Aristides had a little bronze lantern and he put it on the ground, and I swear that bit of light did more for our morale than all his talk.
Aristides was a serious man, and he spoke seriously. He explained that we were going to do a deed of arms, that men would never forget our actions to save the rest of the Greeks, and then he explained that as long as we held our ground, we were safe.
He was a good man, and my file was better just seeing his face and hearing his voice.
Eualcidas waited until he was finished and then he smiled his infectious smile. 'We'll kill us a load of Medes tomorrow,' he said. 'And then we'll slip away tomorrow night while they get ready for a big assault.' He looked around in the dim lamplight. 'I've faced the Medes before, boys. Thing to remember is that they all wear gold, so when we push forward over their dead, our back-rankers need to get their rings and brooches. And then everyone shares together.'
That's how you inspire troops. Dying for all of Greece may appeal to a handful of noble young men, but everyone likes the sound of a gold ring.
We were the junior file, just left of the centre of the Athenians, and we must have been the last group they needed to visit. Aristides slapped a back or two, gave my hand a squeeze and walked off into the darkness. He left his lamp – at the time, I thought that it was a tribute to how rich the man was, that a bronze lantern with a fancy bronze oil lamp inside could just be abandoned on a rock. I remember picking it up and looking at it carefully. Pater never made anything like it. It wasn't good work – I could do better – but the construction was crisp.
Eualcidas hadn't left. He was watching me look at the lamp.
I was young. I felt that his gaze held some censure, and I put the lamp down and shrugged. 'My father was a bronze-smith,' I said.
He nodded and lay back, stretching his legs. 'You're not Athenian. I can tell.'
I shook my head. I have to put in here that I was the only non-citizen among the Athenians, and they never held it against me, because while I had been a slave, the friendship between Plataea and Athens had hardened into something like love – or maybe it was forged in those three battles and somehow they'd managed not to fuck it up. But some of the older men would actually touch me for luck, because Plataea had brought Athens luck, or so they said.
So I shrugged. 'I'm from Plataea,' I said. 'But I've been a slave for a few years.'
He laughed easily, and the muscles in his throat were strong and golden like bronze. It was, for me, like talking to Achilles – he was that famous. 'How did a man like you end up a slave?' he asked.
'I didn't end up a slave,' I retorted. 'I ended up in the front rank yesterday.'
He nodded, smiled and said nothing, a talent few men possess.
'Your people enslaved me,' I said.
He frowned. 'I've been a war-leader for five years,' he said. 'I've never marched on Plataea. You came to us, once, with the Athenians. You beat us like a drum!' He laughed.
That got me. I had heard it elsewhere, of course, but always from men who might have had the story wrong.
'I was there,' he continued. 'Right opposite your Plataeans. I have a scorpion on my shield. Were you in the phalanx? You must have been young.'
I nodded, and there were suddenly tears in my eyes. 'My brother died fighting the Spartans,' I said, 'and I took his place in his armour.'
'He was brave?' Eualcidas asked.
'He was. And he died facing a Spartan, man to man.' I was weeping and the Euboean rolled over and put an arm around me. He didn't say anything. After a while he rolled back to where he'd been.
I was better. I hadn't really let myself think about it – my brother's death, and my father's, and now, in the dark with a battle looming, I was filled with a bitter, angry grief for both. They were in the ground and I was still here. It's an odd thing, honey – one I've seen often – that soldiers rarely mourn a comrade when he falls. Sometimes it takes years.
'My father fell fighting your phalanx,' I said quietly. 'I was behind him, and I stood over his body for a little.' I stopped, because it was a bitter memory – how I had been too weak to stand my ground, and how the rain of bronze and iron had beaten me to my knees and knocked me down.
I told it just like that. 'When I awoke, I was a slave,' I finished.
Eualcidas shook his head, and his teeth gleamed in the dark. 'You need to go to Delphi,' he said. 'You are god-touched, and you have been betrayed. No man of Euboea sold you as a slave. We ran. I ran,' he said, and he smiled that boy's smile. 'If you live long enough, you'll run, too. The day comes, and the moment, and life is sweet.'
I found that I was holding his hand. He had hard calluses on his palm.
I felt better. 'I don't think there's shame in running when everyone runs,' I said. I'm not sure that's really what I thought, but he was a great man, and suddenly he was looking for my comfort.
He smiled, and it wasn't his boy's smile. It was a very old smile indeed. 'Wait until you run,' he said. He shrugged. 'You're a good young man. I like you, but I have a feeling you won't come and share my blanket.'
I shook my head. 'Sorry, lord,' I said. I was, to be honest, tempted. He was kind. He was a killer of men, but something in him was basically good. And just sitting with him taught me – I don't know what, but maybe that what I was becoming could be greater than the sum of the corpses I left.
In many ways, Aristides and Miltiades were better men. They built to last, and they did things for their city that will live for ever. Aristides was a noble man in every way, and his mind went deep. And Miltiades was the best soldier I've ever known, except maybe his son.
But Eualcidas was a hero, a man from the age of gold. Almost like a god.
He kissed me. 'Let's be heroes tomorrow,' he said. And went off among the rocks, back to his own men. They tried us in the dawn, but we were cold, surly and awake, and the shower of thrown spears bounced off our shields and we chased them down the pass without trouble. My part of the line wasn't even engaged.
The slaves brought us some dried meat and some cheese, and I ate what I could get down and drank my share of water. My canteen was still full, and I kept it and my leather bag on under my shield, while most of the Athenians sent all their gear away with their slaves.
Late in the morning, I saw men on horseback round the bend and come forward, and I saw that it was Artaphernes, his right arm in a sling. We were standing in our ranks, and he rode quite close, but had the sense to stay a spear's cast away from us. Then he shook his head, made a quip to one of his aides and rode away.
It was perhaps an hour before they made their effort. We were bored, and nervous, and Aristides and Eualcidas kept walking along our front and talking – which made the boys nervous. You – the writer with the wax tablet – if you ever lead men to war, let me tell you something not to do. Don't have long conferences with your subordinates. Got that?
What an old bastard I am. My pardon, sir – you are a guest in my house. Have some more wine. And send some to me – talking of battle is thirsty work.
Do you know that most of what men say about war is a tissue of lies? All the girls know it – women get a distrust of male bragging in their mother's milk, eh? Hah, you aren't blushing now, my pretty. No – what I say is true. When the spears go down and the shields smack together, who in Tartarus remembers what happens? It all goes by in a blur of panic and desperation, and you are always one sword thrust from the dark, until you stand there breathing like the accordion bellows in my father's shop and someone tells you it is over.
What soldiers remember is the time before, and sometimes the time after. At the fight in the pass, I remember Cleon – my second-ranker – had to piss four times, even though he hadn't had enough water for two days. And Herk's best spear's head was loose, and he kept making it rattle in irritation – not that we could hear it, but the vibration annoyed him, and he kept at it the way a man will pick at a sore.