Leonidas laughed. "What kind of a joke is this?"

But the ambassador remained serious. "It is that which is requested by my lord and King of Kings, the Emperor of Asia."

"A little dirt and a little water, that is?" asked Leonidas, as soon as his laughter had subsided. "Did you come all the way here for a little dirt and a little water?"

The Persian made a sign behind him and his attendant came forward, holding out the small amphora and the silver vase. "It is a symbolic declaration of submission…"

"Submission?" asked Leonidas, his face showing his aversion to the hideous word.

"Yes, submission. By giving earth and water… That is what the Great King asks" repeated the Persian ambassador with complete seriousness.

The Spartan stared at him in puzzlement. The demand he had heard was beyond all logic. How could the earth and water of a city be given? Those goods belonged to the gods and not to men. The gods gave them and took them back. No one else.

"Ask Zeus and Apollo, the protectors of Sparta, for them" Leonidas said ironically. "But you'll have to climb to the top of Mount Olympus to do that."

The Persian frowned and his expression became even more dry and formal. "The King of Kings demands earth and water from Sparta" he repeated intensely.

"What does that mean, Persian? I do not understand!" Leonidas said in the same tone.

"You will be subjects. You and your city. Your land and your people will be possessions of my emperor and will belong to him just as all the world from the Mediterranean Sea and Egypt to the Caspian Sea and India belong to him" he announced, taking the amphora and the vase from his attendant and offering them to Leonidas with his own hands.

"How can humans become possessions of other humans without being beaten in battle and taken captive? How can they belong to someone? What you are asking, ambassador, is an insult to the Spartans. We are free citizens and obey only the law of our city. Nothing else! At least, not until we are defeated in battle!"

"The Great Xerxes is not merely human. He is chosen by the great god. He himself is a god."

"Blasphemy!" shouted one of the elders, who was also a priest in the temple of Apollo. "Hubris inside our city itself. Hubris for us and an insult to the god who is our protector!"

Leonidas bent his head. And stayed that way, motionless, thinking, for several moments. Not even the breathing of the guards could be heard in the heat of the summer's noon. Themistocles and Cimonas watched wordlessly, holding their breath. If Leonidas gave a positive answer to save his city, or if he even tried to negotiate with the ambassador, Themistocles' whole strategy would collapse. The Greek alliance would have no chance without the Spartans. The only thing left for the Athenians to do would be to get into their warships and sail away from Athens, looking for another country.

"What about ours?" asked Cimonas in a whisper. "What would they answer?"

Themistocles was lost in thought and in his suspense. "What do you mean, ours?"

"Since a Persian ambassador came here, one will have gone to Athens too. Perhaps one is already there, since our city is closer to Asia. What do you think they answered?"

A new wave of suspense dominated Themistocles. Cimonas was right. In Athens there were many rich aristocrats who would like to see a deliberate surrender to the Persians so as to achieve their double purpose: to save their fortunes from destruction, and to dissolve the democracy. It was certain that Xerxes would bring in old Hippias, who for many years had been living at his court and nursing his hatred for Greeks, as its satrap and tyrant. Then everything the people had achieved—the right to vote, freedom, equality before the law—would be lost. Athens would become an insignificant province, an oppressive tyranny.

"By Zeus… Everything is at stake now…" Themistocles murmured in a choking voice, looking at the Spartan king before him.

At a certain point Leonidas raised his head and looked at the imperious messenger of the Persian king. The golden jewelry flashed on his arms, his legs, his throat and his breast. In his face, his eyes, painted with antinomy, stared straight ahead without moving an eyelash. He was like a statue of arrogance, insolence and contempt, all the qualities the frugal and austere Spartans hated most.

The Persian waited.

Leonidas smiled.

Themistocles squirmed.


Leonidas smiled for a long time. Then he looked away from the Persian. He looked first at the three respected elders of the city council who waited, standing a little farther back, for his decision. Then he turned and looked at his men, standing motionless in the lines of their phalanx like armored statues.

At an almost imperceptible sign from him, the first file moved and its eight men ran towards him.

They came up to the ambassador and grasped him by the arms, while they immobilized his two attendants.

"You cannot touch us. We have asylum. We are official ambassadors and hold the Caduceus" said the Persian without losing any of his arrogance.

One of the Spartans moved quickly and took the wooden rod from his hand.

"Not any more…" said Leonidas, and came towards him.

"You cannot do anything. We are an official delegation. It is great hubris if you hurt us."

"The hubris came from you first. It was a very great impropriety from a guest."

"What hubris?"

"You compared a simple king with the gods. That is hubris to the gods. Especially in the city of Apollo."

"We do not believe in the same gods" explained the Persian. He had lost some of his arrogance in the meantime.

"That was not all."

"I did not say anything else. If you hurt us, the great curse of blasphemy will fall upon your city. You know that."

"There is no greater blasphemy, Persian, than to ask free men to become slaves of their own will."

"There is the emperor and there are his subjects. That is how the world is made."

"Not ours!"

Leonidas said nothing further. He looked around him once more and then walked to the right, to where the altar of the goddess Artemis was located, and the great well of water with which they cleaned it after sacrifices.

Behind him followed his men, dragging the Persian by the arms. Sweat from the burning summer heat melted the paint on his eyes and his light, many-colored garments were growing heavy with sweat. Only his jewelry remained as bright as ever, reflecting the golden light of the sun.

"Shall we swear an oath to the gods?" asked the Persian ambassador with a weak smile, when they let him go behind the sacred altar.

"Why do you not ask them yourself? In a little while you will see them."

"How…"

"You asked for earth and water, Persian" the Spartan told him severely, looking at the vase and the amphora that the messenger was still holding in his hands.

"Yes…"

"Go and get some yourself, then!" shouted Leonidas. "Because this…" He screamed, and the muscles of his face tightened, revealing all of his pent-up rage "… this is Sparta!"

The next second his terrific arms shot out.

The breast of the Persian received a terrible blow and fell backwards.

His blood-curdling cry ended in a splash as he fell to the bottom of the well.

He had gotten the earth and water he asked for.


Besides the Thessalians, Thebes and the city of Argos that sided with the Persians out of long-standing enmity with Sparta, all the other Greek cities agreed to participate in the war effort. They sent soldiers and ships, and they swore to the gods to hold to their decision with all their might. The ships would gather as soon as possible in the dockyards of Athens, Salamis and Aegina, while the phalanxes of the Greek army would be drawn up in two defensive lines. The first would hold the pass at Thermopylae, a hundred and twenty miles north of Athens, and the second would hold Isthmos, forty miles to the south of Athens.

One month after representatives of the Greek cities had gathered and the alliance had been formed, the Hercules company, the Spartan royal guard, bid farewell to its city. It was the ceremony that Sparta always organized for its soldiers leaving for war. First there were sacrifices to the gods, led by the archpriest who also commanded the expeditionary force, King Leonidas himself. Immediately after that, all the city's inhabitants lined up on the road leading to the city's exit. Men, women, children, even babies hanging at their mother's breasts stood by the sides of the road, wearing their black garments, to say goodbye to the soldiers, wish them a triumphant victory or honorable death, and listen to them proudly chant their battle hymn as they marched off to war.

The supplies, pack animals and slaves that would accompany the Spartan phalanx had already left days previously to set up camp and makeshift kitchens. The soldiers would follow accompanied only by their personal attendants, who carried their personal belongings and their weapons. Fourteen hours quick march every day. One meal. Six hours of sleep. Three weeks to get to the field of battle, three hundred miles north of Sparta.

Leonidas stood before his soldiers, raised his cup with the last of the wine, poured half of it on the ground as an offering to the gods, and drank the rest. He strode slowly towards the point where his wife, Gorgo, was waiting for him together with their children, and went first to his oldest son. He bent, caressed his head, and asked him to continue their line with dignity and honor.

"Since the time Sparta was founded our wives, our mothers and our sisters have never faced an enemy sword. You must continue this tradition, my son. That is the inheritance I leave to you" he said calmly and in a steady voice.

Then he turned, opened his arms, scarred from dozens of battles, and tightly clasped his wife, Gorgo in them. He felt the wild beating of her heart against his chest, smelled the aroma of her unbraided hair, and tenderly kissed her dry cheek.

"I only have one wish and I want you to remember it and put it into practice. Choose a good husband…" he urged her, simply, and fixed his gaze on her large black eyes for a little while—for a last moment, something to remember from their happy life together.

Beside him, behind him, the Spartan soldiers were saying goodbye to their wives and sons who would carry on their lines if they had the great honor of falling in battle defending their country—which, as everyone knew, was very likely to happen on this campaign. No tears were shed, there was no begging or regrets. The country was more important than anything else. And military honor was the greatest good. Those were their values.

A little while later the soldiers returned to their lines. They took up their weapons and gave the order to their attendants to raise the rest of their gear from the ground. The time had come. The pipes sounded piercingly three times and then started up their familiar rhythm. The men began to sing loudly, led by Leonidas, and marched in formation toward the city's exit. Half an hour later, the golden wheatfields of the plain swallowed up their worn and faded red cloaks. Before they left, Leonidas had ordered that the men should not be given new cloaks so as not to unnecessarily burden the treasury. After all, most of them would not need a cloak at all after the battle. In a tomb there is no difference between an old cloak and a new one.

After their departure the sound of their battle hymn faded quickly together with their image. Their rhythmic stride on the dry ground was soon lost. But the military body that left for Thermopylae was not the total of nine thousand first and second reserve soldiers that Sparta had.

It was not the four and a half thousand first line soldiers that were usually sent on campaigns.

It was not even the one thousand five hundred select warriors.

It was only three hundred.


