“So what will be different today?” Cyra asked. They were behind the Middle Gate, Leonidas’s squire, Xarxon, helping him put his armor on.
“They will be ready for us on the path. I imagine Xerxes will have his best troops — his Immortals — leading the way in battle formation. The good news about that is that they will take the path slowly, expecting us to come charging down. So they will waste most of the morning getting up here.”
“You will not meet them on the path?”
Leonidas shook his head. “No. That would be playing into their plan. We want them to play into our plan.”
“And we have one?”
“Of course.”
“When did you brief your officers?” Cyra wondered.
“They don’t need to be briefed on this,” Leonidas checked the blade of his xiphos, then slid it into the scabbard. “It will be straight-forward today. Nothing fancy — at least not for us. Standard battle tactics.”
As he sat down in his throne set on the side of the mountain, Xerxes reached out a hand whose fingers glistened with rings. A slave handed him a goblet of wine and he drank deeply, trying to sooth his sore throat. He had spent many hours screaming at his generals the previous evening and in the end his voice had given out. The head of the commander of the Egyptian contingent decorated a pole outside his Imperial tent.
He had brooked no arguments or sought any advice from his generals. His order was simple. The Immortals would lead and they would take the pass. Today.
Xerxes relaxed for the first time in many hours as he saw the line of his best troops making its way slowly up the trail. There was no sign of the Spartans, either waiting on the trail or even at the Middle Gate. For a moment, Xerxes wondered if they had retreated and given up the pass. But then he saw a scarlet cloaked figure climb up onto the stone wall, a Naga Staff in his hand. The Spartan king. Xerxes eyes narrowed as Leonidas dipped the staff in salute toward him. He could swear the Greek was smiling. Xerxes spit out his wine. He hoped the smile was still on the man’s face when his head also adorned a stake.
“My Lord.”
Xerxes turned slightly. Pandora was to his right, the cursed map in her hands.
“What?”
“I have been studying the map. I know it is wrong about the pass for some reason, but—” she paused, waiting, trying to gauge his reaction.
“But what?”
“It indicates a path over the mountain to the west of the pass. A very small path and apparently a treacherous one, but still a path.”
“And I am to believe this?” Xerxes asked. His voice hurt even speaking at a normal tone. He took another deep drink of the wine.
Pandora began to unravel the map, but he stopped her with a wave of her hand. “The pass will be ours today. I do not need your map. Out of my sight, priestess.
Pandora moved back into the ranks that surrounded the King.
Leonidas sat on the stone wall, his feet dangling. The sun felt nice on the little skin he had exposed and he enjoyed the feeling. He’d always found it fascinating that pending battle made the smallest things seem so significant. Given there was a chance that today was the last time he could enjoy such a simple pleasure all his senses were heightened. He wondered what it would be like to live every day as if there were a pending battle, but to not have the battle.
A skiritai came running up to him from the northern trail. “A quarter mile away, Lord.”
It was just before noon. Leonidas smiled as he stood. The Persians had wasted half their daylight simply getting here. And he knew their column must be hot and tired. The latter not so much from the climb, although it wasn’t easy, but from the stress of moving forward, not knowing if their enemy waited behind every turn. For most of the morning he had had his Spartans rest in the shade of the wall and mountain, helmets off, armor half un-buckled. He’d given the order to gear up when a skiritai reported the Persians were a half mile away.
“Form up,” Leonidas ordered. The three hundred, minus two dead and three seriously wounded in the previous day’s battle, formed two long, perpendicular lines behind the stone wall.
Leonidas looked to the north, waiting. The first rank of Immortals appeared around the turn in the pass, entering the narrow, hundred yard long space in front of the Middle Gate.
“Two ranks in front of the wall!” Leonidas cried out.
Through two low places in the stone wall, the two lines of Spartans quickly poured through, forming into shoulder to shoulder ranks as they deployed. Leonidas was watching the Persians. Their commander appeared disconcerted by the lack of space and the column was halted, the first two dozen ranks of four in the open area.
The Persians were still trying to decide what to do when the two lines of Spartans were in place. Leonidas glanced to the northwest once more, noting that Xerxes was still in his throne, watching. Then the Spartan king jumped down and moved through his lines to the forefront.
“Count off,” Leonidas ordered. From left to right, each man counted until it reached the last man on the end of the line above the sea.
The Persian commander was quickly beginning to deploy his men, spreading his line. It was obvious to Leonidas that the Immortals were much better trained than the Egyptians as they swiftly formed up.
Leonidas held the Naga Staff straight up in the air. The Spartans snapped to attention. With his free hand, Leonidas held up one finger. He was in the immediate center of the Spartan line.
Slowly, Leonidas brought the spear down toward the horizontal. The left leg of every Spartan in the front rank lifted at the same rate then spear lowered. The rear rank kept their feet still, but their spears moved forward into the quarter down position, above the heads of their comrades in front of them.
Leonidas’s arm locked horizontal and the front Spartan rank took a step forward. Then another and another behind their King. The Immortal commander noted the movement and screamed commands. Leonidas wasn’t going to give him time to complete his deployment. The Spartan King pumped his left hand once and the rank broke into quick march. Leonidas then poked one finger into the sky, pulled his hand down, then poked it up into the air a second time holding up two fingers.
Every odd man in the advanced line paused for two steps then continued, effectively doubling the single rank into two and narrowing it as the open space grew tighter toward the path the Persians were on.
The lead Immortals were quickly forming, leveling their short spears, locking their wicker shields in place. The two forces were less than twenty meters apart when Leonidas held up one finger, pumped his left hand twice, held up two fingers and spread the hand open. The front rank of advancing Spartans broke into a charge, a split second later snapping their spears into the horizontal, slapping the haft against their chest armor, the sound an ominous one. The second rank froze in place, weapons also at the ready.
The heavily armored front rank smashed into the Persian line. Screams of pain and anger rent the air. The Immortal line, not quite ready, quivered, held, wavered, then staggered back several paces under the onslaught. Leonidas was in the center, the Naga Staff slicing through shields as if they weren’t even there, cutting flesh and bone. Inside his head he was counting, as was every Spartan in the rank, even as they fought for their lives and to take the lives of their enemy.
When the mental count reached ten, Leonidas jabbed at the nearest Persian, the Naga blade piercing deep into the man’s chest, then he disengaged, rapidly walking backwards twenty paces, as did every other Spartan who had been fighting. Then they dropped to the ground, prone.