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Estelion
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Name: Galahad
Birthday: 3/31/1986
Gender: Male
Interests: Books, building models, writing, history
Expertise: Dueling with rapier, sabre, or broad sword, marksmanship on an AR-15, boring people with longwinded talks about why a certain historical event changed the world.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Research
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Member Since:
3/9/2004
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| So, I wrote a short story a few nights back. Here it is. Enjoy or don't, your call.
War Journals: The Hot Gates
by Philip Ledbetter
My mother had a headstone. In another land, among other men, that statement no doubt seems odd or obvious. Here, though, among Spartans, I say it, and the men nod gravely, for a Spartan woman can only earn a grave marker by dying in child-birth. A man may earn his by dying in war. So, it seems I am to follow in my mother’s example and earn a marked grave of my own.
The Hot Gates seem as though they were shaped by the gods to be a killing field. One one side rise the sheer, unscalable cliffs. On the other side, a dizzying drop into the rock-strewn surf far below. It is as good a place as any meet my end. Even if it were not, these men are the best men to die with.
I was not a member of the Royal Guard when the war began, nor was I promoted for some feat of arms or because my family was well known. Indeed, many of the men here were not men of rank or position. When the decision to hold the enemy at Thermopylae was made, though, Leonidas insisted on taking only such men as had a living son. Many of the Royal Guard did not meet this requirement, and so it was that I took the place of a younger man. The men of Sparta are few enough, and losing even three hundred is a blow. So, our sons will fill the gap we leave. For not one of us shall return home.
That is more clear today than ever before, for the pass has been turned. We all knew about the path by which we could be outflanked, but we had hoped that the Phocian contingent would hold it longer, or that the Persians would take longer in discovering it. The sun is not yet up, and yet the camp is buzzing with the word of our imminent demise. The other Greeks are afraid. A man from Locris sits not far from my camp fire. I can hear the fear in his voice as he talks nervously with his mates. We have all faced the Persians by now, and know they are but men. Still, this young many quakes. It is not unnatural, I suppose. He did not grow up to be a soldier. He does not want to die, young as he is. Probably he has a girl back home he hopes to marry, a farm he hopes to raise crops on and die in peace.
“They say the Persians have hundreds of thousands of archers,” he says.”They say that when they fire, the arrows are so many that they block out the sun!”
Dienekes, sitting next to me, hears him as well. He stands up and shouts over to the Locrians, his voice carrying across the camp for all to hear. Heads turn toward us and I shake my head slightly.
“Block out the sun, will they?” he bellows. “All the better I say. We can finally have a battle in the shade!”
We laugh. The Locrian smiles. I can see courage growing in his eyes. We all feel a little braver
The council of commanders is beginning to disperse. Leonidas walks toward our little group huddled around the camp.
Leonidas.
Neither we nor he expected him to be king one day. He had two older brothers in line for the crown ahead of him, so he was not raised to be a king, but a Spartan soldier. There are Spartans among us who grew up with him in the agoge. They have shared his mess, and camped with him in the cold, rugged hills of Sparta in their youth. He knows the life, and we are glad for that. His fellow king, Leotychides, is an excellent King and as good a Spartan as one is likely to meet, but Leonidas is a soldier, tried and trained by the same school as the poorest Spartan child. We are all glad to have him here with us. There is no better man to lead us into the Unseen. He chose this mission for himself, against the wishes of some on the Council, or so I have heard. There was never any question but that a King had to lead this mission. The oracle of Delphi has spoken. A Spartan King must die, or the city will fall. Given these options, the lowest Spartan would still choose the former. We are but his escort into Hades.
Orders are being shouted among the Locrian camp now. They are gearing up for a march. Some of their faces look relieved. The young Locrian near me looks conflicted. No doubt he has been summoning the courage to die, only to be told he will not have to. He looks over at Dienekes and I. Dienekes reaches down to his gear and picks up a Spartan sword in its sheath, and wrapped in its baldric. As the Locrian stands their, torn in his mind, Dienekes tosses the short sword at him. It bounces off his chest, startling him before he catches it.
“Kill me a Persian with that at the next battle,” calls Dienekes.
The Locrian opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. He sets his jaw and nods. He picks up his gear, looks toward us one last time, then turns and follows his mates.
The Allies are leaving. I suspect some are not unhappy to go. Some seem reluctant, but most go willingly. There are two exceptions to this. The Thespians are staying,. They are among the few Boeotians who have come. Many in that land favor medizing. Thepsiae’s presence here is a message that they do not. The Thebans als stay. They came, only four hundred strong, against the desires of the city leaders. So they have little to lose.