The first line of defense, a narrow pass, was a hundred and twenty miles north of Athens. It combined all the advantages. To the east lay the sea and to the west was the high mountain of Kallidromo, impassable for a large army. Between them there was a strip of level ground, half a mile long and two hundred feet wide, the only passable road leading from northern to southern Greece. Whoever wanted to advance towards Athens and Sparta from the north would have to pass over that long and narrow piece of land. The pass called Thermopylae.

The point selected was ideal for Themistocles' strategy of simultaneous battle on land and sea. Forty miles to the east of Thermopylae lay the sea straits of Artemisio, ten miles in width, between the shore and the island of Euboea. Two hundred and fifty ships from the Greek fleet lay at anchor there, while another hundred remained behind in the dockyards as a reserve in case the Persians decided to divide their fleet in two and attack the Greeks from the south. The Persians had the power and the numbers of vessels to make such an outflanking movement successful. They had one thousand two hundred fully equipped warships and hundreds of transports.

The three hundred soldiers of the royal guard reached Thermopylae on the evening of the twentieth day after leaving Sparta. In the course of their journey they had been strengthened by military units from the cities they passed through, so that in the end they numbered four thousand in all. Leonidas sent a thousand soldiers from Phocis behind the mountain of Kallidromo to guard the Anopaia Path, which was a second way to cross the mountains. It would be impossible for a large army to pass over it, but a small, well-equipped military force might use it to outflank the Greek defensive positions. Another two thousand soldiers were sent to the heights around Thermopylae and the rest of them made camp on the south side of the pass, with the three hundred Spartans taking position at the center and the seven hundred soldiers from the city of Thespies arranged to their right and left.

That same evening the Spartans erected an altar and made sacrifices to the gods to consecrate the field of battle. Then they set guards and sent out scouts, lit fires and withdrew to eat a few crusts of barley, some cheese and some figs, and to rest. They slept on the ground wrapped in their cloaks. Each soldier's attendant slept next to his master, protecting the military supplies he carried for him: needles and string made of intestines for stitching wounds, iron for cauterizing, linen bandages for blood, pyrite for lighting fires, sand and oil for polishing the bronze armor, emery stones for sharpening the swords and spears, cooking pans, pickaxes for opening trenches, images of the gods, family charms, amulets and mementos.

Leonidas now held two of these in his hands and looked at them intently, breathing deeply but calmly. One was a braid of his son's black hair and the other was a white scarf embroidered in the center with simple red thread forming the name "Gorgo". They were both mementos and amulets. For a battle without mercy. A battle to the end, since it was well known that Spartans never retreated. They either won or died. The farewell wish of Spartan mothers and wives was the famous ancient Greek phrase: "either come back holding your shield proudly before your chest, or dead, with your body on top of it."

The next morning the Spartans woke, as was their habit, before the dawn. Leonidas sent scouts to the north to find out what kind of condition the battlefield was in and how many Persians had already arrived.

When the scouts came back to report that the plain spreading out beyond the pass was empty, he sent out groups of soldiers to destroy every house, uproot every bush, kill everything alive and poison every river and well with the bodies, thus depriving the Persians of food and drinking water.

The next day he ordered all his soldiers to proceed to the narrowest point of the pass and to rebuild an old, ruined wall there, carrying stones from Mount Kallidromo.

Soldiers, attendants, weapon makers and craftsmen formed a long human chain starting at the foothills of the mountain and reaching all the way to the level pass. Dienekes, Leonidas' second in command, was the first link in the chain high on the mountain, while the last link, at the other end where the wall would be built, was the king himself. He had taken off his chiton and was hauling rocks like all his men.

By the third day after their arrival the wall reached three feet higher than the head of a strong man and Leonidas ordered that the work should be stopped. That same day at noon, the first Athenian messenger from the fleet anchored to the east, in the straits of Artemisio, arrived at their camp. It was Cimonas, captain of the Pallas, and his ship dropped anchor before Thermopylae to serve as a link between the Spartans and the Greek fleet.

"You chose the right place to give battle" admitted Cimon when he arrived, embracing Leonidas warmly. "But…" he murmured skeptically, looking around him.

"But?"

"There are so few of us… the terrain will help but it will still be difficult to succeed…"

"It is not just the terrain. We built the wall too."

"The Persians have cavalry and siege engines. We Greeks never lay siege, but they say the Persian army acquired most of its cities by laying siege to them, even Babylon, whose walls were famous throughout Asia."

"I know all that. I have taken my measures. For the cavalry we have dug dozens of pits. We buried large clay jars upside down in them and put the earth, stones and plants back in their place so that no one can tell where they are. The jars can take the weight of a man but not the weight of a horse. They will break and the horses will fall into the pits. We can fight before our wall, but their cavalry cannot.

Cimonas' face brightened. He had always respected Spartan military techniques, but now he was filled with admiration. "And for the siege?"

"I hope they do lay siege to us. That will delay them long enough for nature to decimate them."

"What do you mean?"

"Where will they find water and food for so many thousands of men? I have taken my measures. If you stop their transports on the sea and their provisions never arrive, their advantage will become a disadvantage. But even if our wall seems small to you and you are afraid it won't hold up to their siege engines" continued Leonidas in a rare moment of garrulity, "know that I have taken measures for that too. As you know, just above us are the famous thermal springs with their hot water welling from the earth that give this place its name. My men have made small dams there to stop their flow and collect the water. The Persian siege engines are large, heavy and cumbersome, pulled by slaves on wooden wheels. They are hard to hide and even harder to move. If they appear on the horizon, our men will break the dams and the pass will fill with water. The ground will become a mud sink and it will be impossible to drag the siege engines over it."

"Excellent…"

"It's not so great" Leonidas said shyly. "Every general makes the earth his ally. He has been trained to do that since he was a boy."

"Not every general. Your generals…" Cimonas said in admiration.

"Every Spartan general" Leonidas corrected himself, blushing. Then he hastily changed the subject. "Has the fleet arrived? Themistocles? Our plan depends on them. Without the fleet, everything we do here will be worthless."

"We have anchored off the coast and pulled the ships up on the sand to dry them out and make them lighter and easier to maneuver. Themistocles has sent scouts out on the open sea. From what they saw and reported, he calculates that the Persian fleet will be here in three days. We have established naval formations on the islands opposite, to notify us as soon as they see a Persian ship on the horizon."

"We do not have contact with the enemy yet. The field on the other side of the pass is still empty. Our scouts have not found even a trace of a Persian soldier."

"Perhaps in Thessalia, to the north, they have changed their minds and decided to resist. That might explain the slowness of their army."

"The Thessalians took no oath to the gods when we made our alliance. But even if they've decided to fight now, they won't have any chance all alone on the open plain where their cities are. The Persians will mow them down like a scythe cutting through ripe wheat. We are alone. If we do not stop them, no one will."

It was late in the afternoon and they had finished their frugal meal, sitting and talking in the shade of an oak tree. Cimonas took out a worn linen cloth, spread it out, and was preparing to write Leonidas' commands to Eurybiades on it with a piece of charcoal. Eurybiades was the commander of the Greek fleet. On the day when the representatives of the Greek cities met at Isthmos to vote, Themistocles had accepted a Spartan as commander of the fleet even though Sparta had only sixteen warships and Athens had two hundred, for the sole purpose of making sure that Sparta was part of the alliance. In return, he had asked only one favor. He had asked Leonidas to promise that if he had trouble convincing Eurybiades to carry out a sea maneuver, then the king would help him. The commander of the fleet was above the other admirals like Themistocles and he did not have to obey them, but he would not be able to ignore a command from the king himself.

"Well? What does our friend Themistocles want us to write to Eurybiades?"

"He wants you to command him not to make all the decisions about the fleet's movements himself, but always to consult the council of war."

Leonidas laughed heartily. Then he took the cloth and the coal from Cimonas' hand, threw them away, and picked up a cup of wine.

"It's not necessary. It's a waste of time and cloth, my friend. Eurybiades never makes a decision on his own anyway."

"Never?"

"Never. Believe me, I've known him for many years. He always wants to have partners to share the responsibility and so he can blame them for his mistakes. His opinion is lighter than dry leaves in an autumn breeze. That's why I recommended him to the Apella as commander of the fleet. Themistocles can do whatever he wants with him…" Leonidas laughed long and loud and then picked up the cup to quench his thirst.

He did not have time.

Before he could wet his lips, a loud cry sounded from the watchers, who were standing on terraces carved every hundred yards all the way up the mountainside, carrying the message from the top of the mountain to the Spartan camp at its foot.

"What is happening, Alexander?" Leonidas asked his second in command, although he already knew the answer.

"The Persians are here."


A chorus of shouts came to their ears. Almost the whole Greek camp had climbed up on the wall or else the slopes of the mountain and was looking to the north, towards the depths of the plain. A large plume of dust rose from the low hills at its end. Just at the edge of sight, black dots moved in lines like great, supernatural snakes. It was the Persian vanguard that had reached Thermopylae.

"Tell the allies" Leonidas said to Cimonas. "We have contact with the enemy. Nothing will happen today, and maybe not tomorrow either. A great army needs days to encamp and study the field of battle."

"Then I can stay with you."

"No. A great army also needs its fleet. It depends on it for food and supplies. You must leave immediately and inform Themistocles. By tomorrow at the latest, their fleet will be in these waters. Tell him to prepare and wait for him. And…" he stopped for a moment, looking at the horizon "tell him that Leonidas will do what he promised..."

By evening the empty plain was flooded with men. The shouts of the Greeks had ceased. They looked in awe at the unbelievable number of Persians pouring in like a rushing river. The dust of their footsteps on the dry ground had filled the air not only over the land but over the sea as well. Their many-colored uniforms and their curious weapons were surprising. Even more surprising were the strange animals the warriors brought with them, animals that most Greeks had never seen before and that some had never heard of. Some with humps like the actors in tragedies in the Athenian theaters, and others the size of five horses with legs as thick as the columns of a temple.

