Episode 17

Episode 17 (479 B.C.):

Behind the scenes, the Hellenic strategists had already woven their plan. A couple of months after the devastation of Athens, the selected Greek warriors were ready to once again challenge the Persian armies on the battlefield. Demosthenes, as expected, was among them.

At dawn, a newly awakened Demosthenes leaned out of one of the windows of his shared bedroom. The first rays of sun filtered between the humble dwellings erected on the island and the tents of the refugees. The waves crashed in the distance, oblivious to the slaughter that had already dyed that sea red and to what was about to happen in the distance.

The Athenian moved away from the window and woke his young squire, Sosigenes, who was still in a deep sleep, with an innocent face and perhaps dreaming of something other than the inevitable battle. This boy had been left behind on the island during the previous battle. Demosthenes had not wanted such an innocent young man to be a victim of combat; he was only the son of humble peasants. But this time he would not be so lucky.

The roar of war drums and the orders to get up from one of the captains echoed through the walls of the place, causing everyone to wake up in a flash. Whether they liked it or not, it was time to go to war.

An hour later, all the soldiers were gathered in the center of the military camp. The man in charge of the Athenian troops was named Aristides. Demosthenes was unaware of it, but this man had already commanded an army at the Battle of Marathon. A politician and soldier, his life was undoubtedly interesting, but this book is not about him. So I will only tell you the most basic about him.

Covered in a splendid armor that reflected the sunlight on the sand of the beach and a spotless cape on his back. He stopped to observe all the men ready for combat, both young and veterans were there. Satisfied, he nodded and walked to the middle of the formation so that everyone could hear him. In a powerful voice, he gave his speech:

— Fellow Athenians, sons of this ancient land, listen to me now. We stand at the crossroads of destiny, where courage and sacrifice intertwine. Our city, once in flames, will now rise from its ashes. Our temples may lie in ruins, but our spirit remains unbreakable. We will march north, together with our Greek brothers to face that horde. There we will forge our legacy anew. Many of you fought bravely at Salamis and for that I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

The commander paused to see if his speech was well received. Satisfied again, he continued:

Look around you, my comrades. Observe the faces of your brothers: farmers, poets, and artisans. Each one carries the hopes of Athens, the dreams of democracy. We fight not only for survival but for freedom. Remember: Athena, the brave and wise warrior, watches over us and her divine gaze gives us strength. Onward, my brothers! To Plataea, where destiny awaits us. May our names be etched in the annals of time, alongside those who dared to defy the Persian tide. We will fight not as individuals but as brothers in battle.

Upon finishing his speech, he was met with a unison cry from his compatriots. A man undoubtedly popular.

The formation then marched. Hoplites with their light armor and carrying their spears, archers with their bows drawn and arrows sharpened, and horsemen riding their armored horses; they were all going to battle. Demosthenes was among the hoplites, not in high spirits, but hopeful of finally returning to his hometown when the war ended. On the other side of the formation was Zenodulos, now carrying the belongings of that surly soldier, with clear dissatisfaction in his gaze.

The Athenians crossed the strait in small boats and triremes. On the coast they joined their closest allies: the Plataeans, who had fought side by side at the Battle of Marathon over a decade ago. These warriors were now ready to reclaim their hometown, which had been destroyed a year ago and where the Persians had set up camp. Seeing them, Aristides told them that it was time to return the favor, and upon hearing these words the landless soldiers cheered him on.

Then, on their way north, they stopped at Eleusis, a demos northwest of the walls of Athens, which now lay in ruins. There, the two allied troops met with the only Greeks who could rival the Athenians in power and prestige: the Spartans.

Those fearsome warriors, with their scarlet cloaks and the inverted V symbol on their shields, had arrived before their compatriots. Guided by the memory of their king Leonidas, fallen at Thermopylae, they now yearned for revenge. At their side were the helots, the neighboring people who were now nothing more than the servants of the Spartans with rights.

