No Time Like the Past (24 page)

Each man was armed with a spear some eight feet long. Each man carried two swords; the short xiphos – excellent for groin and throat damage; and the kopis, a curved sword used for hacking – heads, limbs, whatever. Each man extended his spear over the shoulder of the man in front. Each man planted his feet in the ground. Each man had implicit faith in his comrades. No man would budge. To me, they looked impregnable.

Until I turned my head to watch the approaching Persians. The ground shook with the majesty of their approach. The tiny Greek army stood firm. What were they thinking at that moment?

Whatever it was, they weren’t thinking it for long. The Persians halted and only seconds later, the sky darkened as hail after hail of arrows hissed viciously through the air, bringing sudden death from the skies.

Except that they didn’t. Almost contemptuously, the Spartans crouched and raised their big bronze shields and these, together with their helmets were easily able to deflect most of the arrows. A few men fell and were carried away. Their comrades shuffled up to cover the gaps as reinforcements arrived from the rear.

The barrage continued for some minutes until someone must have reported back to Xerxes that he was wasting time, effort, and arrows and it ceased.

Silence fell.

‘Are you getting this?’ said Peterson, softly, all his attention fixed on the Persians.

‘Yes,’ I said, all my attention fixed on the Greeks.

‘I’m fine too,’ said Markham from somewhere vaguely behind us.

Trumpets sounded and it was time for the main event. Having failed to soften up the Greeks, Xerxes now sent the Medes to march upon the Greek lines, obviously reckoning ten thousand of them should be more than enough to do the trick.

My equipment was working fine, so I was able to spare them a quick glance. The Medes were good soldiers, well armoured, with dome-shaped helmets and chain mail over brightly coloured tunic and trousers. Good soldiers they might be, but they were outmatched from the start. Their short swords were no match for long Spartan spears and those who did actually manage to reach the Spartan lines found their light wicker shields couldn’t turn back the Spartan weapons. They went down in their scores. The Spartans had an effortless rhythm. Stamp, stab, and twist. Stamp, stab, and twist. The Persian front rows fell, dying. Those behind slipped and fell in the gore. There were Persian bodies everywhere, twisted and tangled together in their own blood.

All the time, the sun beat down mercilessly. Xerxes’ superior numbers meant he was never short of fresh soldiers and he hurled wave after wave of them into the attack. Leonidas rotated his troops, regularly sending them back for rest and water. Unlike the Great King who had thousands to choose from, he had no spares.

Hours passed in what seemed like minutes and the Persians had made no progress at all. The sun passed its blistering zenith and began to drop in the sky. Now was the time when Xerxes might expect the Greeks to be tiring as they toiled in the endless heat, so he sent in the most dreaded of all his soldiers.

The Immortals.

So named because they all wore blank metal facemasks and one could not possibly be distinguished from another. When one fell, another identical soldier would immediately take his place, apparently unkillable. Hence their nickname – The Immortals.

Leonidas responded by sending his Spartan bodyguard to the front. The fighting was fierce for a while, and then, suddenly overwhelmed, the Spartans turned and ran. The Immortals broke ranks and streamed after them. At a single shouted command, the Spartans turned as one, raised their shields, and the entire Persian front rank, unable to stop, impaled themselves upon their spears. It was over in seconds. The Spartans regrouped.

Wave after wave of Immortals advanced and every time, the Spartans turned them back. The huge numbers of dead and dying began to make it almost impossible for them to reach the Greek lines. The light was fading. Xerxes called it a day.

So did we. We checked over our equipment, pulled out the used tapes, shut everything down for the night, took it all back to the pod, and had something to eat. Markham made the tea while Peterson and I reviewed the tapes, making sure our angles were good. That took half the night. We ate and worked at the same time. Markham was ordered to get his head down because at least one of us should be fresh in the morning.

That night there was another thunderstorm. I listened to the rain drumming on the roof and spared a thought for all the soldiers out there, unable to light a fire, wrapped in their cloaks, trying to keep their weapons dry, watching all that dust around them turn to mud.

‘Here’s a thought,’ said Peterson, raising his voice above the wind and rain. ‘How about Markham and me nipping west tomorrow, to catch Ephialtes and the Immortals crossing the River Asopus? We might actually get a glimpse of his face. What do you think?’

