Battle of Marathon, Pt. 4

Author's note: I'm sorry this is so long! I was in a writing mood!

For the next few seconds, time seems to slow down. The only thing I hear is the sound of my foot pounding into the ground, and the only thing I see is the one man who will be my first opponent.

My mind begins to notice other things. At first, all I hear are my fellow Athenian warriors yelling beside me.

But the Persians shock me with their screams. Their frightened voices blend together, creating a battle cry so unlike ours.

Then my thoughts fade away, and my face becomes as cold and hard as a bust from a temple. I remind myself that, like the Persians, I must have no mercy.

Why should I give mercy when I will receive none?

And in those last seconds, I give a silent plea to Ares to help me in this battle: to help my spear fly straight and to help my sword remain keen and sharp throughout the battle, and that he will keep by my side during this battle. I can only hope that he listens to my prayer.

Then the two armies clash together, bringing the entirety of my thoughts to a halt. I have no time for that now. I lower my spear, poised to pierce flesh, and I begin to fight.

My first enemy is a bowman who is holding both a sword and a bow in his hands. He struggles to fight with his sword, while maintaining his grip on his bow. We grapple for his sword and he drops the bow so that he can hold his sword better. I punch him in the gut and his grip loosens. Then I end his struggle, my spear finding its way to his heart.

The spear is pulled down by the weight of the man and I don’t have time to yank it out before I am attacked again. I duck the sword, kicking the man in the lower, throwing him off balance.

I barely have enough time to pull the spear from my first opponent’s body before his blade skewers me. I am able to catch the sword on my spear handle, deflecting it from my face. Then I take the opening he gives me, driving the spear into his chest with all my strength.

The body begins to fall and I have to roll to the side to avoid it, but my legs are captured anyway. After a struggle, I finally pull them free from the corpse.

For a moment, I am without an enemy. That gives me the chance to finally see the genius behind Miltiades’ tactic. Now I know why he had us march into battle the way we did.

The Persians attacked us as one group, mobbing our center where we are usually strongest. So normally, they deal decisive blows by striking our center with the heart of their army.

But not this time.

His battle plan is similar to a bird. The wings are the sides, where I am. They are strong, capable of beating at the enemy, forcing them back. The center is weak and is being pushed back by the Persians.

So while they push our center back, our wings are being thrust forwards and against them. We are crushing them like a vise and it will only be a matter of time before they realize it.

I only hope I live to see the entire battle played out.

My short rest is over as I am attacked by both my left and right. Two Persians slash down with their swords at the same time in an attempt to cut me down.

In an act of desperation, I drop to the ground, rolling out of the way. Their blades hit only air, narrowly missing each other. It takes them a moment before they realize where I went and by the time that happens, the first is dead.

My bronze breastplate protects me when the other slashes at my chest, and the sword slides off. My spear does not slide off, but penetrates the thin clothing, dealing a mortal blow.

The soldier falls to the muddy ground beside his companion, his hand still grasping his sword weakly. At first, I am tempted to kick it away from him. Just before I do so, I see his chest stop its fall. The man is dead.

I look at my spear, covered in that reddish liquid, and I look around me, my ears and eyes taking in the battle. Corpses lie everywhere, men never to see the light of day ever again. My ears are filled with the screams of the wounded, spread out before me in a bloody blanket on the ground. Men silence their cries even as the lay there, feebly clutching at swords to defend themselves.

And I have to wonder: Why are our problems always solved by death? What is achieved by killing one another?

Those men I just killed could have lived long lives in peace with their families. Instead, some impulse sent them over here in an attempt to take Greece for their own. Many of them were forced to fight as slaves even, fighting for their lives in battle and in peace. This wasn’t much different to them.

But someone must die. I know that thirty thousand men aren’t going to stop fighting when I shout out. Arguments in the world will never end. Men will always fight, and they will always have greed. So there will always be war.

With that in mind, I continue fighting.

I wade through the maze of men, jumping over bodies. Everything I do is pure reaction, my arms just moving without thought. Persians are everywhere, so I don’t have a hard time finding a target. I don’t see most of my opponents faces. I used to see that as cowardice, stabbing my enemy in the back. But I have to remind myself that there are Persians behind me, no doubt all too eager to kill me the same way.