We have heard nothing of the Phocians who were guarding our flank. There is no way or time to find out. Perhaps they fought to the death. Perhaps they fled or surrendered. It does not matter really, so we try to put it out of our minds and focus on the task at hand. What matters now is that we are soon to be surrounded. We prepare ourselves.
The sun is up now and already it is growing warm. Part of my mind hopes it will all be over before the blistering heat of the day sets in. Word comes down the line. The men behind us are from the King’s Immortals, Persia’s elite. We killed a lot of them on the first day. So they are, in fact, very mortal.
Leonidas has begun issuing orders now. The Thespian and Theban contingents will try to hold the Immortals at bay for as long as they can. We, meanwhile, will face the fury of everything Xerxes can throw down this narrow road. There will be no more reserving our strength, no more fighting in relays. We will meet them in the pass, well in front of our wall. The mound on which Leonidas’ own camp fire sits will be our final rally point where we will regroup for the last stand. These orders are delivered with great calm. It is not a rousing speech. He knows we do not need one. We are Spartans. We do not waste words.
The time has come for the morning sacrifice. It is made by the old priest, Megistias, and his son. We stand in silence while he reads the future in the entrails of the victim. In large part, this is but a formality, for if the portents deal with today, then they are clear already.
When Megistias stands, there is no great joy in his face, but neither does he seem despondent. “The portents speak of blood and death, my king,” he says.
Leonidas just nods. Dienekes smiles. Any one of us could have read that in the events of this morning so far.
The sun is starting to climb as we gather around Leonidas’ mound. Armed since he rose, the King surveys us for a long moment, as if contemplating his actions. At last he nods, as if he has made a decision, yet his words indicate nothing of the sort.
“Go now to your breakfast, men,” he says quietly. “Tonight, I will dine with you in Hades.”
We disperse, and Megistias sends off his son to catch up with the departing Greek allies. The old seer has refused Leonidas orders to go. From the slain, we have pieced together a suit of armor, a shield, and a spear to lend him. Old though he is, he handles the gear well enough. I am heartened that he stays, as his death will offend the gods. Hopefully, they will smite Xerxes for it. Such thoughts make it a little easier.
We eat in silence. The Thespians and Thebas have marched away to take up their posts, so it is only Spartans around. Our thoughts are our own, but I think most of us think of our families. Every moment we hold this pass is another moment of freedom for our children and our wives. One day, my son will speak proudly that his father died at Thermopylae. He will remember though all else about this war passes from memory. Though Persia should win, and crush all freedom from Hellas, yet our stand will remain imprinted on the memory of my son, and that of every man here, so long as one remains to remember it. The Persian King’s royal guard is called the Immortals because their number is every kept the same. Leonidas’ Royal guard, though, we are Immortal, or soon will be. I give voice to none of this. I am a Spartan, and I do not waste words.
The sun has been up about three hours, and the market back home will just be filling up. Our lookouts report that the Thespians are engaged. It is time.
Dienekes checks the straps of my armor and I return the favor. Normally this task would be performed by our Helot squires, but we have both dismissed ours today with orders to return to Sparta. Whether they will or not, we do not know. It seems a trivial thing to worry about at this point.
I sling my shield on my back and offer Dienekes’ shield to him. As I do, I once again notice the life sized fly painted just above the required lambda - standing for Lacedaemon, our homeland. Many Spartans paint their shields with some personal device aside from the Spartan lambda, yet Dienekes tiny fly has ever seemed out of place to my mind. I shake my head.
“Dienekes,”I begin, “there is something I have wanted to ask you for a long time, but have never known the appropriate time. As we are about to die, this seems as good a time as any.”
“I’m already married,” he says, straight-straight face. I shake my head and laugh.
“Why is there a fly on your shield?” I ask.
“It is my emblem,” he says simply.
“Yes, but why is it so small?”
“It seemed foolish to paint it larger, for my enemies will be getting a very close view of my shield.” He grins as he says it, and I wonder if he has been waiting long for me to ask him about it. I laugh, and don my helmet. Together, we trot off to join the line.
Our place is in the second line, near to the King. Dienekes is on my right, his shield protecting my otherwise unguarded flank. There is something in that fact that bonds men. He has only to falter in as step, or fall out of formation, and I am open to attack. It builds trust because, when the battle starts and chaos reigns on the field, the men next to you in line are all that truly matter.
Leonidas inspects our line. We know it is perfect. We have been training to make that line perfect since childhood. Our spears are at rest, and a nervous energy hums through our ranks, ready to unleash itself horrifically on the unfortunate trouser-wearing barbarian slaves we are soon to meet. Then we see Eurytus.
Eurytus contracted an infection in his eyes somewhere along the march. By the time we reached the pass, he was practically blind. So, Leonidas dismissed him to a town a few miles back. Now, wearing as strip of cloth over his useless eyes, he hobbles toward us, led by his Helot squire. Leonidas leaves his inspection and approaches Eurytus. In the distance, we can hear the horns of the Persian army.