"Light fires."

"It is early for dinner."

"Not for dinner, Dienekes. Light fires everywhere. Behind the wall, on the coast, on the mountainside, on the hills to the south, light them as far as the eye can see. Fires that can be seen from the plain and the enemy camp, as if the place is full of our soldiers. And tell the attendants to polish the shields until they can see the hairs of their heads in them. There is no sight so fearsome as a line of shields flashing in the sun."

Dienekes understood. He pulled back behind the wall and went to the attendants' camp. He gathered them together, drew a rough map on the ground, and told them where to light the fires. He sent them off with pyrite in their hands and the order to throw green wood on the fire so that the smoke would be seen from far away during the day as well as at night.

Hours later, as the sun set behind Mount Kallidromo, the fires of the Greeks looked like dozens of lighted arrows shot into the ground by the god Hephaestus.

"They must believe that there are many thousands of us. When fear nestles in the heart, then the sword does not nestle so firmly in the hand" explained Leonidas, looking at his companions.

"But they are like ants, uncountable. Not even Zeus himself on Olympus could count them. Even if fear nestles in their hearts, they'd still stretch out endlessly" said Dimophilos, the commander of the seven hundred men from Thespies. "No matter how we fight, no matter how many we kill, they will defeat us in the end."

"They can defeat us, yes. But they cannot defeat nature."

"I don't understand you, Leonidas."

"They have to move continually. Otherwise they are in danger of falling sick, and epidemics can spread very quickly if so many thousand men stay so close to each other in one place for days. They must also find fresh food and clean water. We have destroyed all the plain's resources and poisoned the rivers and the wells. If their transports do not come soon with their supplies, they won't last many days in one place. That is why our own fleet is stationed at the straits of Artemisio, to prevent theirs from getting here. If Themistocles manages it, we won't have to defeat them ourselves. Hunger will defeat them. All we have to do is to keep them here for two weeks."

"Two weeks?" asked Dimophilos, stunned. "Two weeks is a long time to hold off that many thousand enemies.

"I have the advantage."

"What advantage? With three hundred men?"

"Yes," Leonidas answered calmly.

Dimophilos looked at him in amazement. Of course he had heard that Spartans were fearless in battle, but he had never yet heard that they were unhinged.

"The pass is thirty yards wide from the sea to the mountain cliffs at its narrowest point, which is right before our wall. So they cannot put more than thirty men on the front line of their phalanxes. We can wait for them before the wall, where the pass widens a little, lining up sixty men in our front line. So we have an advantage of two to one on the field of battle, no matter what reserves the Persians are holding in the rear…"

Dimophilos' mouth fell open, listening to Leonidas' reasoning. He could not think of any questions or comments.

He was convinced.

And to be as fearless as that, you need to be a little unhinged.

The Spartans were both.


Then followed four days of waiting, with tentative moves by the Persian infantry and harassment from mounted archers who galloped up to the wall, shot a few arrows and then returned to their camp. The Spartans did not shoot back. They couldn't be bothered. Guerilla warfare was not warfare for them. They had not learned to fight while hiding like women.

But underneath their bronze armor, their hearts began to swell with impatience. Waiting and doing nothing are perhaps the most difficult work of all for a man who has learned to throw himself passionately into the fire of battle from the first moment.

Leonidas had given strict orders that all everyday activities should continue as if nothing unusual was happening. His men got up from their spread-out cloaks in the morning, arranged their long hair, ate their best meal of the day, breakfast, exercised their bodies as usual, carried out their military exercises and sharpened their swords and spears.

"Who sharpens his sword sharpens his courage" said Leonidas to his subordinates. He insisted on his order being followed, even though it looked like the points might be ground down to nothing under the sharpening.

"Messengers are coming!" the watchman from the advance guard on the left, higher side of the wall, had come running and the words came in quick bursts from his panting chest. "They are coming to the wall holding the Caduceus. They might be here already. But…"

"But what?" asked Leonidas, wondering at the scout's sudden pause and his awkward glance.

"They are headed by…" the scout swallowed. "by a woman…"

"Are you sure?" asked Dienekes, wondering himself.

"Yes. But she is not wearing women's clothes. She is wearing a man's armor."

"Then how do you know it's a woman?" asked Leonidas.

The scout swallowed. It had been many days since he had been with a woman. His body reacted in the normal way of a man who sees a beautiful woman. But there was no way he could admit something like that to his king. "It is a woman…" he repeated simply.

Leonidas saw his red face and understood. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "All right. So what?"

"A woman in war?" asked the scout, aghast. "The word manliness comes from the word man."

"To go to war and fight you need courage, everyone knows that. But the only fear you need to face is the fear of dying or being wounded. Wounds and pain in the flesh. That is, nothing. But the women who send their men and their children to war while they themselves remain behind have to face wounds and pain in the heart. And that takes much more courage and manliness" answered Leonidas, and got up slowly.

"There is something else…" murmured the scout. "Something even stranger."

"What?"

"The woman is not wearing Persian armor."

"Is she naked? Even better…" joked Dienekes. "Just what we need to raise our men's morale…"

"She is wearing Greek armor and she speaks Greek."


When he heard those words Leonidas clenched his fists to break his rage, as he had been taught to do in his training ever since he was a small child. For a Spartan, there was no failing worse than treachery.

Without saying another word, he strode firmly to the wall, the gaze of all his men fixed on him. He climbed the rough stones like a nimble boy and stood on top of them with legs shoulder width apart, arms crossed on his chest and eyes forward.

Now he could see her too. The woman was wearing a Greek helmet and not the conical tiara, the hat worn by representatives of the Persian king. She was unarmed and her arms hung relaxed at the sides of her breastplate. A few steps behind her stood her entourage. It consisted of two men in many-colored trousers and caftans that hung to the knee. One held up the carved wooden Caduceus, the symbol of messengers, and the other held a large roll of papyrus.

"I am not thirsty…" the woman said suddenly, breaking the long silence.

"What does that mean?" asked Leonidas, surprised by her words.

"I heard that you threw the last person Xerxes sent into a well. Well, I am telling you that I am not thirsty."

Leonidas smiled in spite of himself. "I would never throw a woman into a well. Especially not one dressed in the Greek manner. Who are you and what do you want?"

"My name is Artemisia and I am the queen of Halicarnassus. I am here with my soldiers and five warships…"

"Thank you, but we do not need help" the Spartan interrupted her. "There are enough of us."

It was Artemisia's turn to smile. "I serve the Great King in the navy, but I also take part in his council of war. I am here today by his order."

"For what reason?"

"To offer peace to the Spartans in his name" she answered him solemnly, before adopting a more familiar tone. "I speak our common language and believe in the same gods. You can trust me, Leonidas."

"A common language and the same gods do not matter when the mind thinks differently. Tell me what you want, you are keeping me away from my soldiers."

"Xerxes informs you that he will respect your city and your law. We know that for you Spartans, the law is above everything."

"If Xerxes respects our law, he has already trampled on it. Because our law does not allow barbarians to respect it."

"He will not destroy Sparta, Leonidas, I know that well" she insisted. "You will have your own kingdom and…"

"A kingdom like yours? That will have to campaign and make war on his orders, and not according to the law and the citizens?"

"You will be masters of your own land" continued Artemisia, undaunted by his insulting interruption. "The Great King wants only an oath of obedience and his taxes from you. Nothing else. Think about it, Leonidas. Think about his proposal. You have nothing to lose except a few words and a little money."

"We will lose something more important than that. We will lose our freedom. By giving an oath of obedience, we will trample on our citizens' most important right."

"If you do not accept you will all die. What will your famous freedom mean after your death?"

"And choosing when and how you will die is also freedom" Leonidas answered drily. "Besides, there is something more terrible than death…"

"What?" Artemisia wondered honestly. "Death wipes out everything."

"Dishonor. That is not wiped out even by death."

"You will not be dishonored. Xerxes undertakes" she said, pointing to the man with the papyrus standing behind her "not to dishonor your women and not to desecrate your temples. If you abandon your position and the Athenians now, you will leave and return to your country safely."

"This is our country too. Whether or not you have forgotten it" he commented scathingly. "But even what you are saying is dishonor, because there is no greater dishonor than to become a slave without giving battle."

"You will not become slaves. It is enough to…"

"Enough to what?"

"Enough to surrender your arms."

Leonidas remained silent for a little while. Then he drew his short sword from its sheath and held it high, the blade shining in the sun.

"Come and take them!" he told her decisively. "Let him come and take them himself!"


That same evening sacrifices were made to Ares, god of war, to bless the Greek fleet, and to Hades, god of the underworld, to accept those who would travel with the boatman into his kingdom. Then the Three Hundred ate their scanty dinner together, each drinking a cup of watered-down wine so as to have their heads clear. Finally, after they exchanged the customary wishes for an honorable death, Leonidas stood up in the center of the great circle next to the fire so that all could see and hear him.

"My brothers… My fellow warriors… Tomorrow the Persian will strike our position with all the power of his hordes. Tomorrow a great day will dawn for all of us. A day of blood and a day of glory.

"Many of us, maybe all, will not return. Will never again see the high mountains of our sweet country, will never again embrace mothers, women, children and friends, will not make sacrifices of thanks to the gods in the temples of the city."

"To protect everything we love, everything we swore to serve selflessly, everything that makes us men and free citizens, that is why we are here today. That is why we came to stand with our other Greek allies and brothers to fight the invader in a common fight.

"The Persian has come in numbers difficult for a man's mind to grasp. He has come in numbers ten, twenty, a hundred, a thousand times greater than those defeated by the Athenians at Marathon. He has come like a god to sow destruction in a country that will not kneel before him because it kneels only to its own gods.