For the entire beginning of the battle, I didn’t catch sight of Aeschylus. Only now do I find him, pinned down by a Persian adversary.

They struggle on the ground, each fighting to disarm the other and to say above the muck. I fear that Aeschylus is on the bottom of the tussle, and I try to find a way to help. But he is too far off to help by my hand and I am afraid that I will wound him if I throw my spear.

I fight my way to him, watching everything carefully, waiting for an opportunity to throw my spear. And finally, it comes. I shove a Persian soldier aside to get a clear shot and my hands just know what to do.

I pull the spear back and utter a silent prayer to Ares to guide my spear. The weapon flies like an arrow through the air, impaling the Persian in the back. The spear quivers in his back for a moment, the man still upright.

Then he falls off Aeschylus, landing beside him. It is a minute before Aeschylus stands, and I begin to wonder if he is dead. But I see his face appear and I breathe out in relief.

He sees me through the battle and he smiles in appreciation, but his thanks are cut short as he ducks a sword blow.

I feel good, knowing I helped him escape death. But I realize that while I have saved Aeschylus for the moment, I am without a spear.

The Persians coming at me have short spears. While that wouldn’t have been a problem if I had my own, it is a problem with a sword. But a weapon is a weapon, so I pull it reluctantly.

They stab at me, jabbing their spears at my gut. I shove them away as best I can, but one of their spears catches the side of my leg, slicing a long gash as it swings away.

They say that when you are wounded time slows down to nothing and you feel no pain. I’ve never really understood that until now. Their spears move slower, like in slow motion.

Even their laughter is in slow motion.

I run into them, adrenaline washing away the pain. My sword finds its way into the first Persian’s chest, and the second falls mere moments after.

Only then do I feel the pain, the cold feeling creeping up into my chest, chilling my heart. My grip on my sword becomes tight as a wave of pain hits me. I can just sense my lifeblood seeping out, so I look anxiously around for something to stop the flow.

The only thing I can find is a dead Persian’s tunic. So I rip off his sleeve, tearing it into two long strips. Then I kneel on the muddy ground and wipe away the blood as best I can, but my hands only smear it around. I know the wound needs attention from a real doctor, but the time is not now.

I have no idea why I haven’t been killed already. I am kneeling, vulnerable against any onslaught the Persians may offer. My hands move quicker, wrapping the cloth around my leg, tightening the band as best I can. It isn’t much of a tourniquet, but it will help. Then I take one more piece of cloth and wrap it around the wound, sealing it off from dirt and infection as best I can.

My sword is lying in the muck and I pick it up, rising awkwardly from that position. The pain in my leg has subsided, but only barely. That throbbing pain is still there, but is now contained. I can fight.

I take a slow step forward, and I almost faint from the agony.

Is this how it feels to be wounded? For a minute, the world seems to be turning, the landscape going in circles around me as I take slow steps.

Somehow, I block a sword coming at me from the side. The Persian attacker is dead before I can realize what is going on. I am still dizzy, like I‘ve been turning in circle. But I can finally see what is happening around me.

The Persians have broken ranks. I now know why I wasn’t killed while I knelt there. The one I killed was the last one around me. The rest of them are running about like mad men, trying to get away from us.

The world clears around me, my vision finally coming back to normal. And just in time.

A Persian attacks from my back as he runs, wielding a small sword. He slashes at me, but I go down and roll to the side, ignoring the pain as my leg crashes into the turf.

I finish my roll, standing up as I whirl my own sword in a deadly arc. He ducks the attack and slashes at my arm, opening a gash from my elbow to my shoulder. I ignore the pain and the blood dripping down my arm, going onto my sword. He never sees the next attack coming. As I limp past, the head falls onto my shoulder and then drops to the ground.

I do not know why I look down at it, but for some reason I do. The image races through my mind, staying there forever. His mouth is still open in a silent yell; his eyes stare up into the sky, as if he can still see. I look for a second longer, my eyes riveted to it, and then I look away as I hear the roar.