“What are you doing?” demands the King.
“I heard we were doomed. I came to help,” replies the blind Spartan.
“Eurytus, you can barely see,” says Leonidas.
“Put me in the front line,” comes the reply. “If some one will push me along until we make contact, I’ll be fine.”
There is a long moment of silence. None of us fear the burden, but pushing a brother to his certain death is not a task any of us relish. To turn him down, though, would dishonor him, and who could dishonor that noble offer.
“I’ll do it,” I hear myself saying before I have made up my mind.
A space clears immediately in the line in front of me and Eurytus’ squire guides him in, then sprints off. I place my shield against his back. We say nothing. We are Spartans. We were born for this.
We can see the enemy in the pass now. We begin to march toward them, silently at first, but then we begin to sing. It is a poem of Tyratios that we sing - a song that we have memorized since we were old enough to do so. The Persians are thick ahead of us, jammed from cliff to cliff. They are coming quickly. As they run, I see one trip, stumble, then topple over the brink. His fellows run on without a pause, sparing only a slight glance.
It is beautiful when a brave man of the front ranks falls and dies, battling for his homeland.
We sing as we break into a run, charging the enemy, our spears dropping level horizontal as one. The suddenness of this makes the Persian front line balk. I grin viciously. The fear us. They should. We are dead men, and the dead fear nothing. With a great shout, we clash with the enemy, simply trampling down the front rank. We sing as we slay.
Let us battle for our fatherland and freely give our lives to save our darling children.
Eurytus goes down, a short Persian spear in his neck. I let him fall and step around him, ramming my spear through his killer’s neck. Blood sprays over my shaft as I rip it back out of him. I crush a Persian wicker shield with my heavy bronze one, knocking the man over. I place a foot on his chest and drive my but spike through his heart. The man behind me darts his spear over my shoulder, impaling the next Persian while I free my spear and bring it back level. I send the bronze blade of it clean through shield of another barbarian, driving it on into him. I pull back, only to find my spear tangled in the wickerwork of his shield. I abandon the weapon and draw my short sword, stabbing it around and over my shiled.
Young men, fight shield to shieldm and never succumb to panic or miserable flight.
My sword arm is covered in Persian blood. Our charge is stalling as the Persians try to lap around the flanks of our small phalanx. On the seaward side, countless enemies are simply shoved off the cliff in the press of battle. On my right, I see Dienekes take a spear to the leg. He keeps his pace, thrusting with his spear until a Persian axe cleaves the haft. Dienekes simply flips the lower half over and continues slaying with the butt spike, immediately killing the breaker of his spear.
Then, somewhere, the cry goes up. Leonidas has fallen. The King is down.
Steel the heart in your chest with magnificence!
We surge toward the call, Spartan and Persian alike. All else is forgotten in the desperate struggle to save the body of our fallen lord. That all our bodies will soon be in Persian hands does not matter even a little to us. Dienekes and I shove our way into the mess. We hardly worry about killing any more, but use our shields to force the Persians back. Blows rain down on us, but inch by inch, we force the tidal wave of enemies back.
The brothers Alpheus and Maron manage at last to drag Leonidas’ corpse well into our lines, though Maron toakes a wicked looking sword wound while doing it. It slows him not at all.
“Spartans!”
It is the rallying cry. The Thepsians have fallen back and so we shall. An axe head splits through my shield as we begin to retreat. I reach back to tap the man behind me on the leg. He leans up and covers both of us with his shield while I slip back and we trade places seamlessly. I reach up and fling the axe into the Persian throng, hoping it may by chance strike someone. I do not wait to see, but drop back into the cover of the shield wall. Even in these mad conditions, discipline holds. Reaching the wall, we suddenly turn and lunge forward, driving the Persians back.
The enemy retreats a space, realizing we are not yet beaten, and we hurry through the gap in the wall. Once through, we spring to the hill, where I can see a few Thespians gathered. Alpheus is on the crest, arranging the body of the King. Maron is no where to be seen.
It is obvious that few are left. Perhaps one hundred all told remain when we reach the hill. We circle around the body of our lord and lock shields. Though we have long since stopped singing., the song continues to pulse in my mind as the Persians charge.
So spread your legs, rooting them into the ground, bite your teeth into your lip, and stand.
The melee is horrible. I have fought in more than enough phalanxes to be hardened to the carnage of it all. This fight surpasses all else in its sheer ruthlessness. The ground neath quickly becomes a mire of blood, mud, and gore. All around me, Spartans and Thespians kill and die. Our weapons are no longer ash spears, and our shields quickly become useless. Instead, we fight with swords, our own or the enemy’s. Broken spears become clubs. Spearheads and but spikes become daggers. When all else fails us, we use our hands and teeth.
