An outcry erupted behind as other
soldiers responded to the fight and raced to restrain Medarnes. He ignored them, lunging for me with a
murderous thrust. I was still weak from
my wounds suffered only a few days before, and was slow in responding. That would have been all for me, had it not
been for the fact that I lost my footing as I retreated and fell heavily to the
sand. Medarnes reared above me to finish
the kill. In that moment, I remember
thinking that I had never seen such hatred in a man's eyes. I watched as the blade descended, it seemed,
in slow motion. I was trying to move,
trying to twist away, but I knew it would be too late. I braced for it, braced for the searing
pain. But it never came.
Instead we were deluged in an
avalanche of bodies. Medarnes was swept
away as a voice raged above the shouting.
"Keep him down!" it demanded. "Bind him!"
The soldier who had fallen on top
of me pushed himself off and went to help the others, who were busy disarming
my assailant and tying his hands behind his back. I looked up, and Demaratus was there,
extending his hand.
"Get up," he said. "The gods seem to have a keen eye for fools."
I grasped his hand and he pulled me
up.
"What happened here?" he asked.
I explained, while Medarnes
struggled against his captors in the background.
"Hmm," breathed Demaratus. "I will have to escort Medarnes to the
king. This cannot be allowed to
continue." He began to move away, calling
the guards and the pinioned Medarnes to follow.
"Wait! Demaratus!" I said, and he
turned. "Why do you care so much to save
me?"
As Medarnes was dragged by, his
visage lined in vehement hatred, Demaratus stepped towards me.
"I have a special mission for you,"
he said quietly. "It may save all of Greece." He paused for a moment, his lips twisting
with concealed emotion. "It may even save me."
Then he left me, standing there
with a stupid look, I'm sure. I felt at
that point that I was on a stage, in the middle of some god-envisioned play, a
tragedy, perhaps, like those I had seen as a child in the shadow of the
Acropolis, or a comedy, maybe, in which I could not understand the joke. Either way, I felt I was not writing the
tale.
Demaratus
It is midday. I have retired to my tent to write. There is a lull in the fighting. No, not a lull. An exhaustion. Both armies seem wrung out. We began the attack three hours after dawn,
and it continued nonstop until now.
Perhaps we did a little better today.
Leonidas used tactics similar to yesterday's, with similar results for a
while. Toward late morning, however, the
relentless pace of our assaults began to make headway. The phalanx splintered many spears that could
not be quickly replaced, and it is when our men can get close that we can
inflict casualties.
Nevertheless, we do not seem to be
able to break this impasse. It is as I
have feared, as I have warned the king.
So long as Leonidas stands firm and the allied fleet remains on station,
an imminent military victory seems practically hopeless. We can wear them down through attrition, no
question. We have more men. But there must be another way. For me, I would prefer the Greeks to abandon
the pass and meet this army elsewhere. And I would prefer Leonidas to remain
alive; it suits my purpose to have him
so. But we will have to force him
out. There seems no other way.
We captured some prisoners
today. They had been hacked up pretty
thoroughly, their linen armor a mess of sword cuts, their bronze greaves nicked
and dented. Apparently, they had been
left for dead during a feigned retreat and had been picked up as our forces
swarmed over them. I had the chance to
interrogate them before they were dragged off, I assume, to the tender mercies
of Phraortes. These men gave me another
glimpse into the mind of Leonidas. They
were Thespians, not Spartans, yet they readily acknowledged Leonidas as their
leader. I asked them if the king had
addressed them before the battle.
"Yes," they replied. "Both yesterday and today."
"What did he say?" I queried.
They looked at each other. "He made
us feel we were not fighting for our separate states, but for all of Greece,"
one said. "He reminded us of why we were
there."
The other nodded his head
emphatically. "Truly," he echoed, "He made us see the future, what it would be
like for us when you were driven from our shores."
"I have never felt that the
Spartans were above us," the first prisoner continued. "The king gives us the strength that he
himself possesses."
I assume they were so forthcoming
because I was a Spartan. But it was more
evidence of the special gift, the charisma of this king. I remember it in him when I was still
home. Such a thing can make an army out
of rabble, can make good men great.
Unfortunately, the same could
hardly be said of our Great King. At the
war council this morning, Xerxes was his usual self, berating his commanders
for yesterday's failures and reminding them of the penalty for lack of results
in today's fighting. They are used to
it, of course, and they take it manfully enough, I suppose. Still, it does grate on a man.
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