It was my worst throw of the day. I was terrified and elated at the same time, and my Deer Killer went into his left arm behind his shield, pinning the arm against the shield back. And he couldn't get it out.
The others stopped to help him, because he was bellowing, and then Hermogenes grabbed me and helped me run.
By all the gods, my thugater – I thought those were my last moments, and when we were clear of the Spartans, I vowed that I would never, ever put my body in front of the phalanx again. I vowed it like a drunkard vowing not to drink.
Hermogenes and I got clear of the right flank. We had no idea where the other boys were. Then we lay down in the grass and heaved. Ares! We were alive. Wait until you bear a child, honey – you'll feel the same rush of eudaimonia unless Artemis comes for you. Avert!
But when we looked up, the Spartans were charging.
They came forward to the music of pipes. And all the giants going to war with Father Zeus couldn't have looked more dangerous or noble.
The rest of the Peloponnesians hesitated, and the Athenians came forward cautiously, but they came on, and the Plataeans weren't cowards. They went forward into the Spartans.
The two lines hit each other like – well, like two phalanxes coming together. Imagine every cook in this town with every bronze kettle and a wooden spoon flailing away at it. Imagine every man bellowing with all his might. That is the sound of the storm of bronze, the battle line.
Hermogenes and I watched from the safety of the far right. And we saw what happened when the Spartiates hit our fathers.
They reaped them like wheat, that's what happened.
What made the reputation of Plataea was not that our men were great fighters – at least, not that day. What forged our reputation for ever was that our men wouldn't run. But Hermogenes and I watched men die. It was horrible – and awe-inspiring. The two blocks of spearmen crashed into each other at the same speed, and not a man flinched. Spartans tell me that they remember that day well – because so few foes withstand the impact, yet the men of Plataea slammed in, aspis to aspis. And then the killing started.
We watched as the helmet plumes in the front rank went down. It took only seconds and it seemed as if the whole front rank was gone. And then the Plataeans gave ground – grudgingly – but they lost ten steps.
I think it was Pater who stopped it from being a rout. Pater gave ground, but Bion says he killed a man – a spear thrust to the throat against a Spartiate file-leader. Then he and Bion pushed into the gap and Bion says they each took a man down. No one cares in the heat of a fight whether you kill your man as long as you put him down.
In that little eddy of the overall whirlpool of Plataean defeat, the Spartans hesitated. How often did men push through their front rank? I think it was Pater. I could see the plume on his helmet when the others, like Myron's, were gone. And then the file-closers planted their feet and pushed at the back of the Plataean lines, and suddenly the Plataeans weren't moving back – they were standing firm.
But some of the Spartans had broken through the front ranks, where men were capable and expected to fight. Soon they were pounding the rear ranks to ruin, killing like the machines that they were.
A few men broke from the rear of our phalanx and ran – and Simon must have been one of them. But elsewhere, our neighbours closed their files and shocked the Spartans who'd broken their ranks, crushing them like insects, stabbing them front and rear. There's a reason why breaking ranks is punishable by law, and a reason why veterans call it foolish. The Spartans thought that we'd break – but we didn't, and their young men died.
Who knows how long the men of Plataea would have held the Spartans? Another fifty heartbeats, perhaps. Perhaps less. The Spartans were going to win. The miracle of Ares is that our men stood their ground at all. They held for the time a goat takes to birth a kid – the time it takes a smith to make a sheet into a bowl with a few quick blows of skill.
But the Peloponnesians didn't know any of this. What they saw was that the Athenians outnumbered them, and that their precious masters were being held up by a bunch of farmers from Boeotia.
The allies broke like songbirds faced with an eagle. They broke before the Athenians even hit them. They ran before the spears crossed, and not one of them stood. The Spartan king cursed, no doubt, and then backed his phalanx away, step by step. Unbeaten. Virtually victorious. But they backed away, and the Plataeans had just barely clung to their formation. From where we stood, Hermogenes and I knew that more men had started to flee from the back of our deep block. But enough stood to hold on.
Just barely.
Plataea was never the same. No one cheered.
I've been on a hundred fields, honey. I've won against the odds and seen black defeat, but that's the only time I've seen men so shattered by victory that they couldn't cheer. Nor did they pursue. The men of Plataea shifted and recovered their ranks, because they were good men, and then they stood, silent, awed by their own success. Then some of the fallen began to stand up – Myron got to his feet, bleeding from a thigh, the red coming in little spurts where something big had been cut.
Let me tell you how it is in the line, honey. When you go down – and you can fall just because you lose your balance – why, then you won't ever get up in that fight. Against honourable men, if you stay down and pull your shield over your body, no one will kill you just for sport. Maybe they will strip your armour if they win, but no one will kill you. You hope.
Anyway, Myron stood and began to sing. He sang the 'Ravens of Apollo' from the Daidala and all the voices of Plataea took it up, boys and men. We all knew it. It was an odd song for a battlefield – the song men sing while they wait for the ravens to pick us a tree to make the statue of the fake bride. Who knows why Myron chose that song?
Across the field, the Athenians were slowing. They'd never reached the Peloponnesians, and now, ranks untouched, they were coming to a halt and heads were turning to look at us.
Just two stades away, the Spartans halted in perfect order, covering their camp.
The Plataeans kept singing.
Then Cleomenes made a mistake. He didn't trust the Thebans, and his Peleponnesian allies were running all the way back to their homes. And the Plataean farmers were singing as if they could stop the Spartans every day, for ever. That song had more effect on the battle than Pater's stand, honey. That song was defiance of a different sort. Whether it was true or not, the 'Ravens of Apollo' told Cleomenes that there were men opposing him who would not flinch if he came on again. And if we held him for a hundred heartbeats, then all the hoplites in Attica would be in his flank.
Cleomenes sent a herald. He requested a truce to collect his dead.
By our law of war, this ended the battle and allowed the defeated free passage home. And it meant that, whatever the Thebans might do, the Spartans were done.
What changed our world was that Cleomones sent the herald to us rather than to the Athenians. That was respect. They knew they were the better men, and men who are better are never petty. They respect accomplishment, and they respected that we tried.
So their herald came and he walked towards Pater. Pater looked around, but the archon was dead and Myron, who had started the song, was down again – sitting on a rock, supported by his sons. Pater had two wounds on his sword arm; I had his helmet under my arm and he was pouring his canteen over his head.
'Hey!' Bion called. 'Hey – look sharp, Technes! The herald is coming.'
Pater looked up, and there was the Spartan, resplendent in his scarlet cloak, with a heavy bronze staff to show his status. He bowed.
Pater returned his bow, head dripping water. I remember how the water from his canteen mixed with the blood on his hands and arms.