Lysis

 

I waited for Demaratus as he spoke to the king.  The sun was halfway up the morning sky by the time Xerxes and his generals arranged themselves on a rise near the mountain face to view the allied positions.  I saw Demaratus point to me several times, and then to the blocked pass, gesticulating forcefully.  It was not a short talk.  Several of the king's attendants seemed to have something to say, but the king appeared impatient and dismissive.  He snatched the wax tablet from Demaratus and read it quickly.  Then, snapping it shut, he handed it back to the Spartan.  The large, pug-nosed warrior I had seen earlier said nothing through the whole encounter.  He kept his eyes glued to me.  Obviously, my father's name meant something to him.  Something unpleasant.  I would have to be careful with him.

 

Demaratus broke from the group and strode towards me.  He looked pleased. Sending my guards out of earshot, he said, "Athenian, I have arranged for you to carry a message from myself to Leonidas.  It is in this wax tablet.  You will also take this."  He produced a scroll of rolled papyrus sealed with the king's mark.  "It is Xerxes' last demand that the allies give up the pass."

 

"Isn't that also in your letter?" I said.

 

"What is in my letter is for Leonidas alone," he replied.  "You need only do two things.  Deliver it to him personally, and tell him this from me:  ‘Gorgo's way will turn the key.'"

 

"Gorgo's way will turn the key?" I repeated.

 

"Yes.  Tell him that for me and observe what happens."

 

I told him I would, of course very curious indeed, but ecstatic to leave this nest of barbarians, even temporarily.  There was no question I desperately wanted to escape.  I felt immense temptation to disregard Demaratus' confidence in my honor and stay on the Greek side of the pass at the first opportunity.  But honor is a concept dear to our family, and I knew I would return.

 

While we had been talking, the Persian forces were gathering in their ranks to begin the assault.  Shouted commands in their barbaric tongue whipped lines of infantry into position while seemingly endless rows of archers and slingers took positions behind the initial wave of spearmen.  It was frightening and awe-inspiring.  I couldn't help but notice, though, that the men in these first columns were not fired with enthusiasm.  In their strange trousers, knee- and wrist-length tunics, wicker shields, conical helmets, and short spears, they did not jabber among themselves or emanate the proud spirit of an undefeated force.  Rather, they appeared nervous, hesitant to come to grips with the enemy.