‘Brilliant idea,’ I said, when actually a better phrase would have been, ‘Bloody stupid idea, that’s just asking for trouble.’

We stumbled from the pod in the pre-dawn gloom, burdened with food, water, more tapes, spares for just about every piece of equipment we possessed, and a first aid kit.

Both camps were already busy. I wondered how much sleep the Greeks had had. Probably not very much, except for the Spartans who were so used to this way of life they could probably have slept during the battle itself.

The second day was a repeat of the first. Xerxes probably hoped the tiny Greek force would have worn itself out after their efforts of the previous day, but that turned out to be wishful thinking on his part. Once again, the Greeks resisted everything he threw at them and in the end, the Great King called a halt and returned to his camp, presumably for a bit of a rethink. And, of course, to meet his surprise visitor, the traitor Ephialtes who would offer to guide the Persian army along the goat track to the rear of the Spartans.

Halfway through the afternoon, Peterson and Markham had packed up their gear and set off across the rocky hillside. They left their com open and I could hear them, slipping, sliding, and cursing their way across the landscape, until eventually, as the light began to leave the sky, they arrived.

‘We’re here,’ said Markham. I heard faint sounds as they bedded themselves down behind a rock.

‘Can you see anything?’

‘Are you kidding?’ said Peterson, and I could hear the excitement in his voice. ‘There’s a bloody great column of soldiers crossing the river at this very moment.’

‘Is he there? Can you see Ephialtes?’

‘Hold on. There’s a small band advancing up the hill towards us.’

That made sense. Hydarnes, the general commanding this expedition, would send out a token force in case of ambush. No one trusts a traitor.

Markham intervened. ‘They’ll pass very close to us, Max. Radio silence.’ Everything went quiet. I sat at the console and waited for them to re-establish contact.

And waited.

I wasn’t too worried. Ten thousand men would take a long time to pass by. Peterson would be recording. Markham would keep him safe. No, I wasn’t too worried.

‘Max?’ Just a whisper.

‘Yes?’ I said, stifling the instinct to whisper myself.

‘Markham’s missing.’

‘You’ve lost Markham? How the hell did you manage that?’

‘He had to go.’

‘Where?’

‘No, he had to go.’

‘For God’s sake – didn’t you go before you came out?’

‘Of course,’ he said, defensively. ‘We are professionals, you know.’

‘Where could he possibly have gone?’

‘How should I know? Knowing Markham, he’s been stung by a giant scorpion or even snatched by aliens. I’m going to check.’

‘OK.’

He kept the link open, so I could hear every word.

I could hear his heavy breathing as he eased his way cautiously through the rocks.

‘Shit!’

‘What?’ I said, more alarmed than I would admit.

‘Shit!’

‘What?’ I nearly shrieked, frantic by now.

‘Bloody hell, Markham!’

‘What? What’s going on?’

‘Max. We’re in trouble.’

‘What’s happened? For God’s sake, tell me.’

‘I’ve found Markham.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘
He’s
fine, yes.’

‘Then what’s the bloody problem.’

Silence, and then he said. ‘Tell you what – I’ll let him explain things himself.’

There was a short pause and then Markham said tentatively, ‘Max?’

‘What the f – I mean, what’s happening? Tell me or die.’

He told me.

I decided I’d kill him anyway.

Chapter Eighteen

People think that Leonidas was the most important person at Thermopylae; or possibly the Great King, Xerxes; but actually, the most important person at Thermopylae was that bastard Ephialtes. The traitor. The man whose name, even now, is Greek for ‘nightmare’. The man who led the Persian troops over the mountains so they could fall on Leonidas from the rear as dawn broke. Without Ephialtes, the whole course of History might have been different. You could certainly say Ephialtes was
the
key player.

So, when Markham inadvertently slugged someone with a rock, thus rendering him deeply unconscious for the best part of twenty-four hours – guess what his name was.

 ‘What were you thinking?’ demanded Peterson, which for him was the equivalent of a thundering bollocking.

‘I couldn’t help it,’ he said defensively. ‘You know what it’s like. You squat there with your tunic up round your waist, making sure to avoid the prickly plants, and worrying about scorpions and snakes … It’s always a bit of a nightmare for me, so when this bloke suddenly came round that big rock there with his todger in his hand and fell over me just as I was having a bit of a vulnerable moment, I thumped him one with a rock before he could raise the alarm. It really wasn’t my fault at all. It was instinct.’

