NOTE: Lacedaemon, as used herein, is merely another name for the city of Sparta. Lacedaemons are Spartans. As for the other Greek, should you wish to know who they were or where their land was, you should consult The Dictionary of the Classical World.

Go, stranger, and to Lacedaemon tell
That here, obeying her behests, we fell.

The night was a dark one, one deep and overcast with clouds, clouds that spoke to the hearer of a storm. It was a storm which would never come to fruition but would pass on, all but forgotten in the din of a coming battle. Men had not even the company of stars on this night, but only of one another and the rocks and sea.

A few soldiers lingered long into the night, sitting about a fire, talking. They spoke of the days battle and a few friends lost, of the Persian king and his Immortals. Several of the men nursed wounds and occasionally one would go to the other wounded of the camp and give wine and perhaps a bit of bread or cheese. They remained there most of the night, none having sleep in their mind.

Among them was a young boy, a shepherd from the hills of Thrace. Not more than twelve years, this one; he was short, with brown, matted hair and blue expressive eyes. He spoke only on occasion and even then seemed quite distant and forgotten. One could see the fear in his eyes. He had not known war before Thermopylae and had only recently come into the service of a Spartan soldier. He had never seen the face of a battle, never tasted blood with men. He was but a boy, and afraid.

For a few moments, an older man of Thespian descent stared at the boy as if remembering another time. This boy indeed seemed out of place. “So, then, my boy, from where to you do come? What land is your home?”

“The hills, far from here.” The boys tone was low and his fingers plucked nervously at the grass. “My family was there. Once. Long ago. They are gone now and I am but a slave to Dieneces, a Spartan. He is good to me, and I obey him.”

“Dieneces has not released you?”

“Yes, he has, before the first approach of the Persians.”

A puzzled look came to the older man’s eyes and he set aside his glass. “Why do you remain then?”

The silence lingered for a moment and the boys eyes simply stared into the fire. “Dieneces is my only family and I wish to die with him. He was kind to me on that long ago night, with the wind blowing rain and cold. For me, there is nothing else. I lack the courage of men and the cunning of boys. I can loose myself here, among these men and the clamor of war. That is all that I wish.”

The older man extended a hand and smiled. “I am Demophilus, and those are strange words for a mere boy. Boys are to be ever impatient, always courting trouble. They are to believe themselves invincible, and they are to look to their future with wonder and hope.

“But you, you speak with the words of an old beggar or philosopher. ‘To die is gain,’ they say. Can one so young have tasted yet enough of life to sour him of it? Youth is ever a transient thing and it shall be gone from you soon enough. For now, it shall suffice that you are here, on this night.

“You have not often seen war, have you?”

The boy shook his head.

“Well, for one so young, that is good. Boys should neither taste of war nor know of it. Of course, they all wish to be soldiers and heroes, and to try and take such dreams from them would be a loss, but only with time will they be men. And only with time will they realize that not all can be heroes. Some must be villains, others cowards.”

Demophilus brought a cup to this lips and drank deeply before continuing. “Dieneces, you say? A good man if ever there was, and witty. Never at a loss for words, that one.” A smile touched his lips and he shook his head. “I recall his wit only perhaps two days ago before our battle with the Medes. A man, a Trachinian I believe, told him that so great was the number who served the Persian king that when they shot their arrows, the sheer multitude would block the light of the sun. To this, our Spartan promptly replied, ‘Our Trachinian friend brings us excellent tidings! If the Medes darken the sun, then we shall have our fight in the shade.’”

At this, the other men laughed a bit, each agreeing to the wit of Dieneces. Their laugh was a tired one, one which seemed of years ago. They were simple men, these, men with families and perhaps children. That night as they sat for the last time amongst friends, round a fire, they talked of only a few things and nothing meaningful. One could tell in their eyes that they knew of  the coming storm long before their seer predicted it. Perhaps a few believed they would escape the slaughter but all knew that most would not. And yet they remained, if only for another night; they remained, sitting about a fire, poking at the embers.
 
 

With the dawn only perhaps an hour away, men began to move about. Fires were lit and a few servants began to prepare food. The sky was lighter now  and one could see the outline of the far hills. Several Spartans sat together, talking low and sharpening their weapons.

A guard at the gate heard men approaching and saw their black outlines against the sky. Quickly, he took up his shield and spear and gave a shout to the others. Within moments, guards were on the walls, ready. A few archers had arrows knocked to string.

The camp was alive with action. Men fell out of tents, clumsily grabbing for armor and spear, their eyes still heavy with sleep. Captains sounded the call for arms and rushed to the wall, shouting orders.

These were men of the Phocians, those charged with the keeping of the rough mountain path leading to Thermopylae. Some one thousand of these men had been given this post by Leonidas, the Spartan King, with orders to defend it to the last. Their failure was complete.
 
