Thermopylae was a three-day battle, and most accounts focus on the final day and the sacrifice of Leonidas, his three hundred Spartiates and the Thespians, but the first two days, before betrayal, were remarkable for their success. Below is an excerpt from "A Heroic King."
The other allies were wild with
jubilation. They were jumping up and down, clapping one another on the back,
and singing paeans to the Gods. Some had formed lines, arms on each other’s
shoulders, and were dancing despite the rain. They had not only survived the day,
they had held the entire might of the Persian Empire to a draw. They had
stopped the invincible Immortals in their tracks. The Pass was still in Greek
hands, and the Gods were clearly on the Greek side. How else explain that Zeus
himself with his thunderbolts had driven Xerxes from his viewing platform? How
else explain that when the Greeks were in the moment of greatest danger, the
rain and wind had forced the invincible Immortals to withdraw?
Leonidas was too tired to join in the
rejoicing. He was far more concerned about bringing their wounded and dead off
the field, and anxious that every man still alive was properly treated. Meander
was hovering around him, anxious to bind up his wounds, but Leonidas wanted the
names of the dead. “Where’s Alkander?” he demanded, abruptly noticing the
absence of his closest, dearest, oldest friend. No sooner did he miss Alkander
than he felt instantly and helplessly lost. He was a little boy again, in that
horrible storm during the Phouxir―only Alkander wasn’t with him. He
couldn’t survive without Alkander! It was a moment before he remembered he
wasn’t supposed to survive.
Prokles pointed to the bloody field and
growled, “He’s out there looking for Sperchias.”
Sperchias? That was almost as bad. He
and Sperchias had been together on Kythera…just like Euryleon. Only now did it
sink in.
“Sit down, Leo!” Prokles ordered. “Let
Meander look after you. You’re losing a pint of your god-damned royal blood,
and for all we know it’s the only pint left from Herakles.” As he spoke,
Prokles pushed him into the imperfect shelter of his tent to at least get him out
of the drenching rain.
As he sat, Leonidas caught sight of his
hoplon. With horror, he registered that the beautiful bronze work was torn,
bashed, punctured, and clogged with clotted human remains―a
hideous wreck. Only one eye of the lion was recognizable for what it had been.
The rest, once so lifelike and defiant, was just junk, beyond repair. Leonidas
felt a rush of shame. How could he have been so irresponsible as to take a work
of art into battle? Why hadn’t he left the shield at home for Pleistarchos? Men were mortal,
meant to die, but art ― art was meant to be immortal and
transcendent. Something as beautiful as this shield should never have been subjected
to this kind of violence! It should never have been violated by war. He wanted
to weep for what was irretrievably lost to all mankind.
Prokles’ voice snapped him out of his
spiraling grief. “You’ll need one of the spare hoplons,” he commented matter-of-factly,
and before Leonidas could even answer, Oliantus ducked into the tent to
announce, “Fourteen confirmed dead, sir. Five still missing. Twenty two seriously
injured, plus Eurytus and Aristodemos. A total of forty three casualties.”
Leonidas stared at him. “At that rate,
we have just five more days before we’re wiped out.” For the very first time
since he had arrived at Thermopylae, Leonidas seriously wondered whether they could
hold the Pass until the Spartan army arrived.
“Our casualties were disproportionately
high today because we took the field against the Immortals. The other allied
contingents have less severe casualties.”
“What about the Thespians?”
“I don’t have the exact numbers―”
“Get them. Or wait,” Leonidas tried to
stand, but Prokles and Oliantus both shoved him back down. Prokles signaled for
one of the helots to fetch Demophilus.
Meanwhile Oliantus continued, “The
helots have managed to get a fire going in a long pit behind the hillock and
have rigged up canvas covers to protect it from the rain. They are roasting
four pigs. The Gods alone know where they found embers and dry wood. As soon as
Meander gets you patched up, we should head over. The others won’t start
without you.”
“Tell them not to stand on ceremony at
a time like this. They can start without―”
“Precisely at
a time like this,” Oliantus corrected, “we need to remember who we are and who you
are, my lord. At no other time is a Spartan king more
important to us than on the eve of battle.”
Leonidas bowed his head in silent
acknowledgement, but then asked anxiously, “How badly wounded are Maron and
Alpheus?”
This brought a smile to Oliantus’ tired
face. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. They swear
the Twins appeared and stood on either side of them, fighting with them and protecting
them with their divine shields. Alpheus lost an eye, and Maron’s ankles are
bloated up like the fetlocks of a plow horse, but they aren’t going to die.”
Demophilus arrived, and Leonidas shook
off Meander and Prokles to get to his feet. They gazed at each other silently;
then Demophilus put his arms around Leonidas and murmured, “Thank you.”
“Whatever for?”
“Without you, they would have run; they
would have let the Persians just flood across Boiotia without even trying to
stop them. Now they know it can be done,” he continued, gesturing toward the men
singing and dancing around other campfires. “Now I
know it can be done. We can beat them!”