‘Shit,’ said Peterson, again.

I sat at the console -and tried to think. Even if he opened his eyes now – this very moment – there was no way Ephialtes was ever going to be in any condition to lead the Persians over a rough mountain track. In the dark.

I sat, appalled, trying to force my brain to think of a way out of this situation. I even considered pulling us all out now – damage limitation – and leaving the Persians to find him, assume he’d fallen amongst the rocks, and try to find their own way around the mountain. There was a full moon tonight. Once they crossed the river and found the path, they could probably do it.

I was kidding myself. If they could have found their own way across the mountain then they would have done so by now. No, they needed Ephialtes to show them the way.

‘First things first,’ I said. ‘Is he still alive?’

‘Yes,’ said Peterson.

‘Right. Keep him that way. Check his airways and roll him into the recovery position.’

‘Done that.’

‘OK. How bad is the wound?’

‘Not deep – he’s not bleeding like a stuck pig. Breathing deep and regular. Pulse not too bad. He’s not going to die. On the other hand, he’s not going to be leading the Persians, either.’

Silence.

I heard the sounds of movement and Peterson say to Markham, ‘Help me.’

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, suddenly scared to death, because I knew exactly what he was doing.

‘I’m going to take his place. I’ll guide them over the mountain. We’ve recced the area. I know where the path is. We know the Phocians don’t hold the pass. I’ll get the Persians there and then –’

And then they’ll kill you.’

‘No they won’t. They didn’t kill Ephialtes.’

‘You’re not Ephialtes.’

‘They won’t know that. Only a few high-ranking officers will have seen him face to face and then only for a few minutes. I bet that to them, one Greek looks very much like another. Especially in the dark.’

‘You don’t speak good Greek.’

‘They won’t understand good Greek.’

‘They’ll be hugely suspicious. For all they know Ephialtes is leading them into a trap. And you barely know the area. If you get lost they will kill you.’

‘He won’t get lost,’ said Markham.

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes I do. I’ll be there, guiding him.’

‘How?’

‘Night vision,’ he said, simply. ‘I’ll follow on a parallel course and keep you on the path. And if things do go horribly wrong then I’ll pull him out as quickly as possible and we’ll think of something else.’

‘They’ll have scouts out,’ I said, in despair. ‘You’re only one person.’

‘This is my fault,’ he said quietly. ‘You have to let me help put it right. You would do the same.’

He was right but I was in no mood to concede any points. I appealed to the marginally most sensible member of the team.

‘Tim, you can’t do this. It’s madness. And this is me saying that.’

‘I have to. This has to happen. This isn’t us changing History. This is us putting it right.

You don’t need to do this. Let them find their own way.’

‘I can’t. Suppose they get lost on the way. This is one of the pivotal events of the Ancient World. This must Happen.’

I was frantic. ‘Tim, listen to me. The Spartans can’t hold the Hot Gates. Without the ambush from the rear, they might hold on for a week or so, but they will fall eventually. Nothing will change.’

‘You know that’s not true. Yes, they’ll be defeated eventually, but the three days they hold the Persians here are critical. Three days are just long enough for the Greek fleet to get its act together, but not long enough for them to start falling out with each other. That must not happen. The weaker ones, the ones with less resolve, will drift away. The alliance will break up. Everyone will concentrate on defending just their own city and Xerxes will pick them off one by one. And that means that Greece will fall. And if Greece falls then there might be no Rome. No Rome – no civilisation of Europe. No Europe – no American colonies. Everything changes, Max. Everything.’

‘I didn’t save you from the Black Death last year so you can throw your life away now.’

‘Just because you once saved my life it doesn’t mean you own me.’

‘Yes it does, sunshine. I own you, body and soul.’

Markham interrupted. ‘If we’re doing this it must be now. They’ll be getting suspicious if someone doesn’t emerge from these rocks soon.’

Peterson sighed. ‘I have to do this. It obviously can’t be you, Max. You’re the wrong sex and you don’t have enough working knees. And Markham doesn’t speak Greek so it has to be me. I have to guide the Persians through the mountains so that Leonidas can lead his army to glorious defeat.’

I was crying with frustration. He wouldn’t make it. He knew it. I knew it. This was just some desperate last-minute attempt to get things back on course. It wouldn’t work. How could it?

