An officer moved to the front of the enemy lines. He had a high purple plume on the top of his helmet and the edges of the helmet were rimmed with gold. He was pumping his arm and trying to yell an order that went unheard among the blustering racket of his troops. Some of the men saw him and began moving, producing a very uneven start to the Antirhonian advance.
Still the Spartans remained still.
The enemy commander had his spear held parallel to the ground, dashing from side to side in a most undignified manner, trying to align his battalions. Looking at the Spartan lines, Cyra saw that Leonidas was now out front of his formations, leaning on his spear, watching the approaching enemy as if viewing a harmless parade.
Cyra frowned as she noted that the Antirhonian line was sliding to the right and also becoming more uneven. Then she realized the rightward movement was an unconscious attempt by almost every man to get closer to the protection of the shield of the man to his right. The more brave — or foolhardy, Cyra thought — were moving to the front, while others held back slightly. She saw officers in the rear of the Antirhonian lines with swords drawn, smacking men back into line. She even saw one man cut down as he broke ranks and tried to flee. The ground was trembling at the approach of so many armored men. Their cries were louder, and, if her ears heard rightly, more desperate than threatening.
Still the Spartan main body remained still and quiet.
Leonidas made a gesture and Cyra saw several companies of skiritai begin moving on the flanks, swinging wide to get around the advancing enemy. The bravest of the Antirhonian troops were less than a quarter mile away. Cyra could see the sweat on the men’s face as they labored to advance against the dual hindrances of their fear and their heavy armor, which, unlike the Spartans, they weren’t used to wearing.
Leonidas gestured for a second time, lifting his spear up high so the point was toward the heavens. A ripple ran through the Spartan lines. Cyra felt her heart beat quicker. Slowly, very slowly, Leonidas brought the spear down. She noted that the left foot of every Spartan was lifting at the same pace the spear lowered. When the King’s arm locked into place level and pointing at the enemy, the entire Spartan main body took a step forward, their heavy oxide battle sandals slapping the ground at the exact same time. The army was moving in rhythm, the cadence having been pounded into each man since his first day in the agoge. Sixty steps a minute, a slow march.
The Antirhonians were less than six hundred meters away but Cyra could see the men were slowing, from both fear and exhaustion. She saw the wisdom of Leonidas, allowing his enemy to cover most of the ground, putting distance between them and the safety of the walls. The lightly armored had now flanked the enemy on both sides, but held their places, bows at the ready.
Leonidas was walking in the lead, spear still held level, when he pumped his left hand once. The pace doubled to quick march, one hundred and twenty paces a minute. The ground thundered from the rhythmic march. The spears of all the men were in the three quarter position, angled exactly between upright and parallel to the ground.
The Antirhonian King could no longer control his troops. The ranks broke as men lost all reason and charged forward all out, but much too soon. Cyra could see that more were trying to run to the rear, and there were more summary executions by the trailing officers. The front of the two lines were less than two hundred meters apart.
Leonidas pumped his hand twice, the order mirrored along the rank by other officers. The Spartans increased to the charge, one hundred and eighty paces a minute. The King fell backward into his place in line, his spear in one hand, the shield handed him by Xarxon in the other, half protecting the man to his left.
No command was given that Cyra could see for the next action on the part of the Spartans. She could only assume, like everything else she was witnessing, that it was something that had been drilled on until it was instinctual. With the Antirhonians at just one hundred meters away, the spear points of the Spartans snapped as one from the three quarter into the horizontal, glittering blades pointed directly at their foes.
She could almost hear the moan of fear from the ranks of the enemy at this fearsome maneuver. At least half of those in the Antirhonian front rank stopped and tried to force themselves backward, but the weight of the ranks behind shoved them forward, many falling to the ground.
Cyra knew the battle was over already and the Spartans had yet to taste blood with their blades.
Those who fell became obstacles to those behind, their spears tripping their fellows, their shields catching on others’ shields. It was chaos and then a massacre as the Spartan line smashed into the Antirhonians.
It produced a sound unlike any that Cyra had ever heard in her worst nightmare. Metal on metal, metal on flesh, a sickening sound as spears punctured flesh, the mortal screams of the dying, and perhaps worse, the triumphant yells of the Spartans who finally let loose with sound as they struck with their spears.
The Antirhonians were like ants under the wheels of a heavy oxen cart. Immediately upon reaching the enemy, the Spartans had shifted gears once more, again without a command, but by dint of their training, going from the charge to the slow advance. Eight-foot spears jabbed into flesh, puncturing and ripping. Given the length of the spears, the front three ranks of the Spartans all were engaged in the killing.
Then, to add to the mayhem, the skiritai began firing their bows, striking the rear ranks of the Antirhonians from the flanks.
The Antirhonian line, not very solid to start with, broke and the slaughter rose to a new level. Cyra was beginning to truly understand the Spartan advantage in this type of warfare. Yes, the individual Spartan was a superior warrior, but it was the ability to work in unison that took their abilities to another level. Without order, the Antirhonians were nothing more than a mob, their shield wall non-existent, each man fending for himself.
The Spartan advance picked up pace and the spear was exchanged for the xiphos. Shield and armor were designed to protect when the man wearing and holding faced the enemy. With backs turned as they ran, the Antirhonians were presenting the Spartans with flesh covered only by leather.
Blood flowed and men screamed in agony. The ground was churned, turning into mud from the blood and urine let loose by frightened bladders. Cyra began walking forward and passed the first of the bodies. She was surrounded by Spartan squires who finished the work their masters had begun, slicing the throats of wounded Antirhonians while recovering the few wounded Spartans they found and marking bodies.
She saw Leonidas, his armor splattered with blood, walking among his men. A large cluster of Antirhonians, the remainder of their army, was begging for mercy, tossing away weapons and armor. Leonidas was restraining his men from slaying them, speaking soothing words to his angry warriors who wanted revenge for slain comrades.
The gates of Antirhon were open and now the Rhionians, whose troops had held back during the battle, surged forward. Cyra could feel their blood-lust against their ancient enemies. She saw that Leonidas sensed it also as he turned from keeping his troops from massacring prisoners, to intercepting the column of warriors heading for the gates. The King stood alone in the dusty trail, covered in blood, his shoulders slumped in weariness and held up his left hand.
The Rhionians halted.
Cyra move close to the front of the column.
“Blood begets blood,” Leonidas said. “You can massacre everyone in the city—” he jerked his thumb at the open gate behind him. “But what of those who have hidden in the forests and the hills? Won’t they have children and tell them stories of revenge? And one day, your children, or your children’s children, will have their gate open and an Antirhonian army ready to enter and massacre them.”