mardonios was being dragged off his superb mount, and by then the Greek avalanche was overwhelming
the Mede and Kissean infantry, overrunning the right wing of valorous Sacians and closing in on the centre like a deadly pair of claws.

Talos, scrambling among piles of cadavers, found Brithos still breathing. He worked frenziedly to free him from the fallen enemy corpses, from his own blood-slick shield. He lifted
Brithos’ head. Blood streamed from a horrible wound beneath his throat and his face was transformed by the pallor of death.

‘You wanted to die,’ murmured Talos, his voice low and broken. ‘You wanted to die on the day of your triumph . . .’

The dying warrior saw a dirty, ruined face, lined with tears. With superhuman effort he lifted a hand and pointed to his bloody chest. ‘What is there . . . behind this . . . breastplate .
. . Talos, what is there?’ and his head fell back, lifeless.

*

The sun was setting over the blood-soaked field of Plataea, on the obscenely mangled corpses, on the dead piled one atop another, and the thick cloud of dust seemed golden
against its dying rays. Talos arose and looked around him, as if awakening from a dream. He saw a huge figure, in the distance, advancing on the back of an ass: Karas.

‘You’ve come too late,’ he said mournfully. ‘It’s all over.’

Karas looked at Brithos’ body, already laid out as if for his funeral rites. ‘He died as he wanted to die, after having redeemed his name. He will never know disease nor decay, he will be young forever . . . and he’ll be buried with full honours.’

‘No,’ said Talos. ‘No, not by them. I will prepare his funeral.’

They took the body and brought it to the edge of the field. Talos went to the river for water to wash him, and Karas gathered the wood, collecting broken spears and wreckage from the chariots in
the nearby Persian camp. They raised a modest pyre. One beside the other they sat, watching the corpse that rested on top of the pyre covered by the black cloak that Brithos had worn at
Aghias’ funeral and that he had carried with him all these months.

‘I tried to be here in time,’ said Karas, ‘but my journey was long and fraught with danger.’

‘Even if you had been here, you couldn’t have changed anything,’ said Talos sadly. ‘He had decided to die, there is no other explanation. And your mission?’

‘Accomplished. Ephialtes is dead: I strangled him with my own hands.’

‘Good. And now, my good friend, let us give the last salute to Brithos, son of Aristarkhos, Kleomenid. “He who trembled”,’ he added with a grimace.

Karas went towards the still-burning Persian camp and returned with a fire-brand. Something abruptly caught his attention and he gestured to Talos. ‘Look,’ he said.

Talos turned and saw a hooded figure, his shoulders covered by a long grey cloak. The man advanced slowly to the middle of the battlefield and stopped about thirty paces from them.

‘I’d say it’s the same man who was in front of your cabin that night,’ said Talos.

‘That hooded grey cloak is commonly used by the Spartans after gymnastics or after a battle to absorb sweat. Do you want me to go see, anyway?’ asked Karas.

‘No, it doesn’t matter to me. Let him alone.’

He took the brand from Karas’ hand and set the funeral pyre alight.

The flames rose vigorously, fed by the evening breeze. They quickly enveloped the body wrapped in the black cloak. Far off, smoke was rising from the great pyres that the Greeks had erected in
their camp; they were beginning to burn the bodies of the fallen as they were brought in from the battlefield.

Talos cut a lock of his hair and tossed it into the flames, then threw in his cornel staff as well: the one – so strong and so flexible – that Kritolaos had chosen for him long long
ago.

At that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, his eyes veiled with tears, and found the hooded figure before him. He uncovered his head: it was the king, Pausanias, and he carried
the great shield of the dragon. On its edge, with the point of his dagger he had carved a name: ‘Kleidemos Aristarkhou Kleomenid’

‘This is your name,’ he said. ‘Sparta has lost your father and your brother: two great warriors – such a noble family cannot be extinguished. You have lived far from us
for a long time. The moment has come for you to return among your people. Look,’ he added, and pointed towards the Greek camp: lined up in their ranks, still covered with blood and dust, a
long column of soldiers marched to the tune of the pipes and to the roll of drums.

They drew up before the nearly extinguished pyre in silence. An officer unsheathed his sword and gave an order: the soldiers stiffened in salute raising spears that shone in the last rays of the
sunset. Three times they launched to the sky that war cry that had given them the courage to win their last battle: the cry of Brithos, ‘he who trembled’.