Blood permiates all. My sword blunges into the chest of an enemy warrior. The blade breaks on his ribs. Grabbing a broken spear, I wade into the carnage. My first blow lays out a Persian, a second blow crushes his head. A spear rips through my upper arm. My club takes its owner in the neck. He drops, and I pull the weapon out of my arm and keep fighting.
Dienekes is near me, howling his rage as he battles with a Persian axe. The weapon seems to move in a cloud of blood as he wields it. Death reigns supreme on this field.. Spartans and Thespians seel their lives at an outrageous price all over the hill. Persian and Greek bodies are piling up at the foot of the hill, and we soon have a grisly rampart, though the men who defend it are dwindling with every moment.
Then it stops.
The enemy simply melt away, leaving us, panting, to survey the harvest of death we have reaped for Hades dark kingdom in the past hours. The field gradually goes silent as our blood rage subsides. We regroup. I find Dienekes. He ca barely walk, and one of his eyes is just gone, replaced by a bloody mess that covers half his face. I half-carry him up the hill as the enemy regroups at a safe distance. I can hear orders being screamed in a dozen languages I do not know. Again and again, though, the same words repeat. It is not hard to realize the order, nor to recognize the face that it is being refused at all cost. A view of the field offers a fare excuse for he mutiny.
At last, a consensus seems to be reached that they are not going to charge. An officer marches forward with a small honor guard. By the look of him, he has not slacked in the flighting today. Just within earshot, he stops and raises his hand in token that he wishes to parlay. We offer no answer, but await his speech.
“Noble Spartans,” he brings.
“And Thespians!” comes a shout. A young man struggles to the front. “Who do you think it was that gave your lot hell back there?”
The Persian pauses, as if uncertain what to do. Finally, he goes on. “I am Hydarnes, commander of the King’s Immortals.”
“I think our Thespian friends have disproved that name!” crows a Spartan. The young Thespian grins and the Spartan offers him a nod.
Hydarnes presses on. “I came to express my admiration and that of the Great King for the courage with which you have fought this day.”
“I saw only one King on the battlefied!” I shout, gaining a cheer from our lines.
Hydarnes abandons decorum and steps closer. I can see the earnestness in his face. It surprises me.
“Listen to me, will you?” he says. “My king will allow you all to go free. Go home as heroes, for you are that. He only demands that you leave the body of Leonidas. Come be reasonable. I would not see brave men die needlessly. What say you?”
We hear nothing after the demand for Leonidas corpse. There is no way to make this man understand the impossibility of our surrender. This is our post, and we are pledged to hold it. Dienekes struggles to rise. I reach down and pull his arm over mine. He draws a deep breath and bellows our answer.
“Come and take him!”
We roar. Such is the fierceness that Hydarnes’ guards reach for their swords in the fear that we will charge. We cheer, abandoning life and embracing death to join our King in Hades. Hydarnes simply nods, and walks back to his own lines. An order is shouted.
There is a commotion and shuffling among the Persian forces. New troops, it seems, are coming to the front. We do our best to prepare to meet their charge. Fresh troops are certain to finish us off. Tired ones might suffice now, for there is not one man among us who is not maimed in some way. I pull off my battered helm and set it reverently on the ground. I pull off my felt skull cap and smile at the cool breeze through my hair. I relax, for these troops will not be charging us.
They are archers.
I suppose it is something of a complement, for it is an admission of the fear we have inspired in their troops. It is not the death I would have chosen, but I suppose we rarely get the chance to choose at all. I have been given the privilege of choosing the company I die in, and I am satisfied with that.
The bows are drawn now, and we watch as the Persians aim skyward. Alpheus crouches with his shield to protect Leonidas’ body with his own. I pull Dienekes up and wrap my arm around his side, helping him stay upright.
The fire.
As the arrows arc high into the sky, Dienekes chuckles. He points up and I follow the gesture skyward to the great cloud of arrows, and smile. For the Locrian was wrong.
The sun yet shines.
© Philip Ledbetter, 2007
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| And so I will do it anyway. Today in 533 A.D. My hero, Belisarius, effectively destroyed the Vandal kingdom in Africa at the battle of Tricameron. Sorry if this means nothing to you, but I wrote a novel about the guy, so it matters to me, so there! Anyway, happy Byzantine V.A. (Victory in Africa) Day.
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| Happy Irish Independence Day! Today in 1922, the Irish Free State comes into existance!
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| To Do:
1 Paper
4 homework assignments
1 Essay
3 worksheets
80 pages of reading
10 discussion points to come up with
Let the All-Nighter comence!
QUOTE DE AHORA
"I must not fear. Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain." - Frank Herbert, Dune
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