'Cleomenes, King of Sparta, requests your permission to retrieve and bury his dead,' the herald intoned.
Pater didn't smile. I did – I was wearing a smile as big a wolf's. Hermogenes had his father's aspis on his own arm and he was grinning like a fool. Bion was grinning too. But Pater simply nodded.
'Our archon is dead, and our polemarch is badly wounded.' Pater turned to the Plataeans. 'Am I in command?' he asked.
Again there was no cheer – just a soft grumble. But every man in the first two ranks nodded. So Pater turned back to the herald.
'The Plataeans grant the truce,' he said. No mention of himself or his own name. Oh, he made me proud.
And with those words, the Battle of Oinoe came to an end. The Athenians killed a hundred Peloponnesians, more or less – the slow ones, I assume, since the Peloponnesian allies didn't linger to fight. They put up a magnificent trophy on the Acropolis, a chariot and a set of slave fetters, to celebrate their victory over the Spartans. The Medes later pulled it down and took the bronze, but the base is still there with eight lines of verse. They don't mention us. But on the day, they treated us like heroes come to earth. Miltiades ran up, his plume nodding, and embraced Pater and then every man he could find. His investment had paid off.
Men began to trickle off the ground. We had our dead to bury, and the Spartan helots were coming for their own.
We had forty-five dead. Seven of them died in the week after the battle, so on that morning, we had thirty-eight bodies. And one of them was my brother. He lay with his face to the enemy, a Spartan spear in his right side under his sword arm. He fell clutching the spear, and the other fifth- and sixth-rankers brought the Spartan down and killed him because my brother held that spear point with his dying hands.
I wept. Pater wept. Bion and Hermogenes wept, and Myron and Dionysius wept. We all cried.
The Spartans had nine dead. Two more died later – so we lost forty-five to their eleven. If you want to understand the heart of phalanx fighting, honey – and I can see you don't – you need to see that Pater killed three of those Spartans and that our whole thousand lived or died by the actions of a few valiant men. Myron didn't give a foot of ground. Bion followed Pater into the hole Pater made. Epictetus and his son gave ground, but then they locked their shields with men in the second rank and held the rush, and Dionysius killed a Spartan in the fifth rank when they broke through. Take away any of those actions and the result is different.
Karpos, our best potter, died, and Theron, son of Xenon, who made all the harnesses and wineskins and much of the armor the men wore. Pater said he was the first to die, a Spartan spear in his throat at the first contact, and he didn't live to see Cleomenes come to us for truce – after refusing our embassy.
We buried the dead – the boys and the slaves did the work. The men sat and drank. They had endured the storm of bronze for the time it takes a man to run the stadion, and they were exhausted.
That night it rained. We were wet and cold, but Pater came and wrapped his arms and his heavy Thracian cloak around me. He was still crying, but he held me tightly, and after a while I slept. The rain stopped, and I was cooking eggs – I'd purchased a Boeotian hatful from a shy girl who had crept into our camp with the dawn. I used Pater's money, and his flash of a not-quite-smile told me I'd done right. I had a fine bronze patera with the figure of Apollo as the handle. It wasn't Pater's work – it was his father's work, and the planishing on the pan was like a reminder of greater days. If we'd lost, it would have been loot for a Spartan.
Miltiades came to Pater with a wagon. He had a dozen Athenians with him, important men with Tyrian purple in their cloaks. Pater was eating a bowl of eggs with a scrap of stale bread.
'Technes of Plataea, all Athens mourns your losses.' Miltiades bowed.
He had a priestess of Athena with him, and she was dressed, even at that hour, in the whitest chiton I'd ever seen, with gold thread in the hems. Bumpkin that I was, I couldn't take my eyes off her.
Pater had a mouth full of egg. He swallowed. His eyes were red from weeping, and he wore a damp chitoniskos of linen that had once been off white and neatly pleated, and was now grey with age and shapeless. There were slaves in our force who dressed better than Pater.
He rose to his feet. 'I was not chosen in the assembly to lead the men of Plataea,' he said formally. 'But until the assembly chooses another, I accept your words on behalf of all the men of our city.'
Miltiades spread his arms wide. It was interesting to watch him be a public man – I had only seen him at close range. He was about twenty-five then. Just coming into his powers.
'Plataea brought one eighth of the force we had to face the Peloponnesians,' Miltiades said. 'We offer Plataea one quarter of all that we took with our spears, and we call you the bravest of the allies.'
The wind ruffled their cloaks. Pater said nothing, but the men of Plataea behind him were gathering, and they began to shout – approval, almost a cheer. Then the priestess stepped forward and she chanted a prayer to the Lady, and all the men present joined her. Then she purified us, for killing. She was good – her voice was gentle and firm, and every man felt better for her words, and the spirit of the goddess that we call the Lady and Athenians call Athena was on all of us.
Miltiades invited Pater and Myron to attend him at a meeting of the commanders. I found Pater my best chlamys, and I put it on him with a gold pin from the loot. Pater was above such things, but Myron gave me a nod of approval. No one wanted Pater to look like a ragman in front of the Athenians.
The two of them came back before the sun was high, and their faces were strained, and Pater had black marks in the corners of his eyes. Pater ignored my questions, and sent me and Hermogenes and every other boy we could find to assemble all the Plataeans.
There were only a thousand hoplites and another thousand boys and slaves. We assembled before the birds stopped singing. We were on the hilltop by the old fort, and Pater and Myron carried spears, as if they, jointly, were Speakers. Pater nodded at Myron, and Myron held up his spear.
'Men of Plataea!' he said. He was leather-pale. He'd lost quite a bit of blood, and he walked carefully where the Athenian doctor had burned the wound near his groin. He might have been a walking dead man, if the deadly archer willed it. But Myron had the courage that allows a man to go about his business, even with a wound. 'The archon died serving the city. We have no new archon and we have no strategos.'
'Who cares?' someone called. 'Let's go home. We can debate in the assembly!'
'Men of Plataea,' Myron said. His voice was quiet, but men were silent to listen to him. 'The army of Thebes is a day's march away, and the men of Athens call on us to stay and fight.'
That was greeted with a wave of grumbles and muttering.
Pater stood forth. He held up his own spear. 'Don't be fools!' he shouted. 'We fight them tomorrow with Athens by our side, or we face them in a month at home, alone.' That shut them up. Then Pater nodded. 'We stopped Sparta!' he said. 'What has Thebes got?'
Now they cheered. Everyone hated Thebes. Sparta was a noble and scary monster from travellers' tales, but Thebes was the familiar enemy.
Myron pointed at Pater. 'I move that Technes of the Corvaxae be strategos.'
They didn't roar. Pater had none of the magnetism that can make men love you. But every hand went in the air.
Myron nodded to Pater. Pater pointed his spear at Myron. 'I move that Myron of the house of Heracles be archon of the Plataeans until we stand in the assembly.'
And so it was done.
Before the day was another hour older, the shield-bearers were packing. We had donkeys now – dozens, as part of the spoils of the Peloponnesian camp. I was trying to figure out a foreign pack frame on a stubborn beast when Pater's hand fell on my shoulder.