The soldiers withdrew, and the sound of pipes faded away into the distance. Karas gathered the ashes and the bones from the pyre and placed them in the shield, covering it with his cloak. He
looked at the red clouds on the horizon, and then turned to Talos and murmured:

‘Remember these words, Talos, son of Sparta and son of your people, the day that you shall see me again.’

Karas took the ass by the halter and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

K
LEIDEMOS REMAINED THE WHOLE
night next to the fire that had devoured the body of his brother Brithos. Found for a moment and lost for ever. He stared
stonily at the fiery shadows slipping through the embers, gasping softly like a wounded animal. Behind him stretched the endless field of death that was Plataea; the stench of the blood that
saturated the earth rose and was carried by the wind from the banks of the Asopus to the solitary columns of the temple of Hera. Dozens of stray dogs, emaciated by the long famine, roamed howling
among the slaughtered bodies, ripping flesh from the stiffened limbs of the warriors of the Great King.

A trumpet from the Greek camp announced the third shift of guard duty as an enormous moon, red as a bloody shield, rose over the heat-scorched brush. Kleidemos raised his eyes to the gigantic
disc, staring with wild pain. A terrifying figure was taking shape and substance behind the bleeding moon: Ares, god of war, glittering with metallic scales like a serpent. He wielded a
double-bladed axe which he whirled through the air with an evil roar. The corpses suddenly came to life, spilling their guts, faces disfigured; they rose to their feet in the field of blood and
marched silently towards the great warrior. He spun his obscene hatchet, renewing the carnage, seeding the plain with yet more mangled limbs, more and more . . . until the night dissolved.

Kleidemos shook himself, looking around with red eyes. His thoughts were awakened by the impending dawn. The din of the massacre that had sounded incessantly in his mind all night began to
quieten.

A trumpet sounded fall-in at the Greek camp and a soldier soon appeared to collect Brithos’ ashes and consign his weapons. Kleidemos rose to his feet. He slowly put on his brother’s
armour, took up his shield and his spear and began walking. The buzz of flies vibrated all around him . . . the flies, companions of
Thanatos
. He crossed the field unseeing, as if he were
dreaming. A guard’s voice startled him.

‘Follow me, Kleidemos. Regent Pausanias awaits you in his tent.’

He entered the tent a short while later, passing between two guards who raised the mat hanging at the entrance. As soon as his tired eyes could make out his surroundings, he realized that the
king was standing before him. Not very tall, he had grey hair and a short, pointed beard. His manicured hands did not seem those of a warrior and even his clothing had an air of elegance that
Kleidemos had never seen in a Spartan. Two silver cups filled with red wine gleamed on a little table.

‘Drink,’ invited the king, handing him one of the cups. ‘Today is a great day for Greece and this Konos wine is delicious. We found abundant quantities of it in
Mardonios’ tent, and these cups are part of his tableware. These barbarians certainly know how to appreciate the fine things in life!’

Kleidemos refused with a gesture of his hand; he hadn’t eaten in so long that his stomach was riddled with cramps. Pausanias set the cup down and drew up a stool. ‘Sit down,’
he said, ‘you must be tired.’ The young man dropped onto the seat: his eyes were bloodshot, his face was weary and his hair was plastered with ashes. Pausanias looked at him carefully.
‘The same big dark eyes,’ he murmured, ‘the same thin lips – you are the very portrait of your mother.’

Kleidemos started. ‘My mother,’ he said, ‘has small, grey eyes.’

Pausanias sat in an armchair, twisting the Persian cup in his hands as if trying to find the right words. ‘I understand what you mean,’ he said. ‘We are all strangers for you.
Enemies, perhaps. But you must listen nonetheless to what I have to tell you, because your life among the sons of Sparta will be a long one.

‘The armour that you wear belonged to your father and to your brother. Your mother has never forgotten you. We could have very well denied the fact that you exist, and let you go back to
the mountain Helots to live out your life as a simple shepherd, but we are convinced that you could no longer live that way – you have become a warrior. You fought side by side with your
brother Brithos for months. You were with him at the Thermopylae, you returned to Sparta with him, you helped him to regain his honour. And now you are the last survivor of a great family that must
not be extinguished.’