Battle of Marathon, Pt. 3

Author's note: I am sorry if this has a lot of mistakes. I wrote it late last night after I remembered that it had been about a week since I had posted the last! Yikes! So here it is! If you leave a review, don't hesitate to point anything out of place to me. :D

Within an hour, we begin moving out. Our march is slow but steady, gradually shortening the gap between our camps. While the army marches, we talk quietly among the ranks.

“This is such a bad idea,” The man beside me says skeptically. But his statement is answered by a snort, and I find myself answering him.

“Bad idea? How is it a bad idea?” I say, looking at the man who spoke. He is a tall man, very broad of shoulder, but he doesn’t look like a soldier to me. Perhaps it is the awkward way he holds his spear or how his hands look soft like a writer’s hand, not scarred and worn like a warrior’s.

“Are you not a soldier?” My voice is increasing in volume, building up from the hesitant whisper from before. “You have armor covering your body. Your sword is sharp and your spear flies straight. The Persian soldiers have none of that! All they have is a cloth tunic for armor. Their swords will bend and break when we meet them in battle.”

“But their bows,” he says, his courage rising, but I can still sense the fear inside him.

“Have you heard nothing that Miltiades told us earlier?" I say emphatically. “Their bows have a range of maybe ninety fathoms? We are going to run that distance as fast as we can, giving them the least amount of time possible to react. We will be on them before they can shoot off no more than a few poorly aimed arrows. And if you see an arrow heading your direction, you can use your shield to block it.”

“I understand what you are saying, but it’s just that I have never gone to battle before,” he says quietly. His voice tells me that he is ashamed.

“You must be thirty or forty years old! How is it that you have never fought?”

He smiles nervously. “I am Aeschylus, the playwright. I don’t actually fight.”

I notice our pace has quickened, slowly building from our slow march to a fast walk. Battle is near.

Already I can see the Persian camp in the distance, becoming closer by the minute. Soon they will have seen us, or perhaps they already have and are preparing for battle now.

“So what prompted you to join us today?” I ask him.

His eyes wander down to the muddy ground we walk on. He is hesitant to tell me the reason, but I think I already know. I let him tell me, anyway.

“The life of a playwright is enjoyable, except all I do is write and act things out that already happened! I want to actually do something more than just grip a sword in a play! I have to fight for Athens at least one time in my life. Otherwise, what will I have done that was for the good for my country?”

I hear the horns sound from the Persian camp at last. They have seen us and are preparing for battle.

I can just envision what is happening in their camp. The overseers, the only true Persians in their army, will pull out whips. They will lash at every Iranian slave to Get up! Get your bow! Get to the front lines! And then they will slink back to let them be killed by the first Greeks to smash into them.

“Well, it looks like your chance for true valor has finally come then, my friend.” I say.

As we come closer and closer, I can catch a few voices drifting towards me, but I can’t understand any of what they are saying, partially because they are so far away, but mostly because it is a different language. I don’t think I need to know what they are saying, though. Their intent is all too clear, for the ships lay still on the beach, and no men are rushing towards them in retreat.

We are finally going to have the battle that we had come for.

A halt is ordered, while we all move into our positions. Miltiades has carefully worked out everything into a brilliant military strategy. And in order for it to be executed properly, we must get there in the exact position.

Finally, the order is given. A horn blast resonates throughout the countryside and we slowly begin to run.

Soon we are at a dead sprint. Ten thousand heavily armored men running make a sound like none other. The clashing of shields and breastplates mixes with the breathing of my fellow soldiers, creating a strange symphony of sound.

Only fifty fathoms left.

I am on the left wing of our army, where some of the strongest men are. The Antiochis and Leontis tribes are forming the centerlines, where the fighting will be the heaviest. The Persians will most likely attack that center, as that is what will come at them first.

Looking over to my right while I run, I see a tall figure running in the front of the center ranks. It is Miltiades. Unlike the Persian leaders, who will cower behind their slaves to do the fighting for them while they enjoy their plunder, Miltiades is with us. Our leader is fighting alongside us today. In fact, all of our generals are running beside us lowly Hoplites as we boldly race towards our enemy.

The Persians are beginning to assemble now. Already, I can see the first ranks bending their bows to release the first volley of arrows. But there are only a dozen of them shooting and most of the arrows fall short. I hear one cry of pain in between the noise and hope that the shot wasn’t fatal. There are no doctors here. Either you fight or you die.

Thirty Fathoms to go.

Looking beside me, I see that Aeschylus is still beside me. His breathing is labored, and I can see that this all-out run is spending his energy fast. As a playwright, he isn’t as physically strong as the rest of us, and so this is harder for him. But he knows just as well as us that it is the only way, and so he runs with everything he has, hoping for something to be left over when it comes down to the fighting.

It feels strange for me to be running beside all of these men when I am used to being alone. Solitude might sound like a dreary prospect to many people, but to me it is a wonderful thing. It is a time to be alone with my thoughts, a time to see the world without the noise or distractions of human life. That was why I chose to be a runner. To get away from all of that. And yet here I am, racing towards it.

Ten fathoms left.

The Persians are all assembled now. As I approach them, I can see their full numbers. And for a moment, I am tempted to retreat.

Some hidden tempter inside me is telling me that There are too many of them! Just turn around before you are killed! I want to ignore it so badly, but I also know that the voice is right.

I can tell that the Persian number is at least three or four times greater than ours, just from glancing over the two armies. I start to falter in my confident stride, my fear taking hold of me, but I decide that no! I will not allow that to happen!

I tell myself everything that Miltiades told us earlier. I repeat in my mind that they are weak. Their armor is weak. Their hearts are weak. Their masters are weak. That while we fight for our home, they fight for nothing. We have the courage and the strength to defeat them.

The Persian front ranks are drawing their bows, preparing for a volley. They are waiting for something… waiting for what? And then I realize that they are waiting for an order. But the order isn’t given and I see the reason why. Only some of them are ready. The rest are fumbling fearfully for their arrows, dropping them on the ground in their haste.

I hear an order and those that are ready fire, but most of them just glance off our shields or skitter harmlessly away. A few find their targets, but very few.

One fathom left.

We are so close to them! I can see their frightened expressions as I approach them and I can only pray to Athena that I look brave, because I don’t feel it.

Those few last steps we take with surety, that last space the only thing between me and death. One question remains, though.

Whose death shall it be?

As if in answer to that silent question, every man puts his shield down in front of him, his spear jutting out to pierce the first Persian it encounters.

And then just before we crash into the Persian army, beginning a battle for freedom, a loud yell escapes every man’s lips. As if it was a line in one of Aeschylus’ plays, the cry sweeps across the battlefield, our army crying out in one thunderous voice the battle cry of Greece.

“Eleleu! Eleleu!”