It was not long before the contingents of other Greek poleis arrived: Corinthians, Mycenaeans, Tegeans... All united by the same objective: to expel the Persians from their lands. Demosthenes was amazed at such a formation, not even the Battle of Salamis had seen so many Greeks united against a common enemy.

Thus, Spartans, Athenians and their allies marched together westward to Boeotia, abandoning the view of the sea and entering a territory unknown to Demosthenes. It was the first time he had been so far from his hometown, still blackened by Persian fires.

The road was arduous. The terrain was irregular, full of valleys and steep hills, making it difficult to advance. At each step, the soldiers' boots raised dust from the sand and crushed the grass at their feet.

Apart from that, the journey took place without any significant event.

Upon reaching Plataea, Demosthenes' heart sank at the sight of the desolation. Like Athens, it had been reduced to ashes, its buildings turned into shapeless rubble. Outside the city walls, behind a makeshift palisade, the enemy could be seen: an imposing mass of cavalry and infantry with new, gleaming armor made to counter the Greek attack. Among them, the scarlet color of the Persian royal standards stood out, with the golden eagle so hated by the Hellenes.

Faced with the impossibility of a frontal attack, the Greek commanders sent their orders via swift horsemen, who galloped from the Greek command post located in the center of the large formation of soldiers. The instructions went to the leaders of each regiment composed of members of the ten Athenian tribes. In turn, these latter sent their orders to the smaller units. Demosthenes' unit, for example, only had 10 people.

The instructions were simple: they were to encircle the Persian defensive wall heading east. With the discipline learned in their training, the soldiers carried out their mission and advanced towards one side of the enemy camp, seeking a vulnerable point between the enemy lines. Demosthenes' heart pounded savagely. At any moment, the killing would start again, just when he had become unaccustomed to the terror of battle.

The combatants of the Persian general were quick to react. Their horsemen, as swift as they were furious, launched a frontal charge against the Greek formation, splitting in two and attempting to envelop it in a deadly pincer. With equal aggression, the Greeks lined up in a large phalanx to defend themselves against the fearsome enemy horses and attack at the same time. Not for nothing was this grouping the specialty of the Hellenes.

In minutes, spears were aimed at the Eastern horses and their shields protected them from their weapons.

Mardonius himself was in the opposing formation. Anyone could tell it was him, even if they knew nothing more than his name, as was the case with Demosthenes. The commander of the enemy forces stood out from the rest wearing a golden armor that reflected the first rays of the rising sun and a horse adorned with plates of the same color and fabrics dyed in purple. The ostentation of such a pigment, a symbol of royalty and power, was a luxury reserved for the wealthiest.

The battle began. Demosthenes found himself on one side of the formation and managed to stop the initial attack of the deadly horsemen; while several of his companions perished in the first wave of violence, including his companion next to him, a fellow named Helios (whose jokes made anyone laugh).

Demosthenes set out to avenge him by stabbing a horse with his spear and quickly killing off its owner, who fell with a crash against the grass. The Athenian finished him off with a swift thrust of his spear.

Then the mounted soldiers turned around to try to destroy that terrifying position. Soldiers snatched the spears from the soldiers and smashed them in front of them, including Demosthenes', their intention was to demoralize them, but that was nothing compared to the terror of the Battle of Salamis. The Athenian quickly drew his sword and continued to swiftly stab horses and warriors, he could not afford to keep losing the lives of his mortal friends.

The battle seemed endless. The din of weapons and the cries of the combatants filled the air in a deafening crescendo as the Greek and Persian hosts clashed again and again. Mardonius was at a safe distance, planning what to do next.

As time passed, Demosthenes had already brought down ten horsemen and three foot soldiers, although unlike me, he was not counting.

