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By Root 1877 0

we were too far from the banks of the river and the Persians would shoot any man who went down the bank for a helmet of water – filthy water, in any case. Later in the day, parched, angry and dirty, we stumbled back to the pass, and we heard that the Lydians were rising behind us – that the men of all Caria were marching to the aid of their satrap. In those days, the Carians were called the ‘Men of Bronze’ because they wore so much armour, and they were deadly. Later in the Long War, they were our allies. But not that week.

We washed at the springs of the Hermus, and we filled our canteens and drank our fill and were braver. But we were no longer an army, we were an angry mob. The Athenians did nothing to hide their contempt for all the Ionians as soldiers. The Ionians returned their contempt with angry rejection, and it was muttered that the Athenians were sacrificing the Ionians for their own ends.

Which was true, of course.

Aristides grew angrier and angrier, his pale skin constantly flushed, and he walked along in silence, his slave trotting to keep up.

I stood around, watching Aristides, watching the army disintegrate, and I understood why soldiers were deserting. We were doomed, and the rush of bad omens that surrounded us, including a live hare dropped on a sacrificing priest by an eagle, only confirmed what every man knew. In addition, men who had murdered and raped in the city knew that they had brought their own doom upon them, and they were sullen, guilty or merely dejected.

The Athenians did not suffer from these problems. Heraklides gave me a heavy necklace of gold and lapis that he had snatched from the stall in the agora. ‘You only saved my life ten times,’ he said. ‘And I saved my loot. I got the whole bag behind my shield.’ He laughed, showing his snaggle teeth. He was only six years older than me, but he seemed like the old man of the sea himself. I put the necklace on, drank wine from my canteen and marched with the Athenians, who were still a disciplined band. We had come over the pass as the advance guard, and we were going home as the rearguard, with the Eretrians just ahead.

‘At home, they’re our worst enemies,’ Heraklides grunted at me. ‘But you know that, eh? You were in the fight at the bridge?’

‘I was,’ I said.

‘They held us a long time there,’ Heraklides said. ‘Good fighters. Glad to have them, out here.’

Aristides came up to us. ‘You can go into the front rank in place of Melodites,’ he said without preamble. He didn’t smile, but I did. He had his helmet on the back of his head – all the Athenians did, because they marched ready to fight at all times, as did the Eretrians.

I grinned like a fool. ‘Thanks, lord,’ I said.

He looked grim. ‘Don’t thank me. When we face the Medes again, you’ll be the first to face them.’

I shrugged. ‘I was in the front rank in the marketplace,’ I said. ‘Let’s not stand around and let them shoot us, next time.’

He walked off, and I thought that he hadn’t heard me, or, more likely, had chosen to ignore me. I was young – very young to be in the front rank.

I took the dead man’s place and was a file-leader, and the other men of my file thought well enough of me to help me make a plume-holder and a plume to mark my new rank.

I no longer thought of Briseis. I was in the grip of Ares.

When Aristides saw me with my horsehair plume, he came up and slapped my shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but it was one of the proudest moments of my life.

From the top of the pass we could see the river in the distance, and the Ephesians cheered as if we’d been gone a month and marched a thousand stades. We were the last ones down the pass, and we knew from the scouts that there were Lydians and Carians right behind us.

Aristides wanted to hold the pass, and we halted at the narrowest part of the down slope. He picked his ground brilliantly – a gentle curve in the pass, so that the longest bowshot was about one hundred paces, and the sides of the pass as steep as walls on either side. We made camp, a cold, cheerless camp with no water. Aristides sent me as a runner to