I already knew those incredible numbers; that facing an army almost ten times their own size, the Athenians had killed thirty-two enemies for every one of their own who had fallen. But seeing now the sheer scale of it, my mind boggled.
The plain of Marathon was ringed by mountains to landward. Aeschylus pointed to the southernmost of these and said, “That’s where we camped, on the slopes.”
Then he pointed to the mound of the dead. “And this … this is where we began our attack. We thought the dead would wish to lie where their victory began.”
Socrates spoke up. “Our father fought here.”
I knew what Socrates was thinking. My brother and I had always considered our father to be the mildest of men. Yet he had stood upon this plain with his spear and shield, and he had hewn down enemies with the best of them. I wondered how many of those Persian dead were my father’s work. I knew, because he had told me, that he hadn’t expected to survive that day.
Diotima, Socrates, and I pressed on, leaving Aeschylus alone for a few moments with the funeral mound. We walked in silence, absorbing the atmosphere of the place. I wondered how the villagers felt about living so close to what was practically holy ground.
Aeschylus called to us when we were about halfway across the plain. We waited for him to catch us up. He was barely out of breath after the long walk.
“This is where we began our charge,” he said. “Up to this point, we’d marched in close formation.”
“Where were the Persians, sir?” I asked.
Aeschylus pointed to a location about eight stadia distant. He said, “They formed a line over there, at the far end.”
“They didn’t come out at you?” I asked.
“No. They had archers waiting for us to come within range. Their soldiers were still getting into line. It was at this point we saw the first of their cavalry arrive. We’d moved at first light, you see, before their side was ready, and their horses were still out to paddock. It took them until we were halfway across the field to get mounted.”
We moved on.
“Ouch!” I hopped on my left foot while I held my right and swore. “There’s something sharp in the sand.”
Socrates thrust his hand into the dirt where I’d stepped. His hand emerged with a small bronze object with a pointy end.
“Arrowhead,” said Aeschylus. “This is where they hit us with the arrows as we charged in.”
“Didn’t anyone clean up afterward?” I said, rubbing my foot.
“Young man, when the archers let loose, there were thousands of those things in the air raining down on us. I remember them bouncing off my shield. Every time one landed, it was like someone had hit me with a hammer. The arrows ricocheted all over the place. The villagers were bound to miss a few when they picked up.”
“Where were you, Aeschylus, in the line?” I asked.
“Right flank. Not far from Kallimachos, who was the Polemarch that year, our war leader. He was a good fellow, old Kallimachos. The Persians stuck him so full of spears that his body didn’t even fall over. We found what was left of him after the battle, still upright.” Aeschylus sighed. “Ah well. There were plenty of dead at his feet. He took enough of the bastards with him.”
Aeschylus pointed to the far left corner.
“The first few mounted Persians were over there, only a handful, but as soon as we saw them, we knew the time had come. We had to get to close quarters before there were enough cavalry on the field to make a difference.”
“What did you do, sir?” Socrates asked, enthralled.
“We ran at the enemy, lad. We ran.”
There is a race at the Olympics-it’s the last event-in which the competitors run two lengths of the stadium-two stadia-in soldiers’ kit. The men of Marathon had run four times that distance, knowing that at the end they would have to fight for their lives against an enemy almost ten times more numerous.
“It was mad, but it worked,” Aeschylus said. “We’d known what it would be like before we attacked. We’d all shed our loads down to the minimum. I myself fought in sandals, with only shield and helmet. I gave my body armor to a poor farmer who hadn’t even a spear to fight with. He’d come to fight for Athens with a broken plowshare. Later on I saw him crushing Persian skulls with it.
“The Persians were so surprised when we rushed them that they gave us time to reform our lines right in front of them, and then the fighting began. Man for man, their infantry were no match for us. The problem was that there were so damned many of them.”
Aeschylus walked on another five hundred paces. He stopped at a single pillar of fine marble that rose from the field. I didn’t have to ask what that was. It could only be the trophy set up to commemorate the victory.
“This is where we won,” Aeschylus said.
“We deliberately thinned the center of our line and moved extra men to the flanks. Our men in the middle didn’t have to survive,” he said, coldly pragmatic. “They merely had to live long enough to give those of us on the flanks time to defeat the enemy.”
I knew my father had served in the middle of the line. I resolved at that moment to listen to my sire more, and argue with him less.
“As it turned out, our center fought a brilliant fighting retreat,” Aeschylus said. “They gave up ground only when they were forced, a step or two at a time. The Persian center pressed forward. We’d hoped to win on one flank or the other, but we won on both, at almost the same time! We pushed them back on both sides until our left and right flanks met in the middle, at the enemy’s rear. The Persians were caught in a circle ringed by our men. It was like slaughtering sheep,” Aeschylus said with quiet satisfaction.
“Then they ran,” I said.
“They broke and ran,” Aeschylus agreed. “This way.”
He walked to the northeastern end of the beach, out onto the sand. The waves washed about our feet.
“The Persian fleet anchored here,” Aeschylus told us. “About six hundred ships. The cavalry had ridden onto the boats when they saw how the battle must go. The infantry of theirs that had evaded us followed, and soon the Persian boats would escape.”
Aeschylus choked back his emotion.
“My brother Cynegirus grabbed my arm. We had fought as a pair, you see. We had always been close. Now Cynegirus pointed to a particular Persian boat. There was Hippias, leaning over the side, watching the battle from safety.
“Cynegirus yelled, ‘Come on!’ He chased after the boat, and I chased after him. We had to wade to reach it; the sea was up to our hips.
“We were maddened by the bloodlust of the battle. I don’t know how we were supposed to fight a whole shipload of men, but that was our plan. Cynegirus reached his arm to the gunwale to haul himself up. A Persian ran from the stern, carrying an axe. He brought it down and chopped off my brother’s hand at the wrist, clean through. Cynegirus yelled and fell back into the water. Hippias recoiled, but not before I’d thrust my spear. I tore his throat and he staggered back, clutching the wound.”
“Did you think you’d killed him?” Diotima asked.
“I did for a moment. But he was still standing as the boat glided away,” said Aeschylus sadly. “I saw him clearly. I didn’t have time to curse. I found Cynegirus under the water and dragged him back to the beach. My brother bled to death before my eyes. There wasn’t a thing I could do.”
Aeschylus swept down his arm in a rapid motion of anger. If he’d been holding a sword at that moment, someone might have gotten hurt.
“The signal,” I prompted him, to get his mind off the subject. “Where were you when you saw the signal flash?”
“Kneeling beside my dead brother. Cynegirus spoke to me as he bled out. He left messages for his wife and his newborn son. He asked me to care for them, and to be as a father to his son. He made last bequests. He said that he was cold. I wrapped him in my cloak. When he breathed his last, the sand about us was red with his blood.