There were mutters of dissent among the Rhionians.
Leonidas held up his xiphos, not in a threatening manner, but to show the blood on the blade. “This is what we have done for you. And it is Spartan blood that soaks this field as well as that of your enemy. Sack this city and do not call for our aid again.”
King Xerxes saw mountains ahead, filling the horizon. His army had crossed the Plain of Thessalia without any resistance from the Greeks living there. His fleet was off shore, something that made his admirals less than happy as the island of Euboea lay within site, meaning they were pinned between the mainland and island with little maneuvering room. But Pandora — and his spies — told him the Athenians weren’t moving.
His throne was set in the center of the camp, a ring of Immortals guarding him. A cluster of generals waited on his orders. He signaled to one of the slaves, who brought forward a table with a jade top and placed it in front of him. Then he turned to Pandora, tapping the table. She had a tube in her hand, with stoppers on both end. She pulled one out and then retrieved a rolled document.
She placed it on the table, laying small gemstones on each corner to keep it in place. The ‘paper’ was something none had ever seen, with a shiny sheen and impervious to water. It showed the known world in fine detail and so far had been valid during their march to the west.
Pandora put a thin finger on a spot. “We are here.”
Xerxes crooked a finger and his top generals came forward. No Persian army had ever penetrated this far into Greece, so they were on unknown ground. There were plenty of Greeks among the army, but Xerxes would not trust them this far into their homeland.
“Is there room for us to move along the coast?” he asked Pandora.
She ran her finger further south. “As you can see my Lord, the mountains ahead come close to the coast, here, at Thermopylae. But there is a pass through right next to the ocean.”
“How wide?” Xerxes asked.
Pandora leaned over and looked closely. She tapped the spot. “Almost a mile wide at the narrowest.”
Xerxes scanned his generals. A mile wasn’t much room to push his army through.
“Are there any alternatives to going through this pass?” he asked Pandora.
“Here at Brallos to the west,” she said, “but then your army will be in the mountains. You will not have the fleet on your flank. The Greeks will have many places where they can ambush you.”
Xerxes slapped his hand on the map. “We will go through this pass—” he looked at Pandora—“what did you call it?”
“Thermopylae.”
“Thermopylae. Move the army.”
The three hundred had marched hard, the land becoming more and more desolate and deserted as they got closer to Thermopylae. It never ceased to amaze the warriors how word of pending disaster could pass so quickly among people whose entire world consisted of their farm and the nearest village.
At the very head of the column marched Polynices, in command until Leonidas brought the rest of the army. He did not march like an old man, indeed several of the younger warriors had complained among themselves about the brutal pace he set. They feared they would be too worn out to fight to which Polynices had loudly observed it would be better to arrive in time and fight tired, then to be too late and not have the glorious opportunity to fight. He told the warriors they could come at their own pace and that the rest would try to capture a Persian or two for them to spar with. After that, there were no more complaints.
But they all felt the eyes of the countryside on them as they moved north. The people were hiding in the hills, afraid even to come when they saw the scarlet cloaks of the Spartans, which indicated an extreme level of fear and the strength of the rumor of the Persian strength. Usually all it took was the site of a Spartan and a Greek would feel they were saved.
The road began to climb as the way narrowed. Polynices walked ramrod straight, a hundred and twenty pound pack containing his shield, sword and supplies on his back. They passed several hot springs. To the right they could see the Malian Gulf, to the left, the terrain rose abruptly leading up to a spur of Mount Oeta.
“This is good!” Polynices spoke loudly, his voice echoing off the rock to the left. “Do you feel it men?”
The road curved slightly left then right. Polynices finally halted. From the cliff to sea was less than fifty meters. A pile of stone lay ahead, the remains of an old wall.
“I feel death here!” Polynices turned to face the small column of Spartans. “Do you feel it?” There was a murmur of assent and being the veteran of many campaigns that he was, Polynices could also sense the unease among the men. This was a place of death. Any fool could feel it. “I think many Persians will see their last sunlight here,” he continued. “There will be so much blood flowing from them, the sea will turn red.”
The three hundred had gathered round. Polynices was done with the attempt to raise spirits. They would fight when the enemy arrived. He detailed scouts to check the plain to the north to see how close the Persians were. Then he instructed others to begin rebuilding the rock wall, known as the Middle Gate.
As the men followed his orders, the old man finally sat down on a boulder. Reluctantly he removed one of his ox-hide sandals. It was soaked in blood and he saw white where one of the bones on the top of his foot was exposed, the skin worn off during the march. He quickly wrapped the injury and then went back to supervising the preparation for defense of the Hot Gates.
“Ah!” one of the men cried out. “Look at this.”
“What is it?” Polynices walked over to the man who had rolled over a large stone.
“Look,” the man pointed.
There was a carving etched into the stone. A very old carving to judge by how the stone was worn down. There were warriors, spears in their hands. The points of the spears were pointing at an array of finely drawn creatures, most of which Polynices didn’t recognize but all appeared to be quite fearsome.
“A great battle was fought here,” Polynices said.
“Between who?” the man who had found the carvings asked.
“Man and beast.” Polynices noted something else. Behind the beasts were a pair of figures, almost human, but with straight lines, almost above the battle. “And these, whatever they are.”
“And who won?”
Polynices laughed and slapped the man on the back. “What does it matter? It was a great battle.”
Cyra was praying over the bodies of the dead, Spartan and Antirhonian alike, when she felt such severe pain in her left eye that she wondered if she’d been shot with an arrow. She staggered back, hand reflexively going to the eye. She looked at her hand, half expecting to see blood, but there was just flesh. She went to her knees and bent over, eyes tightly shut.
She ‘saw’ a scorched plain. Wide and open, ocean on one side. Thousands and thousands of troops, all moving forward. Toward mountains. A pass. The Gates of Fire — she knew it.
She opened her eyes and staggered to her feet. She saw Leonidas issuing orders, still covered in dried blood. She pushed her way through the people around him.
“What is it?” Leonidas asked, surprised at her sudden appearance.
“The Persians are close to the Gates.”
“How close?”
“Less than a day’s march.”
“It is too soon.”
“There was no resistance to their advance,” Cyra said.