 

For two days, the Greeks at Thermopylae had held back the Persians and what was believed to be the largest army ever fielded. They did so by guarding the narrowest part of the pass. It was here that the Persian advantages were made useless, for numbers were to no avail in such narrow quarters and cavalry and chariots were proved too unwieldy. Only infantry was effective, and at infantry, the Greeks excelled. The Greek soldiers were divided into contingents based on their city and grouped together. Each city then in turn would place its men on the line of battle to face the onslaught of the Persian king. This duty would rotate between cities to ensure the freshness of the troops and that all had a time for rest.

Upon first approaching the pass, the Persian king, Xerxes, believed that these Greeks would run at the sight of his army, for how could such a small number dare to stand against an army rumored to be two and a half million strong? It would be madness. And it was. A Greek advisor to the king, Demaratus, had long since told Xerxes of these men, and now he spoke again. “Earnestly do I struggle at all times to speak truth to thee, sire; and now listen to it once more. These men have come to dispute this pass with us; and it is for this that they are now making ready. 'Tis their custom, when they are about to hazard their lives, to adorn their heads with care. Be assured, however, that if thou canst subdue the men who are here and the Lacedaemonians who remain in Sparta, there is no other nation in all the world which will venture to lift a hand in their defense.” And so it was that the king of Persia was warned against the bravery and valor of these men. But he did not listen.

Xerxes ordered his army to encamp, as he believed that the Greeks only waited for night to fall so to escape under the cover of darkness. Once more, the sun set in all his glory, and once more, embracing dawn, he rose again to lofty heights. But the Greeks remained. Four days he waited, Xerxes; four days he waited for the Greeks to flee. But they would have none of it, for those four thousand Greeks had come to dispute this pass with the Persian king and his army.

On the fifth day, Xerxes grew anxious for battle, so to be done with these men, and sent against them the Medes and Cissians, with orders not to kill them but to bring them before him. On the charge, his men rushed forward, weapons gleaming in the sun, a cry for battle echoing across the hills. Upon clashing with the Greeks, they were engaged fiercely and killed in vast numbers, but others quickly drew up to take their place, and fought on, not to be beaten off so quickly. It soon became apparent, however, that the Persian king had many soldiers, yes, but very few warriors.

In like manner continued the battle throughout this day and the next. It would have gone on so had not a man named Ephialtes told the Persian king of perhaps another way. He spoke of a pathway which led across the mountains to Thermopylae and how it was guarded by only a thousand Phocians, men who would not be expecting an attack. They could be taken by surprise and routed. And they were.
 
 

The seer Megistias stood before the altar in his tent and stared into nothing, his black eyes not even blinking back the torchlight. The air was heavy with smoke and incense and the blood of his sacrifice glistened on his hands and robe. There was a long stillness as he stood there, motionless.

Slowly, he lifted up his arms to heaven and began mouthing words, their meaning long since lost. His eyes still staring wide, Megistias dropped to his knees and began to speak in a low slurred voice.

“O ye men who dwell in the streets of broad Lacedaemon!
Either your glorious town shall be sacked by the children of Perseus,
Or, in exchange, must all through the whole Laconian country
Mourn for the loss of a king, descendant of great Heracles.
He cannot be withstood by the courage of bulls nor of lions,
Strive as they may; he is mighty as Jove; there is naught that shall stay him,
Till he have got for his prey your king, or your glorious city.”

Leonidas stood behind and to the right of the seer and remained there, never moving, as his death was prophesied. He knew what it meant. Either he would die or his city, Sparta, would be sacked. The decision to remain was never in question.

Throwing a cloak over his shoulders and picking up his shield, Leonidas stepped into the cool night air.
 
 

Dawn began suggesting itself to the eastern sky, hints of red and a lighter blue edging their way across the horizon. The rocks and mountains still lay covered in darkness, light but slowly returning to the sky first and then the land. The sea rumbled in the distance, the rush of it’s waves among broken rocks were as words shouted to a coming storm, sounding out across the trees and the mountains.

The young boy crouched near a small cooking fire among the Spartan tents, tending it. A small pile of twigs and branches lay next to him. He broke a few larger sticks and carefully placed them in the fire. A handful of broken twigs and bark accompanied them.

Less than two hours had passed since deserters from the Phocian guard began to enter the camp of the Greek allies. Within a few minutes, scouts confirmed their story. The Phocian guard had been routed. At first sight of the Persians, the Phocians retreated to the nearby mountaintop and prepared to defend to the last, believing the Persians intended to massacre them. The Persians, on seeing their good fortune and the retreat of the only resistance, moved on, over the mountain path and down to Thermopylae.

Only minutes ago, the Greek allies had called together a council of war to decide what should be done. Many wished to stand and die, others wished to retreat and make a stand elsewhere. “It is better to flee today and live to fight another battle,” they would say. Leonidas would have none of it and he disbanded the council. A detachment of men were sent to intercept the Persian advance, and all others of the allies were dismissed.

