That was Leonidas’s greatest fear — that the Persians would simply land troops behind them. He had rangers posted to watch the Persian ships and so far the fleet remained still, the only activity barges landing to bring food and supplies to the massive army. Perhaps the Persians thought there were more Greeks marching this way and such a maneuver could turn into a rout with the landed troops caught between the pass and the reinforcements.
“Do not worry,” Polynices said. “The Persian army is too large for a general to think straight. It takes enough brainpower simply to move the entire thing and keep it fed. Not much left over to figure out how to employ it in battle.”
Leonidas looked around now that he could see. He noted the Persians’ ships in the Gulf to the north. And the contingent of finely garbed soldiers surrounding their King as he made his way to the throne set on the mountainside. And then up the steep mountain to the top, noting the scrub covered slope, then back down to the pass.
“I feel as if I am forgetting something important,” Leonidas confided in Polynices.
“You would not be a good commander if you didn’t feel that,” the old man said. “We have a good plan for today. That is enough for now.” He nodded toward the pass. “We have company.”
The first rank of Scythian heavy infantry marched into the open space, the commander deploying his men, doing a much better job than the Immortals had the previous day. Eighty wide, six ranks of Scythians locked in place, shield to shield, thick spears pointing ahead. Behind those six ranks, bowmen filled the space, packed tightly, with just enough room between the ranks for their weapons to be wielded. The same was true on the narrow path to their rear as more bowmen prepared for battle.
Leonidas went to the center of his line. The Scythians were eighty meters away and he could see the eyes of his enemies. He slid into the open space in the line and, like the rest of his men, waited.
Xerxes impatiently watched the preparations. He was tired of this place, of Pandora, of the Spartans. “Why are they not firing?” he demanded of his general.
“My lord, the bowmen are stacking their missiles,” the general informed him. “It will be difficult to resupply them once the battle is engaged. And we want to keep a continuous bombardment going so that when the Spartans weaken from holding their shields over their heads there will be no respite except that of death.”
Xerxes frowned. “Shade,” he ordered, indicating his left. A slave quickly ran into the place and held up a palm branch, protecting the King from the slanting rays of the early morning sun.
“What will today bring, Pandora?” Xerxes asked.
“I do not know, my lord.”
“No predictions? No visions? No words of wisdom?”
“I am afraid not, my lord.”
“You are not very useful as a seer,” Xerxes said loudly, bringing uncertain chuckles from his court sycophants. “I will make a prediction then. I will tell you what I see the day bringing. Spartan blood coating that cliff wall underneath the pass red. That is what I see. And I see further than that. I see all of Greece in flames. The cities that have caused us so much trouble, especially Athens and Sparta, razed to the ground, the earth plowed over and salted so that no sign of them remains and nothing will grow in those sites. That is what I see.”
“Shields up!” Leonidas yelled the command in a loud, yet calm voice as he noted the archers bring their bows, arrows cocked, to bear at a forty-five degree angle. He lifted his heavy shield as he went to one knee, locking it in place with the men to his left and right. The shield was at the same angle, in inverse, from the archers facing them.
The sound of the first volley of arrows being released by the Persians was almost musical, but very loud, louder than any Leonidas had heard in all his battles. As the sky darkened with the wooden shafts arching up, he estimated they were in range of at least three thousand archers, quite a feat on the Persian’s part to get that many in so small a place.
While the first volley reached its apex and began descending toward the Spartan lines, the second volley was launched. Leonidas realized he was tensing and forced his shield hand to relax. The missiles landed with the thud of iron tips striking wood, ground and rock. Leonidas felt one strike his shield, hitting a rivet and bounce off. His eyes were peering through the slightest of cracks between his shield and the man to his right. The Scythians were leaning on their shields, laughing and screaming obscenities.
The second volley landed. From somewhere to Leonidas’s right a man cried out in pain as an arrow found his exposed foot, pinning it to the ground. The warrior cursed as he lowered his shield and ripped the arrow out of his flesh — a mistake as the next volley caught him exposed and three arrows struck his body. Two bounced off armor, but the third caught him in the neck, driving down into his body, severing arteries. The man fell forward, his blood spurting.
All this Leonidas caught out of the corner of his eye. “Hold!” he yelled. “Leave him,” he ordered as the men on either side made to retrieve the wounded man. “Lock in place,” Leonidas further ordered. The two men slid closer together, keeping the shield wall intact. The wounded Spartan tried to crawl back, under the shield wall, but he didn’t make it, bled dry. More arrows hit his body.
Behind the Middle Gate, Cyra was seated with her back to the stone wall. The dozen seriously wounded were to her left and right. Eight feet in front of them, the ground was pin cushioned with arrows, clearly delineating the safe zone from the death. An occasional arrow would bounce off the top of the wall and drop harmlessly into the safe zone. She couldn’t imagine what was happening on the other side of the wall. She could not imagine an ant surviving this, never mind a man.
“How long has it been?” Xerxes grumbled.
“Three hours, my lord.”
Xerxes leaned forward, squinting. “Are you sure they aren’t dead underneath those shields?”
The general swallowed. “Sire, they would not still be holding them up if they were dead.”
“Surely they must grow tired soon,” Xerxes said.
“That is the plan, sire.”
Behind the King, Pandora stirred impatiently, the rolled up map tight in her hand.
“Did you hear the one about the Persian King and the chicken?”
Leonidas smiled as he listened the men joke to each other underneath their shields. Several more men had been struck, but the wall was holding. His arm ached, the muscle quivering, but he had held the shield in this position many times in training for much longer periods of time, while trainers went down the ranks striking men with wooden poles, screaming at them. King or not, Leonidas had taken his place in the training every month.
Leonidas checked through the crack. The Scythians were still leaning on their shields but they were neither laughing or hurling obscenities. He knew it was beginning to sink in to them, that the Spartans would not be so easily dispatched. He also knew that his men were beginning to wonder when he would issue the orders to implement the plan they had prepared all night.
Leonidas raised his voice so that his men could hear above the sound of bow strings twanging and arrows thudding home. “Isn’t it nice of the Persians to supply us with so many arrows for Lichas and his men to shoot back at them?”
There was laughter, but Leonidas could tell it was strained. He returned his attention to the front. He edged his shield over slightly so he could see the hillside where Xerxes’ throne was set. He could see the Persian King flinging his arms about, mouth wide open, obviously yelling at the cluster of finely armored officers in front of him. Leonidas was tempted to give the order, but he knew that as long as the Persians were content to lob arrows at his forces, the clock was ticking in his favor. And there was the issue of when Lichas and his archers would arrive.