Everyone is screaming in victory as they surge past me, racing the Persians to the boats.

Those ships are their safety net. If they reach them and put out to sea, then they could regroup and return in greater numbers.

Athenians run after Persians, cutting them down before they reach them. Some of our men are even grabbing hold of their ships, pulling the vessels to shore before men can board.

I don’t bother to follow them to the ships. Enough enemies bombard me from all sides where I am, trying to cut me down as they surge towards the safety of the sea.

Fighting them is so much easier now, without the burden of wondering if we are going to win. Now it is only a matter of staying alive and killing as many as possible before they reach their ships. If enough of them escape, then they could regroup, and strike again from a better place, perhaps even going so far as to attack Athens.

It is obvious that we can’t capture or kill them all. There are already at least ten ships put out to see, filled with Persian soldiers. Many more are fighting our men off, trying to follow their companions out to the safety of deeper waters.

And then there are those that were too slow to follow the others in escape. Realizing that they are now drastically outnumbered, the look to run. Going through the army of angry Athenians would mean certain death, and so they turn around, running off into the swamp.

They think that will save them from death, but they are wrong. Most of them will probably die from the swamps, drowning in some deep pit of water where no one can hear or find them. Those that survive the swamps won’t survive the anger of people they will meet once they leave the swamp. So either way, they’re doomed to die.

And then it is over, just as fast as it began. The Persians have left the shores, sailing off in their boats. I can only imagine what they left behind. Thousands of dead men are now scattered over the swampy beach. Most of them belong to the Persians’, but too many of them are ours.

Many of them I remember seeing before the battle. Fresh, young men with a burning passion in their hearts. A passion for justice, for valour in battle. And they have won that valour they anxiously fought for. I am sure they will win Elysium. If not, then Hades will fear my wrath. I am only one man, but he would soon see what a storm this one man could muster.

Among the many dead, my eyes catch an Athenian lying on his back, his eyes motionlessly staring up into the blue sky. I slowly kneel beside him, being careful not to evoke the wound in my leg to even greater pain.

His sword lies beside him in the body of a Persian. Only the hilt is visible. It must have been his death stroke, dealt just before the one that killed him was given.

I pull the sword out of the Persian’s body and carefully lay it on his chest, moving his still warm hands to grip it in death. Then I lean over and close his eyes.

“There is no greater death than one in battle, Pheidippides.” It is Aeschylus standing behind me. He looks tired and his arm is cut badly. I suppose I look in shock to see him alive because he smiles. “Yes, I am still alive.”

“He died a great death,” I say. “But I still would have liked to see him live this day in full.”

I begin to answer, but I am cut short by a bellow that resonates throughout the entire battlefield. “Pheidippides!”

Aeschylus looks over from where the voice came. “It seems as though you are needed for something.”

Without even looking, I can tell that it is Miltiades. His voice isn’t one that I forget easily.

He looks battle worn, just like the rest of us. His sword is bloody and his armour crooked. His face and hair is smeared in mud, and his arms are covered in the same muck, but he seems to be untouched. I don’t even see as much as a nick on him. Ares must have favored him today.

He notices what I have done for the dead man and he nods in gratitude. “Our losses were light today, Pheidippides, but there were good men who died today. They will be sorely missed at home.”

“What did you need me for?”

He licks his lips nervously, which is a strange thing for him to do. He is never nervous, so something must be troubling him greatly.

“Did you see the ships leaving?”

I look out to sea and I can still see them on the horizon, moving off. “Yes, why? Is something wrong?”

“They could be heading towards Athens. Right now, if Athens has an attack from the Persians, no matter what their losses, the city will be lost. The city gates will be opened to them without opposition. One of us must go to tell them that we have victory,” he says.

I look down at my arm, still bleeding freely. The exposed flesh is filled with the grime of battle. My leg has stopped bleeding for the most part, but only due to the tourniquet I applied. But the blood is hard and crusty against my leg.

I look up at the general. “By someone, no doubt you mean me?”

He smiles grimly and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Yes, Pheidippides. That means you.”