"Listen to me, my brothers… The Persian is not simply a king like I am and like the others were before me. He does not take part in the battle but watches it, always from a safe distance. His companions and his men are not equal and omoioi as we are. They are his slaves and his possessions. Every man and every woman in the countries he rules is property of the king, worth no more to him than a goat or a pig. And when those men are led by the Persian king to battle and war, they do not go out of love for their country and their freedom, but under the whip of another slave and only from fear, not from virtue.

"This king who comes here today has tasted defeat at the hands of the Greeks at Marathon, and that defeat was too bitter for his pride and his arrogance. He has come now to take revenge, not as a warrior worthy of respect, with daring, virtue and honor, but like a spoiled and wayward child having a temper tantrum.

"I despise the crown of such a king, based only on terror and not on the acceptance and respect of his subjects. I despise it because he does not follow laws, but only his own stubbornness and his desires. I despise it because it is the crown of a barbarian who does not strive or struggle for anything noble, but to make all other men his slaves.

"That is why we will fight him tooth and nail tomorrow. That is why we will never abandon our position. That is why we will never give up our weapons. Let him come and take them himself!

"The struggle will be hard, my brothers. But when did we Spartans ever have easy struggles? And the men who will be lost tomorrow will always stand with us, in the first line of our hearts and our souls, to teach the Persian once and for all how free men live and die!"


The waiting was over. Early in the morning, before dawn, the Three Hundred and their allies from Thespies got up from the ground, washed their bodies, arranged their hair, polished their shields and helmets with sand, rubbed them with oil, put on their clean tunics, offered libations to the gods and their ancestors, and put on their armor.

They formed into groups according to the scheme they had practiced hundreds of times in their gymnasia, and came out in front of the wall.

They drew up their phalanx a hundred yards in front of it, at the narrowest point of the pass, on ground that had been carefully cleaned in the previous days for a space of five hundred yards, in the area where they had set the traps for the cavalry. Thirty men on the first line, and ten lines after that. A perfect and compact rectangle of leather, wood and bronze.

They rested their shields upright on the ground, supporting them against their greaves, thrust their spears into the ground and waited with their helmets at their foreheads. A light wind was blowing from the north, the air was clear and at that precise moment the sun rose in the east.

Immediately Alexander, Leonidas' second subordinate, came out of his position and checked the phalanx's arrangement and direction. Then he looked carefully at the sun and sent his attendant forward. With successive orders, he commanded the men to turn slightly to the right with their polished shields and then tilt them back until they reflected the sun and the attendant was completely bathed in light, shining like someone riding the chariot of the god Apollo.

Then he raised his head and looked towards the Persian camp, far away on the plain. Even the large tents of Xerxes and his generals, that had been set up at the rear of the camp, were lighted up by the beam of light coming from all the shields together, reflecting and concentrating the rays of the sun.

Shouts and cries suddenly came from the sleeping Persian camp. The earth shuddered like a mother giving birth from thousands of running feet. Exclamations and words of surprise were heard in dozens of languages unknown to the Greeks. But they did not need to know the words. The wonder and surprise were clear from the tone of their cries. The first goal before battle, the most essential, had been achieved. The fanatical and fatalistic men of the east would now believe that a great god, the god of the sun, was on the side of the Greeks. And that was an incomparable psychological advantage.

"There is nothing more impressive than the flashing of polished weapons…" murmured Leonidas and raised his spear high, commanding the phalanx to close and to take up battle position.

The shields were raised suddenly without changing their angle, then passed to the left arms and locked together, sealing the men's bodies behind a bronze wall. The spears were picked up from the ground and, in one movement, were raised over the shoulders and the shields. The helmets came down from the foreheads, closing he faces in a mask of hard metal.

Leonidas, standing on the place of honor to the right of the phalanx of his men, suddenly lowered his sword.

The pipes behind the warriors began to play in the strong rhythm of the Spartan martial hymn.

The men of the first line took a step forward, stamping their feet.

And then another.

And another.

Leonidas stretched out his spear to direct them.

A chant shook the air as the phalanx prepared to march toward the enemy:

Forward, brave Spartan children...


The structured formation of the Three Hundred advanced to the middle of the field of battle. Suddenly the shrill sound of the pipes accompanying the martial hymns was silent, and the phalanx stopped.

Before them stood the first units of Persian fighters, consisting of the best of the nations participating in the campaign, the most faithful to the Great King, the Medes and the Sakas. They were clothed in scaly armor and trousers of sky blue linen fabric. They held shields that covered their whole body made of braided willow branches covered with boiled leather, painted in bright colors. The Medes were armed with spears and cutlasses tied around their waists, while the Sakas held a javelin in one hand and in the other, a huge, biconvex bow made of horn. From their shoulders hung their long quivers full of flat-headed arrows that were especially difficult to pull out of flesh.

A large formation of three thousand Medes separated itself slowly like a long snake and came to stand across from the Spartans, leaving an empty space of two hundred yards. The ground had been cleaned of rocks and wood, it was level and smooth. Exactly as the Greeks preferred it for their battles. Leonidas had ordered that it should be carefully cleaned for that reason, in the days before the enemy arrived.

An ivory horn sounded from the Persian side. It was a strident sound that was heard three times in succession. Immediately, the Medes raised their weapons and their shields, shouting the praises of the Great King who watched them from the hill next to his tent. Then a long-drawn out whistle was heard, ending in the blaring of trumpets, and the Persian army started to march toward the Greeks. At the same moment, hundreds of arrows were shot off by the Sakas, not so much to wound the bodies of the Greeks as to put a dent in their morale.

The iron discipline for which the soldiers of Sparta were famous worked this time too in spite of the hail of arrows. Not a single foot moved, not a single arm was bent, not a single face grimaced. The Three Hundred remained unmoved in their position, upright like the columns of a temple, watching the thousands of soldiers marching toward them under the protection of thousands of arrows. The first Persian phalanx with a breadth of thirty men and a depth of twenty lines, approached them steadily with a rhythmic stride. Behind them, with Saka archers filling up the gaps, followed another four. The force of impact and pressure wielded by a formation with that much depth of men would be unprecedented, since the Greek phalanxes seldom drew up in a depth greater than ten lines. And Leonidas knew that. He had taken measures for that too.

When the Persians were at a distance of twenty yards, the Spartan king stuck his spear into the ground as if he wished to surrender. Immediately, as if automatically, all of the soldiers of the phalanx stuck their spears vertically into the ground. But without moving their shields an inch.

The approaching Persian lines seemed to lose their organization. The commanding officers looked with surprise at the Spartans leaving their spears, and then turned their heads back, to the place where their general Tigranis stood on a raised platform with wheels. He also was surprised to see the enemy laying down their arms.

Mistakenly, he did not give the order to stop. Without their officer's orders, the simple Persian soldiers continued to walk, but their phalanx loosened. They thought that the gods had blessed them with an easy victory without a battle, since their opponents intended to surrender and give in to their terrific numerical superiority. Talk and laughter were heard from the Persian phalanx, and the shields made of boiled leather and willow wood broke up their wall. They had already reached fifty yards distance and they could not see any defensive move at all from their enemies, who stood still with their spears immobilized in the ground.

But not their spirit. At forty yards, suddenly, Leonidas gave a piercing howl, leaned his body on the spear, took a step forward, raised it, and held it over his shoulder and shield while he ran like one possessed. Next to him and behind him, two hundred and ninety nine men did the same thing, running and howling like wolves.

The Spartan phalanx moved with terrible speed, faster and faster, like a huge arrow with dozens of sharp points and a wall of bronze shields that flashed in the sun. Whatever they lacked in men, the Spartans made up for with their compact density, the metal of their shields and their terrific speed over forty yards.

The clash that followed was terrible. The first line of Persians was swept away, many pierced by the heavy Spartan spears and still more trampled by the onslaught. Their wooden and leather shields could not stand up against the bronze Spartan shields and were crushed, dragging with them the bodies behind them.

The first line of the Spartan phalanx did not stop to engage the few Persians who remained unscathed on the front line but continued to advance, pressing on with the strength of their muscles and the momentum of their speed. The men coming behind finished off the fallen soldiers, piercing their faces and breasts with their spears.

The onslaught stopped at the fourth Persian line and then the real hand to hand combat began. But it was not an even match. The Spartans had the psychological advantage and that determined everything. Their intolerable slowness in the beginning, followed by sudden terror, cut the legs from under the Persians, who lost their grip on their shields and spears. The first line of Greeks pressed forward with their metal shields and stabbed them with their heavy spears, twenty inches longer than the spears of their enemies.

In spite of that there were many lines of Persians still upright behind them. Young and rested warriors took the place of those hacked by Spartan weapons. The fray was terrible. Blood and earth. Dust and slime. Broken skulls and spilled guts, severed arms and legs covering every inch of ground. Mired in fallen bodies and severed limbs, the Spartan phalanx had stalled after its breakneck offensive.

Leonidas turned and looked at Dienekes next to him. He made him a sign with his eyes through the two round openings of the helmet.

"Now?"

"Now."

Dienekes raised his spear high while Leonidas and another comrade covered him from the sides. He swept it three times, its point drawing great circles above the dust of battle, so it could be seen from the rear. The whole maneuver took no more than three seconds.

Immediately the five last lines of the Spartan phalanx broke off and started to move backward without turning their backs, facing the battle so as to be able to intervene instantly if necessary. They went fifty yards and then stood still with their shields and spears at the ready. Immediately, the pipe sounded shrilly.

Three of the five lines of Spartans that were still in the battle turned one hundred and eighty degrees and started walking quickly backwards until they took up battle position behind the phalanx that had drawn up a hundred and fifty feet further on.