At a crucial moment in the battle, Mardonius found himself face to face with his enemies. His horse, in resplendent robes, launched itself with all its might, like a shimmering gust. It was impressive, no doubt, but a warrior, a few meters from Demosthenes, with a precise and deadly blow, wounded the Persian's horse, forcing him to flee on foot in search of refuge among his ranks. The flight of their commander created confusion among his troops, who began to slowly retreat, while foot soldiers continued to attack the Greeks mercilessly.

To demoralize them even further, an idea arose in the rear ranks: to parade the general's equine body in a chariot. The proposal spread like wildfire, and within minutes, the poor animal's corpse was paraded in front of the enemy ranks. The effect was immediate: terror seized the invaders, who fled in panic towards the Asopus River, just meters from Plataea.

The Hellenic soldiers prepared to pursue them, seeking glory, but a voice stopped them.

— Stop! The army is still too great to be pursued! We must withdraw to a better position.

The voice was that of a Spartan general that Demosthenes did not know. He ignored that he was the commander of all the Greek troops in that battle, but that was not really important for the life of these immortals, so let's ignore it.

The soldiers lowered their spears and passed their heavy shields to their followers, which Demosthenes also did, preparing to move position at any moment. Meanwhile, he looked for Zenodulos among the crowd. He found him not far from where Mardonius had lost his horse, following Odysseus' footsteps reluctantly. Both were covered in blood, no doubt they had seen more action than Demosthenes' formation.

"As easy as it would have been to stay at the camp," the warrior thought.

Then, the leader of Demosthenes' tribal regiment, a man almost the same age as him, but of better family, named Cratinus, appeared with another man and told them the plans to follow.

 — Soldiers! —He said in a haughty tone— This is Empedocles of Plataea. He will be the one to guide us to our position.

Demosthenes and the others greeted both men and followed Empedocles' pace towards a hill to the left of the new Persian camp, by the river. Like them, the Spartans, headed towards the other side of the enemy camp, on a mountain. The plan was obvious: to surround the Orientals on both sides of their camp to make it easier to launch an attack.

In the center were the soldiers from the other poleis, between the two high areas where their companions were perched, undoubtedly a disadvantageous position. But the Spartans and Athenians were the leaders of such an anti-barbarian army. So without complaint, the other Greeks entrenched themselves on the other side of the Asopus, observing the Persians at a prudent distance.

 Meanwhile, as the troops were walking, Demosthenes realized that next to his small troop was that of Zenodulos and Odysseus. After all, both were from the same Athenian tribe.

Finally, they reached a small hill from which they could see, below, the enemy camp entrenched behind the wall they had raised for combat. The Persians watched the Hellenes fixedly from the foot of the hill.

Demosthenes and the other soldiers proceeded to set up their tents. The high-ranking ones were located in the center of the camp, while the others, including Demosthenes, were located at one end, where he shared a tent with Sosigenes.

Already calmer, despite the watchful gaze of the Persians from a distance, and with everything in place, in the moonlight, Demosthenes decided to chat with his squire.

 — What did you think of the battle? — He asked, looking for a topic of conversation to distract him.

—Terrible... — Sosigenes' face was pale and his hands were shaking. Demosthenes wondered if he himself would have been like that when he fought months ago.

—It's normal to feel that way —The soldier said as he gazed at the stars—. If you ask me, I think it's better not to get too used to this senseless killing.

— Everything was so big... imposing. I don't know how we could have survived such an army.

Recalling his immortality and the recent death of his comrade, Demosthenes decided to continue consoling him.

— If it makes you feel any better, you fought well. It's a shame we can't say the same for Helios.

That soldier who dreamed of writing works that would make people laugh was already buried several meters underground.

—I hope Hades has mercy on his soul. — Sosigenes said, clasping his hands in prayer.

Cleon's son remembered Angra Mainyu, wondering how real the stories of gods and heroes he had heard since childhood and believed at face value were. Unwilling to disappoint the faith of his comrade-in-arms, he preferred to change the subject.