As the council ended, the camp was alive with the sounds of men and the preparations for war. Many hastily prepared for a swift departure, others sharpened their swords and polished their armor. A few servants helped an old man into his breastplate, he all the while telling them of the pride his father would have were he to know what his son was facing.

Dieneces was one of the last to leave the council tent. Slowly, he picked his way through the confusion toward his tent and a meal. The young boy had prepared a simple stew, but a warm one with a good flavor. As Dieneces approached, the boy filled a bowl and offered it to him. As he ate, Dieneces briefly told the boy what was to happen. The allies had been dismissed, and Leonidas would make his stand here.

“Then it is here that I shall remain,” the boy said, standing up straight.

Dieneces shook his head and finished chewing a bit of meat before speaking. “No, you will not. We, these men and I, are Spartans and Leonidas is our king. We must remain. You must not. Go, take what you will from our tent, I shall have no need of it.”

“But, I wish to die with you. Out there, beyond those mountains, there is nothing for me. You are all that I have. Please-”

“Then do me this favor: live on and remember. But go, boy, now. Do you not here? Your destiny calls to you, she beckons you to go far from here. Your song plays on the wind. Now, go.

“This is not for young boys, this endeavor. You do not even know what it is we fight for. Perhaps you simply believe that we fight for glory or some honor somewhere. But we do not. I shall die today for my king and for my family, you. If I knew that today you would fall as well, there would be no reason to any of it. I fight to protect something that I love, you would fight because it is easy for you. It would be easy to die today, with me and these men, much too easy. And it is not what you must do. Perhaps a day will come when you too will face a grave situation, perhaps you too will die in the service of your king, but that day is not today.

“Take what you will and go. Go to Sparta and tell them of me, take my cloak and bring it before a king. They will treat you well, they will treat you as the son of Dieneces and I would have it no different.”

Dieneces looked at the boy for only a moment longer and then returned to the meal before him. A good meal it was, he would remember. His mind would wander back to that boy as the Spartans were led forth by their king that day and into history.
 
 

The sun was bright as it rose over the mountains, its rays stretching across the green and gray countryside. A strong wind blew in from the rocky coast and the sea beyond, bringing with it a hint of freshness. On the air was a smell of burnt offerings and smoke, the morning’s sacrifice having been made by Leonidas himself to Pallas Athena. The small offering continued to burn and only low flames and heat accompanied the sacrifice on its stone altar. A dagger lay in the fire, its blade still wet with blood, its hilt blackened by soot.

Leonidas drew the cloak about his shoulders and stared into the faces of the Spartan officers before him. “I do not, as believed, tender for the safety of our Greek allies. No, in fact; for I believe our allies to be out of heart and unwilling to face the task at hand and the danger it holds. And in this, our final hour, they would be but a hinderance. This is why I have released them, not to spare their lives, but to spare our glory, for their cowardice in the face of the Persian host would be a detriment to what we do here, and how we die. So let them go.

“I know of the prophesy, my friends, think not that it weighs heavy on my shoulders, for to die a king, to die among men and arms, that is all I have wished for. The seer Megistias has spoken his words and echoed a prophesy which all shall know. Now is the time for words from your king and then a battle.

“It is said that either our glorious city shall be sacked by the children of Perseus or, in exchange, must all throughout our countryside mourn for the loss of a king, a descendant of great Heracles. Well then, so be it. This post is that which we were given, and defend it to the last, we shall. If you would go and save your life, then do so, flee now before our enemy; and, if need be, I shall die alone, defending this pass.

“But there will be no need, for you are men of Sparta. Of our allies, all have been released, all have now fled. The Thespians are all that remains; they would not abandon their post, they who chose to remain at our side and defend a small pass along a rocky coast. Let us now, pour a libation to the Muses, pour it so that our deeds might not be forgotten, so that all who value honor will remember this day and what we do here.

“This is ours, this Thermopylae, and ours it shall always be!”
 

Four thousand here from Pelops’ land
Against three million once did stand.

The sun was hot and hung high in the sky, as if to watch the Spartans in their defeat, as if to watch men in their finest hour. A broken spear, a shrill cry, a taste of sand and blood, these are the long companions of the soldier, these and many more. Among them are the great and mean of human qualities: courage and honor, sacrifice and defeat, valor and glory, compassion and humility. Of these virtues do men tell their children, of these vices do priests warn their followers. Only in the face of death are the goods and evils in man brought out, only by the fire of war and adversity can one see into the best and worst of hearts, only then can villains be unmasked and heroes forged.

The Spartans were defeated that day, at that pass. It is not, however, their defeat which history has recorded, but their valor.
 

This is a work of historical fiction based on The History of Herodotus, Herodotus, Book VII.