The pipe sounded again with a piercing sound. Immediately the last Spartans, who were still fighting to hold the front, turned their backs to the Persians and began to run, stamping the ground to give an impression of panic and covering the battlefield in a thick cloud of dust.

The Persians followed cheering enthusiastically, believing that their enemies were in disorderly retreat. They charged at them, thinking to take advantage of the Spartans' panic. Among the mangled and lifeless bodies of their comrades that covered the ground, their lines dissolved completely and they ran like a stampeding herd through the cloud of thick dust.

The moment they passed through the dust cloud and came out into the clear air again, they faced an unpleasant surprise: the battle-ready Spartan lines that had reformed fifty yards back.

It was now impossible to react. The thousands of fellow warriors charging forward at their backs pushed them with terrible force onto the metal wall of the phalanx that was waiting for them.

The heavy Spartan spears were raised automatically above the shields.

The first lines of Persians were skewered on the metal points.

The human slaughter was complete.

And it was only the first day of battle.


Rage. The thick cloth coverings of the imperial tent shook under Xerxes' voice. It was not the delay. It was not the failure of his plan. It was not the six thousand dead and wounded men in a single day.

It was the humiliation.

Xerxes had never felt that unpleasant emotion before. His army had always been victorious. Cities surrendered or were burned to the ground wherever he passed. No one had ever withstood until now. No one had ever beaten him. The rebellious Egyptians had become pyramids of headless corpses next to the pyramids of the Pharaohs.

And now this humiliation.

From a handful of men.

"Prestige is a king's greatest weapon!" he yelled furiously at Mardonius, who was standing in front of the generals in the tent of the war council.

"Sometimes fortune takes the side of the weak and makes them into superhuman beings. But fortune does not last forever. Tomorrow we will crush them."

"You said the same thing yesterday, Mardonius."

"We should not have clashed with them. We fell into their trap, we did exactly what they were hoping we would do" said Hydarnes in his usual cold way. He was the commander of the imperial guard, the Immortals. "I said that from the beginning. We should have waited and struck on our own terms."

"We cannot wait. Our army has been here five days already and our fleet has not yet arrived. Our stores of food are exhausted" countered Mardonius.

"The fleet…" the king muttered gloomily. "Only Ahura Mazda knows why Achaimenis, my brother who commands it, is taking so long."

"The sea is not the land."

The voice sounded from the behind the men of the war council. But it was not a male voice.

"Who are you, woman?" Mardonius asked irritably.

"My name is Artemisia. I am the queen of Halicarnassus, the ally and friend of the Great King."

"That does not give you the right to interrupt the commander and…"

Xerxes' voice cut through Mardonius' angry words. "Come forward…"

Artemisia obeyed his order immediately. In spite of the familiarity and sympathy the king always showed her because she was the only woman in his army, she always kept a low profile and a humble attitude. She did not wish to provoke anyone. She knew that the generals could influence the emperor, that they could slander her or even conspire to make her disappear. In the end, Persian blood did not flow in her veins. She was only a vassal.

"What do you mean, Artemisia?"

"The mountains of the land, hard as they are to cross, stay in their place. But when the sea raises its own mountains they cannot be defeated because their power is terrible and they keep changing place."

"I don't understand what that has to do with anything."

"Let Artemisia speak, Mardonius. We are men of the plains. Her country is near the sea. She knows it well."

"Two days ago, just after dawn, clouds gathered in the north, in the direction your ships will come from. A little later the thunder of Zeus was heard and a wind started up. The sun continued to shine but the sea, even in the protected straits, resembled a plowed field. That was not a good sign. In the open sea they would not be a ploughed field but a mountain range. It is not easy to sail with so many warships on such an ugly sea. They cannot find a good place to anchor. And for the heavier and slower transports, things will be worse. So it is difficult to predict when our fleet will arrive and what state it will be in."

"What do you propose?"

"That we rest the army to consume less food and military supplies and wait until we learn news of Achaimenis."

"We have no time, Mardonius is right about that. Even without battles, the supplies of food, water and military gear will run out soon" said Hydarnes calmly.

"If they run out, I propose that we withdraw to fruitful Thessaly where there are many rivers and storehouses full of grain, and return when the fleet has crossed the sea and can feed our army."

"Impossible! A handful of people cannot defeat the hundreds of thousands of soldiers of the first line that we have here" Mardonius shouted in exasperation. He had planned the campaign.

"They have already beaten thousands of our soldiers from the best nations. And they beat them alone. Three hundred men, alone."

"Mardonius is right. Your thinking is correct, Artemisia, but if we withdraw now, my prestige will suffer a great blow" Xerxes said skeptically. "And if is learned that the emperor is not invincible, then many nations may revolt behind us in the territories of the empire. My authority is based on fear and obedience. Neither of the two will remain if we follow your advice."

"What you say is right, King of Kings. But it is also right that back in Susa there is the wise Artabanus with thousands of reserves, ready for war, and he can deal with any revolt. Besides, who would revolt? The shepherds and the women? The best soldiers of all areas are here with us" Artemisia said, untroubled. "If, later, we defeat the Greeks and dominate Athens and famous Sparta, then this little retreat I am proposing now will not seem to be anything more than a simple maneuver that will be forgotten. Sometimes the means must serve the end. Wars are not won only by numbers but by thought, Great Xerxes. That is what wins wars. And thought says that we must put off the land battle for a little while."

"That is impudence and an insult. Throw her out!" shouted Mardonius, calling his guards from the entrance of the tent.

A sign from Xerxes stopped him. "What do you mean, Artemisia?"

"That we must throw the weight of our military effort onto the sea battle. Everything will be decided on the sea."

"She wants to humiliate you, Great King. Or she may be a hidden weapon of the Greeks. A snake in our bosom. Do not forget that her ancestors were Greeks. She speaks their language and she believes in the same gods."

Xerxes raised his hand to stop him. "Nonsense… If Artemisia wanted to help the Greeks she would not have campaigned with me. She is a woman, no one forced her to do it. And yet, she is here with her best ships. Sometimes, Mardonius, your passion and egotism blind your eyes."

At that moment, the cool Hydarnes chose to speak in the voice of logic. "If we retreat, the delay will be great. The rains of winter will overtake us before we reach Sparta. And it is impossible to move such a large army on wet and muddy ground. We cannot delay that much by retreating all the way to Thessaly. On the other hand, we cannot remain here without food. Famine will decimate our men. Unfortunately, our great army and our rapid onslaught have brought us to a dead end."

"And what do you propose, Hydarnes?"

"We must take the pass at all costs."

"That is what I say too" added Mardonius, with satisfaction.

"You will not achieve anything" Artemisia declared loudly for all to hear.

"How do you dare?"

"You will not achieve anything at all!" she repeated, ignoring Mardonius' rage and looking almost provocatively at the Great King.

"When we throw the whole strength of our army at them, then we will crush their spine and…"

"No, not in that way. We tried it today and lost six thousand men and suffered a humiliating defeat…" Hydarnes stopped the flow of Mardonius' words. "It is foolish to strike the ox on the horns with your bare hand. You must strike at his throat, where he is vulnerable. There you can kill him in an instant. It is enough to strike suddenly with a well-sharpened knife. That is what we must do."

"What do you mean?"

"Only a fool insists on mistaken tactics until he is proven wrong. An intelligent man changes them…" Hydarnes answered enigmatically.


"Wars are not won by repetition" Leonidas was saying at the same moment.

"What do you mean?"

"Wars are won by surprise. Tomorrow we will not draw up on the field of battle. Now the Persians know our tactics. Their generals will have studied our movements and taken their measures."

"So we're not going to fight?" Dienekes asked, dumbfounded.

"Who said anything like that?" Leonidas answered, smiling.


The next morning the Spartans did not gather their phalanx, did not raise their spears or go out before the wall. The Persian scouts looked for them in vain from their raised lookouts.

The sun was high in the sky but the area in front of the Spartan wall was still empty. Even the gate with the sliding wooden door at its center remained fast shut. Higher up, on the bastions of the Greek wall, not a single crested helmet could be seen. The place looked eerie and abandoned.

"Maybe they have left" Mardonius said to himself when he read the reports from his scouts. "They fought one battle, caused some damage, and retreated to wait for us somewhere else. Or maybe they simply ran away when they understood they won't always be this lucky."

"Yesterday they won a great victory. No one abandons a victorious field of battle that quickly" said Hydarnes, skeptically.

"But the reports are clear. There is no one on or before the wall."

"But behind it?"

"Behind the wall they cannot fight. They cannot defend it. No one wins a battle by hiding" Mardonius insisted, looking at Xerxes who was sitting on his throne outside his tent and gazing at Thermopylae four miles away. "They have left. Their city is many days march to the south. It is more likely that they want to fight the next battle nearer their own territory. My agents in Athens and our friends from the city of Argos report that the rest of the Spartan army is barricaded in a narrow spot called Isthmos a hundred and fifty miles south of here."

Xerxes did not speak. He looked at the battlefield and the narrow pass for a little while and then turned his gaze back to the camp. But he did not look either at Mardonius or Hydarnes. He looked at his servant, Patiramphi, who stood beside him holding the golden cup with perfumed water.

"Go and call Dimaratos. He will solve the problem for us," he ordered him.

The exiled king of Sparta, who had found refuge in Xerxes' court and was now repaying him for his magnanimity by following him and advising him on the campaign, came to the great tent wearing a simple white chiton without ornaments or jewelry. He bowed before the Great King and then retreated a few steps and stood to attention. A strange thing for a Spartan to do, even in exile, but ingratitude is also a great sin for a Spartan.

"I am listening, King of Kings."