—Many years ago, when I was a young man, I dreamed of being a great soldier —Demosthenes recounted—. Even a year ago, when I started my training, I was still hopeful of making a name for myself and defeating the invaders.

— And what made you change your mind?

—I realized that they are people like us. This war... is just a power game for the powerful.

Thoughtful, his friend fell silent. Possibly not many people agreed with Demosthenes, after all, part of their training had been to get them used to killing their enemies and seeing them as "barbarians," inferior people they should not feel remorse for killing.

Without another word, they both went to sleep.

The days went by and the two armies did nothing but stare menacingly at each other, separated by the river. It weighed on each soldier, robbing them of the sleep they enjoyed in their homes. But the Persians continued in their eagerness to wait, preferring not to underestimate their enemies. Although, they once again had the numerical advantage.

And so a week went by. A week of tense calm, of agonizing waiting, of rumors and speculation. The soldiers, bored by the inactivity, began to talk about what they would do after the war. A young man with a look full of love... or lust, said that he was going to marry the girl who had stolen his heart. Another, about 35 years old, mentioned that his family had not yet found him a fiancée, but that he hoped his father would offer him a good girl after his return home. A third, with ambitions of wealth and power, spoke of his desire to be a banker and build a fortune. An older slave who was a squire, with hope in his eyes, said that he wanted to be freed once and for all. His master, a man in his forties, told him that he would have to see about that with his father, but that he had already shown great courage in battle and that he would intercede for him.

Demosthenes, for his part, only longed to return to his wife and friends. Zenodulos, on the other hand, remained silent, his gaze lost on the horizon, his thoughts elsewhere.

Shortly after, the freedman withdrew from the conversation in the middle of the campfire, walking towards a dark part of the hill. Demosthenes took advantage of the moment and excused himself by saying that he was going to the bathroom, when his real purpose was to talk to the one who had once been his servant.

He found him among the trees, observing the moon as white as corpse skin.

 — They are a bit silly, but they are good guys. You will like them — Demosthenes said, trying to strike up a trivial conversation. —Just give them the chance to talk to you.

In his childhood, Zenodulos was always talkative, unless he was in the presence of a free citizen. But now he was a freedman. There was no need to be silent before someone of a higher social class. Without a doubt, something was on his mind.

He turned around calmly, his gaze serious and penetrating.

 —I am just tired —He murmured in a grave voice.

—We are all tired —Demosthenes replied —. Many can´t wait the moment this war and can be able to rebuild their city. Me included.

He was going to say "I'm sure you do too," but the freedman had already made it clear that he was fighting for his city and his future, although something didn't quite add up for Cleon's son.

Zenodulos spoke again, his voice barely a whisper:

 —Do you want to ask me about Arsames?

The name of his missing slave and friend surprised him, no doubt he never stopped thinking about him, but he had already given up on the man telling him more about his whereabouts, at least for now.

— I didn't come for that, it's just that I wanted to see how you were doing. I want to start over, you know? After all, we grew up together…

—You don't have to do this. Cleon is no longer here to force us to get along.

The sad memory of his father's death hit Demosthenes hard. He felt guilty for not having been with him in his last days.

—It's not because of that —He replied with sadness— I feel like I've been terrible to you. After all, I can't imagine how much you suffered in Acacius' house and in Athens when the Persians…

—You could never understand it…

Zenodulos looked at him with disgust. The old scars had not healed inside him. His gaze was as indecipherable as ever, but the warrior could see the hatred and anger in his eyes.

—I'm sorry... but I'm going to sleep.

And so he left, without really saying goodbye, leaving Demosthenes alone with his thoughts. Above all, he felt frustrated. Although he didn't fully trust Zenodulos, he wanted, at least, to honor the memory of his late father and also try to understand what Agatha and Kharma saw so much in him. But it seemed to be useless.

Giving up, he too went to sleep. The image of Arsames, fleeing to his lands, haunted him in his dreams.