Xerxes briefly told him of Mardonius' assumption and the objections of Hydarnes.

Dimaratos did not hesitate for a second. He replied as if he did not need to think at all. "Mardonius is mistaken. A Spartan never abandons the field of battle. He either triumphs or dies."

"How can you be so sure?" Mardonius was indignant. "You have been away from your city for ten years. Everything could have changed."

"Fish may grow legs and horses may grow scales, but the law of Sparta does not change. It has been followed with iron discipline for forty generations."

"You are sure, then, that Mardonius is mistaken?"

"Absolutely. Spartan warriors do not leave."

"Then where are your famous warriors?" Mardonius asked angrily, pointing at the empty field of battle. "Are they hiding behind their wall like chickens?"

Dimaratos shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. But I will give you a piece of advice, general" he said, turning his gaze to Mardonius. "Do not go to find them with stalks of wheat in your hands. You will need spears. Many spears…"

"I know how to go and find them, Dimaratos" Hydarnes answered him, and came closer.

"How?"

"The same way they found us yesterday…"

"Do whatever you want as you have planned it. The only thing I ask is to pass the straits and march quickly towards Athens. Even though yesterday it seemed very difficult to me" Xerxes muttered tiredly. Then he turned away and walked to his private apartments without saying another word.

In spite of Mardonius' optimism and Hydarnes' plans, his mind was on a phrase he had heard a few hours before. A phrase said with certainty and courage in a woman's voice, raised against all of his generals: You will not achieve anything. Everything will be decided on the sea…

"Everything will be decided on the sea…" he muttered now, thoughtfully repeating her words.

"Bring Artemisia to me… And inform the bath attendants…"

"To prepare the hot water and aromatic oils for you?"

"Not for me. For Artemisia…"


He looked at the yellow cloth of the ceiling with the intensity of a priest before carrying out a ritual. His gaze motionless, his lips pressed together, lines of thought on his forehead. Not a word had come from his mouth for some time.

Artemisia sat and turned towards him, looking him in the eyes. "Can I be of service to you, my king?"

He did not break his silence or lower his eyes. The fabric of the ceiling continued to monopolize his gaze.

Artemisia sat a little higher than his swarthy chest. She opened her red lips and passed her tongue over them to moisten and soften them. The she lightly touched his hairless chest and her hand slipped lower, to his penis that still shone in the half light of dusk, covered with her fluids.

Her lips opened again and drew all of it in, her tongue playing upon it with the artistry of Sappho and her daughters as she had been taught by those who came to Halicarnassus from the island of Lesbos.

In spite of the undeniable hardness of his member and the slight tremor brought on by his pleasure, the king touched her ebony hair and pulled her softly upwards.

Artemisia sat up and looked at him in surprise. Unpleasant surprise.

"Don't you like me anymore?" she asked in a trembling voice. Everyone knew what happened to the king's mistresses when he lost interest in them.

Xerxes smiled for the first time in many hours. Faintly, but he smiled. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

He took his gaze from the ceiling and sat up on the pillows of the bed. "I lost many men yesterday…" he said dejectedly.

Artemisia, who was still holding his penis in her fingers, felt it loosen like dough placed in warm water. She opened her palm and, with two quick kisses to his underbelly, she got up and sat beside him, looking at him attentively.

"You will win, my king. Everyone knows it. No tree can withstand the sweeping wind, no matter how strong its roots are."

"I will win, but at what price?" he answered with melancholy. "You have been right every time you have spoken so far, and you do not hesitate to risk your head by saying what you think in front of everyone."

"It will not happen again."

"Do not be hasty like Mardonius. You will make mistakes."

"I do not understand."

"I want you to help me."

Artemisia sat up and looked at him, puzzled. "How?"

"You are Greek…"

"I am the queen of Halicarnassus and a subject of the empire" she hastened to explain.

"Your roots are Greek, their blood flows in your veins" Xerxes continued undisturbed. "You speak their language and believe in the same gods. I want to learn about the Spartans. I want to understand. Tell me. I trust you, but I don't trust Dimaratos."

"I cannot tell you much, my king, beyond what the whole world knows. They are fearless fighters, the best in the world. Many of our cities are descended from common ancestors with Sparta, but Halicarnassus has ties to Athens."

She felt his muscles spasm when he heard the hated name. And his skin tighten like a ship's sail in the wind.

"Tell me about Athens then."

"Hippias knows it better."

"Hippias is a dotard who thinks only of revenge and becoming tyrant again. He advised my father on the last campaign and the advice led to catastrophe. I will get rid of him when he ceases to be useful. Tell me about the Athenian soldiers. Are they like the Spartans?"

"Athens is not famous for its army, but for its navy. Its ships and its sailors are its great strength."

"Sailors did not beat us at Marathon."

"They are neither such great fighters nor such upright men as the Spartans are. You do not have as many reasons to admire them in war. They talk a great deal and they quarrel a great deal, but just because of that they also think a great deal. That is their great advantage. Thought. The Athenians would never be in a battle like the one you saw yesterday and today."

"Hippias and our spies in Athens have spoken to me of a certain Themistocles. Do you know him?"

The muscles of her body tightened. She fought to hide the reddening in her cheeks and the fear in her eyes. She wondered for a moment whether the king knew something about herself and Themistocles. Whether someone had spoken to him. She tried to guess. It was impossible. His eyes were fixed on her and motionless, like black nails.

"Do you know him?" Xerxes repeated the question insistently.

"Yes. If Leonidas is the famous hand of the Greeks, Themistocles is their cunning mind. Ten times more dangerous, and he is not lacking in valor either. He convinced the Athenians and the other Greeks that they must confront you on the sea."

"Foolish. If the Spartans stop our army and we cannot pass, then the sea will be irrelevant. If we defeat them and pass, then it will still be irrelevant."

"Wrong" she answered curtly. She had refound her usual self confidence when the conversation left Themistocles and came back to warfare.

"Wrong?"

"If our fleet does not come in time, our army will not be stopped by Leonidas but by hunger. Whoever dominates the sea dominates the world. In this war, the sea will determine the victor."

Her moment had come. Artemisia jumped nimbly from the bed, pulled the carpet that covered the floor of the tent to the side, picked up a rod and drew a map of the area on the beaten ground, as she remembered it from the relief on the table of the council of war.

Then, using the rod, she showed him the positions of the Persians and the Greeks on land and sea. She explained her plan quickly, emphatically, persuasively.

"If we use our fleet, we can outflank their positions, disembark our soldiers to their south, and surround them. No army can fight on two fronts at the same time. Not even the Spartans."

"Intelligent…"

"But there is one problem, my king."

"What?"

"To do that we have to destroy the Greek fleet guarding the sea straits and the passes that is lying at anchor at Artemisio," she answered emphatically. "We must first defeat Themistocles, its commander…"

Xerxes sighed. "We Persians do not know the sea, we are men of the plains and deserts."

"But the Phoenicians know it. They are the best sailors in the world and they are your subjects."

"Exactly. They are my subjects. I do not trust them for such an important mission. Besides that, they are merchants. Men of money, born to buy and sell…" he added suddenly and fixed his eyes on her. "Whereas you…"

"I am also your subject."

"Not only that," he said meaningfully and stroked her head tenderly. "You also know about naval war. Your country is a sea-going state and you command your fleet yourself."

"That is true."

"Will you help me, then?"

"How?"

"By helping my brother Achaimenes and my fleet destroy the Greeks. I know you know Themistocles, the commander of the Greek fleet. I had reports from Halicarnassus. He came to your palace. That man now commands the enemy fleet."

Silence. Heavy, intolerable silence.

"Am I wrong, Artemisia?"

"No, my lord."

"Destroy him!" Xerxes said suddenly, his eyes shining with rage. "Destroy him and put your plan into practice."

"Themistocles or his fleet?"

"I am not interested in one man, no matter how big his reputation is. Without his fleet, Themistocles is naked, a man without weapons, without power."

"I will do it," her answer came immediately and decisively. "But we don't have time, my king. You know that. We must hurry."

"In the morning they informed me that our fleet is anchored at Afetes, across from the Greek fleet, half a day's journey from here by fast horse. Leave at once and do whatever you think is necessary. With you will come two royal messengers so you can inform me immediately. If we manage to destroy their fleet and transfer part of our army to the south of the Spartans as you propose, everything will be over soon."

In a few minutes Artemisia had dressed and left the royal tent.

With anxiety and a pounding heart.

And not just because she was back with her ships again.


The Immortals. The renowned, elite imperial guard. Professional soldiers, terrifically impressive, trained hard in many years of war from India to Egypt. But not all of them. It was only one of their battalions, one thousand out of ten thousand.

They resembled priests at a ceremony. They were wearing their colorful garments—red tiaras on their heads, sky blue caftans to their thighs, porphyry cloaks and green trousers. When they marched together, they looked like a moving rainbow. Their eyes were painted with black kohl and their foreheads with green oxidized copper. On their necks, wrists and fingers they wore their best golden jewelry that flashed in the strong midday sun. The quivers, bows and arrows were slung on their backs, their sheathed swords at their sides, and in their hands they held their spears, engraved with the royal symbol, a golden pomegranate, shined to perfection by their attendants. It was an imposing sight, unquestionably magnificent, worthy of an imperial army.

Behind them a wall of dust confused the sight and created an imposing background that heightened the impression. The attendants of the Immortals, who followed their masters everywhere, had been ordered to carry branches with them and to drag them over the dry ground. Farther back, the other nine thousand Immortals stamped their feet on the ground, stirring up even more dust and creating a rhythmical pandemonium as if the underworld were quaking.

"Nobody move…" Leonidas gave the order softly to the watchers standing on the wall above them, watching the advance of the battalion of Immortals from cracks in the cliff, unseen themselves.

Beneath the watchers, with their backs to the wall, the attendants were spread out. Soldiers who were not omoioi and equal citizens of Sparta, but helped the army as light infantry, armed with slingshots from which they shot round lead pellets weighing thirty grams, that were easy to carry in large amounts. Behind the double wooden gate in the wall stood a small phalanx of sixty Spartan fighters in a long rectangle with its narrow side four yards long, the length of the gate in the wall.

A long way farther back, the rest of the Spartans were drawn up with all their gear, ready for battle.

"Three hundred feet and closing" called the watcher from the wall.

"Wait" Leonidas said calmly to the phalanxes of his soldiers.

"How long? If they get too close and they have siege machines, the wall won't take it" asked Dienekes.

"They can't. We broke the dams and the ground is muddy. They won't be able to carry them here."

"They can carry ladders."

"They won't touch the wall. They won't get there."

"Two hundred feet…"

"Load the slings" Leonidas ordered the attendants.

Then he looked at the four files of warriors waiting for him behind the gate in the wall. Fifteen lines deep. Sixty men in the first, peculiar phalanx of the attack he was preparing.

"A hundred and fifty feet."

"Weapons at the ready."

In one movement, without making a sound, the Spartans of the first phalanx behind the wall lowered their helmets, picked up their shields, and raised their spears.

"A hundred and thirty feet."

"Wait. Don't move. Surprise is everything."

With a nod, Leonidas ordered the two hewn trunks barring the gate to be taken down.

"A hundred feet."

His last glance was to his back. Behind the first phalanx were four more, ready to follow the first wave of the attack. The double transverse crests of the officers' helmets waved in the light breeze. The vertical crests of the soldiers gave a magnificent height to their formation. Their shields flashed in the sun. Their spears pierced the heavens.

Everything was ready.

Leonidas lowered his helmet.

"Sixty feet."

"Now!"

The gate in the wall opened. Dozens of lead missiles left the slings of the attendants simultaneously, like a torrential metal rain.


With one volley every second, in just two minutes thousands of lead pellets struck the Persian formation and brought confusion and chaos to their lines. If they had worn heavy metal armor like that of the Greeks, the little pellets would not have pierced the bronze and caused wounds or death. But their shields were willow and leather, their helmets glued layers of linen, and their breastplates little metal scales to make them more flexible and so that they could be worn under the impressive uniforms of colored cloth.

Dozens of Persians fell on the spot, their skulls pierced by the lead pellets that fell vertically from the heavens, weighing a hundred times more because of gravity. Hundreds of them lost hands and arms, the most exposed and vulnerable parts of their bodies. The whole sky grew dark with the metallic grey of lead. A piercing, eerie sound was heard from end to end of the battlefield.

Confused and dazed, the Persians stood still like paralytics and watched the lead pellets mow down their fellow warriors and officers. When they had gotten to the wall without a fight they had been almost sure that the reports were right and the Spartans had abandoned it, but now they were disorganized by the volley of missiles they had never seen and discouraged by their inability to protect themselves with their shields.

Immediately after the last group volley, the doors of the gate opened and Leonidas ordered the men of the first phalanx to charge onto the battlefield, stamping their feet to worsen the enemy's confusion. Behind them followed the second phalanx and immediately after that, the third. The fourth and fifth stayed inside the wall as a reserve, following the battle plan.

"Forward, children of Sparta!"

The first phalanx, only four men wide, fell like a huge wedge upon the disorganized lines of Immortals and opened a great schism, sixty feet deep. Behind them followed the second, eight men wide, and farther behind came the third with a width of sixteen men. Together they formed a kind of blunt point that punched a hole in the Persian formation like an arrow falling on soft flesh.

The field of battle was covered with corpses. Some with heads pierced from the pellets, almost bloodless, lying like bodies resting in sleep, others with their faces and breasts pierced by Spartan spears, eighteen inches longer than the Persian spears. Most were missing legs or arms, had cut throats, crushed skulls, or slit bellies with the guts spilling out. Those with slight wounds were finished off quickly but methodically by men of the fourth and fifth phalanxes, who came last from behind the wall before stopping and forming the compact and rested reserve phalanx.

Those of the famous Immortals of the first battalion who were still alive turned in disorderly retreat, rushing back towards their camp. A hundred, two hundred, three hundred yards of running, with sides, backs and necks slashed by bronze points and skulls split in two by the short Spartan swords. Colorful bodies adorned half the battlefield, although it was very difficult to make out the blue of their uniforms under the fresh red blood.

Sitting on his pedestal in the rear of the Immortals and watching the slaughter, General Hydarnes smiled in satisfaction. His few remaining soldiers were running desperately, and the Spartans chasing them, shouting and cheering. He had achieved what he wanted, an appearance of disorderly retreat. They had copied it exactly. The tactic the Spartans had used yesterday was his today.

"Ready!" he shouted his order to the phalanxes of Immortals waiting, rested and intact, to go into battle.

Hydarnes took his gaze from his army and observed the field of battle as well as he could through the dust. At the same time he strained his ears to calculate the distance from the heartbreaking cries of his men and the thundering feet of the Spartans chasing them.

"Soon they will be within range of our arrows" he observed and gave orders to Fernazi, his second in command. "Get the archers ready and order our fighters to start for the battlefield without much noise."

The thousands of archers in the rear lines kneeled, set their great bows on the ground, took the arrows out of their quivers and stretched the cords, ready to let loose a volley of thousands of arrows.

"Go…"

With a single word, without the usual trumpet calls and piercing horn calls, thousands of Persian Immortals started to advance. Hydarnes smiled again as he saw his rested men marching, ready for war. Everything was going according to his plan. The Greeks had spilled out on the field of battle, chasing their retreating enemies, and everyone knows how vulnerable an army is at that time. At this moment they would have abandoned their weapons and would all be looting the bodies for their valuable weapons and golden jewelry. Exposed. Easy targets for bloodshed.

"Attack pace" he gave the order and then, satisfied, stretched out his hand for a glass of cool white wine to celebrate his victory in advance.

At the same moment Leonidas, from his position on the right side of the phalanx, turned his head, looked behind him, measured the distance to the wall, and then observed his men. All upright, all in their lines. No one was missing, no one was delayed behind some pile of corpses. The gold and jewels of the Persians meant absolutely nothing under Spartan logic. Spartans never plundered, never defiled the bodies of their dead opponents. Looting was unknown to them. The only thing they took from dead enemies was their weapons, for the prestige. But even that did not apply here, since these were not weapons of copper or bronze. Leonidas listened to the air, calculated the distance they had crossed once more, and raised his hand. Within fifteen feet the Spartan phalanx came to a complete stop, ceasing pursuit.

"Retreat!"

Immediately the Spartans turned and walked back at a quick pace. When they got near their wall they took up position behind the reserve phalanx that was waiting, ready to fight, its soldiers rested.

The few minutes of complete immobility seemed like centuries. It was as if time had stopped and so had their hearts. It was a short period of waiting, the most disciplined period in a battle, the period that required strong nerves and iron discipline.

But this time the waiting did not last long. Through the thick cloud of dust, jumping and striding over the hacked bodies and scattered limbs of their comrades, appeared the Immortals of the rested formations that had just entered the battle. They charged forward passionately, believing that they would have inactive, plundering soldiers to face, or else exhausted soldiers collapsing before their walls.

They were wrong.

As they soon understood.


He withdrew, enraged and frustrated, to his apartments, and lay on his bed thinking about the unexpected, unheard of defeat of his enormous army by a handful of fighters for the second day in a row. He lay still while the tears drew lines and made paths over his dark face. Not from grief for the lost Immortals, but from humiliation.

Slowly, slowly, while time passed and the heavy hand of melancholy gradually loosened its grasp, Xerxes' mind turned to Artemisia's plan. The more he thought about her words the more convincing they seemed. Once more she was right. Things were exactly as she had said. There was no way out on the dry land, no matter how crushing his numerical superiority was. Her plan on the sea was perhaps the only solution, since in spite of his order that gold and silver from his treasury should be given to any local who could lead the army through the high mountains and take him around to the rear of the Spartans, no one had appeared that whole day.

The tent's curtain opened suddenly, interrupting his thoughts, and his personal attendant appeared in the opening.

"My king…"

"Not now, Patiramphi."

"Mardonius just arrived with someone and is asking to see you."

"Tomorrow. Today has been tiring. More than tiring. Tragic. I lost many of my best men, nobles from the court of Susa, beloved friends and my brother, Avrokomi. I must mourn and perform libations to the Great God. My brother will pass the bridge of the Great Judge tonight. Call the priests…"

But Patiramphi did not move.

"Call the priests and the mages!" Xerxes repeated imperiously, surprised at his servant's slowness.

Behind him, in the door of the tent, Mardonius appeared. He came into the bedroom and stood before the emperor, looking at him intensely.

"I have told you that I do not wish to see anyone, Mardonius. Not even you!"

"Then do not see me…" his commander in chief answered enigmatically. "But you must see the man I am bringing with me."

"Why?" asked Xerxes, wondering at his general's insistence.

"Because he will bring us the victory tomorrow."

The emperor laughed sarcastically. "Are you bringing a god with you?" he asked.

"No. I am bringing a Greek."

Xerxes sat up in confusion. "A captive?"

"No. Free. He came of his own free will."

"A deserter?"

"No."

"Then what? Why did he come? And how did he get here?"

"By your orders."

"My orders? Who is he?"

"His name is Ephialtes…" Mardonius said slowly, and smiled meaningfully. "And he is the one you asked for… The one who will lead us over the mountain…"


The Persian camp and Xerxes' tent were far away, four miles to the north. But the Greek camp was right next to the field of battle, behind the slaughter.

The whole triangle spreading out before the little wall looked like a meat grinder had ground up thousands of bodies from every nation and tribe in the last two days. The dry ground had absorbed the freely flowing blood and now showed dark and discolored. On the black earth were spread intestines from the torn bellies of fighters, severed legs and arms scattered and mixed up like the limbs of broken clay dolls, opened heads, spilled brains, and urine and feces from men meeting death in the worst way. From the sea to the vertical cliff on the other side it was impossible to walk on the ground. It was impossible even to see it. The bodies rotting in the hot summer sun covered the earth from one end to the other. A new wall of flesh had been raised on the field of battle, hills of human limbs and corpses were formed in the places where heroic hand to hand combat had taken place. Around and above that disgusting scene thousands of flies buzzed, feasting and blackening the horizon. The stink was overwhelming. It filled the air and neither the sea breeze nor the wind from the mountains could blow it away.

A few yards to the south, behind the pile of rocks that was all that was left of their wall, the Spartans and their allies the Thespians tried to get their breath, rest their exhausted bodies, and revive their terrified minds. Drooping over their cloaks and shields, those who had gotten out of the superhuman struggle without wounds and those who had been wounded or who had lost one of their limbs were taking advantage of the night's hiatus to bring back their spirits for the next day's battle.

At the center of the camp, before a fire where they were heating iron to cauterize the wounds of the soldiers, sat Leonidas with Dienekes and Dimophilos, the commander of the Thespians. Across from them sat Agathis, the captain of the messenger ship that had just arrived from the dockyard of the Greek fleet in Artemisio, bringing the news of the day and supplies.

"They lost that many ships?" asked Leonidas, rejoicing inside at Themistocles naval prowess, since he knew who really commanded the Greek fleet.

"Yes, it was a terrific battle. On the coast of Euboea the sea is still washing up bodies of sailors and pieces of wood from Persian ships. More than eighty of their ships have been rammed and sunk. If we count those they lost yesterday evening in the sudden storm, a fifth of the Persian fleet has been lost."

"But still…" Dienekes murmured doubtfully. "They still have four times as many ships as we do…"

"Why shouldn't we keep up the sea battles tomorrow? And the day after tomorrow? A loaf of bread can be eaten all at once or in pieces. That does not change the result. It will be enough if…"

"If?"

"If you hold the pass" said the Athenian captain. "Our whole plan of defense is based on good coordination. If the Persians get through here, the fleet will have to retreat and sail south to protect our cities, you know that, and then there will be no sense in holding the sea straits or trying to sink their ships."

"We are not interested in sinking their ships. We are interested in keeping them far away from here, so that they cannot unload the supplies they are waiting for. Or bring the army south to surround us" Leonidas said with difficulty, because his jaw was dislocated and his mouth bloody from a blow with a nail-studded club that had not succeeded in knocking his helmet off. "As for whether we will hold and how long, only the gods know the future. We merely do what we can."

His slurred words were drowned out by a clamor coming suddenly from the left side of the camp, where a spring with drinkable water flowed from the depths of the mountain. There were words of fear mixed with sighs of disappointment, and prayers to the gods, mostly to Ares and Zeus, but also to Apollo, the god of the sun.

"What is happening?" wondered Dimophilos and looked around him uneasily. "Persians?"

"It is night. No one fights at night, neither Persians nor Greeks. Everyone needs rest."

Leonidas raised his head with difficulty and looked to the left, sweeping the whole camp with his gaze. Far behind him, the assistants and servants of the soldiers were hastily cleaning and repairing the weapons that had been damaged by war. Closer to him, the first line soldiers were resting in a boundless, otherworldly silence, looking at family mementos or tenderly stroking braids of hair. Now that the hours of heroism and furor had passed, now that the hours of valor and brave feats were over, now their thoughts went to their families—to respected parents, beloved children, adored wives. To a beautiful image, a warm caress, a tender kiss. Now that nostalgia and longing grew large inside the minds and hearts of his men, now was the most difficult time.

"The worst time to hear whispers of disappointment and prayers to the gods…" muttered Leonidas. He leaned on his short sword and got up, moving his stiff limbs with difficulty.

His first step was difficult. He clenched what few teeth he had left and fought back the paralyzing feeling of sharp pain, as he had been taught to do when a child. But after the first step he did not allow himself any indulgence, any weakness. He was the king of Sparta, their image and symbol. He had to walk as he did every day. He was the one who must support and revitalize his soldiers' morale.

Exchanging words of sympathy with the severely wounded, words of encouragement with the abject, and familiar teasing with those who were simply tired out, Leonidas walked toward the edge of the camp, to the base of the spring where many men were gathered and whispering agitatedly together.

When he got there and they saw him, those who had gathered moved to one side, opening a space for him to pass even though there were not only his own fighters there, but also soldiers from Thespies. At this point, where people came from did not matter. Only the spirit mattered.

Leonidas walked with a wringing heart to the place where many soldiers were gathered, the place where he had heard the sighs of disappointment and words of prayer.

At the center of this mass, all alone next to a half-extinguished fire, stood the diviner Megistias poring over the intestines of a vulture that had fallen from the cliff and been crushed.

His face was drawn and worried. In his wide eyes, the irises had disappeared and only an uncanny white showed. His mouth was open and saliva ran from its edges and dripped onto his dirty beard. Dry foam on dried-out lips. He had just come out of the sacred ecstasy, the peak of his art.

Leonidas looked at him, unable to understand. Then his eyes fell to the vulture's innards. He did not have the gift of divination, he did not understand anything. The intestines looked the same to him as they did every time, filthy and disgusting. He looked again at the diviner, silently wondering what he had prophesied that disturbed his men so much. What disaster he had foreseen. Or what hope had been erased with his words. Or had he perhaps misunderstood, earlier, and were the murmurings only thanks to the gods for the good omens they had sent?

At that moment, as if just recovering from his trance, the diviner shook his head, waving his long white hair, stretched his shoulders and neck and turned to Leonidas. Without speaking. Barely breathing.

"What did you see, respected Megistias?" he asked him after a little while. "What did the omens tell you?"

The diviner was slow to answer. But when he did, even Leonidas felt the need to pray to the gods.

"The Greeks will not see another dawn… Tomorrow will be the last…" answered the diviner in a trembling voice, but with certainty. "That is what the omens show…"


The moonlight gleamed on the ornaments as the figures walked hastily up the narrow path between the steep canyons of Mount Kallidromo.

A few hours earlier, immediately after the night's trumpets gave the signal for silence, half the force of Immortals, having in the meantime replaced the huge numbers of men they had lost, had gathered as silently and secretly as they could at the edge of the Persian camp a few miles to the west. There, the five thousand men and Hydarnes, who had been made head of the enterprise, met Ephialtes, the Greek traitor who would lead them over the mountain for a leather purse full of gold from the Persian treasury.

Now, while the moon was high, the Persian soldiers quickly marched over the Anopaia road that cut the mountain in half, crossing its gorges by passes carved in the rock by rushing waters from the winter rains.

"How long will we need, Greek?"

"About six hours, my lord. Dawn will find us on the other side of the mountain, behind their position."


The small boy was still out of breath. The sheepskin he wore next to his flesh was soaked with sweat and the clay amulet hanging on his chest, carved with the form of the goddess Artemis, went up and down like a little boat on a stormy sea.

"Are you sure?"

"It is summer, my master's sheep are still high on the mountain. I watch them."

"And you saw them?"

"Yes. They went over the path. They were wearing strange clothes, colorful. They spoke a language I didn't understand."

"Were there many?"

"They walked by for a long time. Their voices woke me. I watched them, but I could not count them in the darkness and I was afraid to come closer."

"Someone has betrayed us. It is impossible for the Persians to have known that difficult path" commented Dienekes.

"It is easy for the tongue to be loosened when the eye sees gold" murmured the diviner Megistias. "Unfortunately, the omens were right…"

"Perhaps the thousand Phocaeans at the exit of the path stopped them."

Dimophilos, who knew them better, smiled bitterly. "Do not place your hand in the fire, Dienekes."

Leonidas did not comment on what he said. "Gather the officers" he told Dienekes calmly.

"The Spartans?"

"All of them. We are all equal here in battle and in death."

A little while later, around the extinguished central fire of the camp, the officers of the alliance, those that were still alive, gathered to make their decisions.

Just before they started to talk, the scout they had sent out earlier arrived, dismounted from his horse and announced that the Phocaians had abandoned the exit of the path and had run away to the hill a little farther back. The Persians ignored them and marched towards the sea. In a few hours they would be there.

Leonidas looked to the east, which was turning grey. "Before the sun climbs high, they will have closed off the road that leads south towards central Greece and Athens. They will have surrounded us."

"Can we retreat before they close off the road?" asked Dimophilos.

Dienekes looked at him as if he had just heard the strangest thing in the world. "Retreat?"

"In a little while they will surround us. What are our chances?"

"Chances?" This time it was not Dienekes who wondered, but the Spartan Maronas. His left hand hung lifeless at his side. The tendons had been cut and the fingers were dead. But his face was like his cloak, red with rage. "The chances don't matter. You cannot go into battle calculating your chances like a merchant at an auction. We can fight on both fronts. We can face them."

"Until when?" shouted Philaretes, the leader of the Arcadians. "What does it matter whether we resist until morning or evening? Or even until tomorrow or the next day? In the end we'll be defeated. That's what logic tells us."

Dienekes opened his mouth to disagree, but Leonidas' hand stopped him.

"You are right, Philaretes…"

Dienekes' mouth closed suddenly. He looked at his king in amazement. So did Maronas and his brother Alpheos, sitting beside him. The Spartans could not believe their ears when they heard those words from their king.

Would the Spartans break their law for the first time in their history?

Would they retreat?