‘I won’t let you do this. History can repair itself. If we weren’t here then it would have to. I’m mission controller, Tim, and I’m telling you now. Get back to the pod.’

‘If we weren’t here then we wouldn’t have to do it. Ephialtes would have had a quick slash behind a rock and they’d all be on their way by now. I’ll be fine. And I’ve got Markham.’

He sounded breathless.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Swapping clothes. Markham’s dressing Ephialtes in my gear.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m not lugging a naked man about,’ said Markham, primly. ‘That sort of thing can be open to misinterpretation. We can’t leave him here to raise the alarm when he comes round and we can’t kill him. I’ll get him back to the pod and you can keep an eye on him there and record the battle at the same time. Either he recovers or he doesn’t. The main thing is that the Persians get over the mountain tonight. Everything else is irrelevant, really.’

He was right. There was an awkward silence and then I heard Markham grunt as he heaved Ephialtes over his shoulder. He said to Peterson, ‘It’ll take them a while to get ten thousand men across the river and Hydarnes will want all his men safely on this side before they set off. I should easily be able to catch you up when I’ve dropped off buggerlugs here.’

What could I say? They were both of them almost certainly going to their deaths and I couldn’t be there with them.

‘We’ll try to leave our links open, but don’t call us, Max. We’ll call you.’

‘Understood. Good luck, both of you.’

‘It’ll be a piece of piss,’ said Markham. ‘You just wait and see.’

The link went silent as they parted. Markham on his way back to me, and Peterson to whatever awaited him down by the river.

Markham arrived far more quickly than I thought he would. He dumped Ephialtes at the Kallidromus site because we didn’t want him anywhere near the pod, and I arranged him in the recovery position. He was still out cold, breathing heavily. Markham donned armour and packed himself some extra water and a few high-energy biscuits. I passed him my stun gun.

‘Here, take this.’

‘I can’t leave you unprotected.’

‘I’m not. I’ve still got my trusty pepper spray.’

‘Max …’

‘No, I’m not important. If Peterson doesn’t get them over the mountain then I don’t know what we’ll do. What happens to me is pretty irrelevant.’

He took it.

‘Please, take care of him.’

‘I will. And you, Max, don’t you get into any trouble. I really don’t want to have to explain to Chief Farrell that I fell down on the job.’

He was good. I looked up from Ephialtes to find he’d faded away completely. I listened, but even with him moving around in all this loose rock, I couldn’t hear a thing.

Left to myself, I checked the patient – no change – and curled up against a rock. To my left were the Persian campfires. Down below, I could see the Greek lights. Somewhere out there, Peterson was leading ten thousand men through the night with only Markham to get him out of any trouble. By this time tomorrow, it would all be over. How many of us would still be alive?

It was a long and lonely night.

Peterson was necessarily silent, but he’d left his link open and I could hear everything that was happening around him. Murmuring voices. Feet sliding on rock. The odd curse from someone nearby. The faint chink of armour. His own heavy breathing as he struggled up the mountain. Given their numbers, they moved surprisingly silently, but these were the Immortals, Xerxes’ mountain troops, completely at home in this sort of terrain. There was no shouting and no sounds of violence, which I interpreted as a good sign.

Markham, on the other hand, was very chatty, guiding Peterson through the night, instructing him to bear a little more to his right, or turn left around that rocky outcrop. The moon was full and bright; Peterson should have no visibility problems. I think Markham was doing it for reassurance. Occasionally, he remembered to spare a word for me, reporting everything was going well.

I stared up at the same full moon that was lighting their way. Then I looked down at the stertorously breathing Ephialtes and wondered if we would ever be able to put things back on track.

The hours passed. I listened to Markham guiding Peterson guiding the Persians through the night. Surely if the Persians had any suspicions, they would have acted by now. Was it possible this would actually work? I watched the moon travel across the sky. How long till dawn?

And then it all went wrong.

All I could hear through my earpiece was a sound like waves, breaking on the shore. Surely, Peterson hadn’t got lost and found himself down on the coastal plain? No, of course not. As Herodotus recounts, they were making their way through an oak wood and this was the sound of ten thousand men kicking up the fallen leaves. Any minute now, they would encounter the Phocians, despatched by Leonidas to guard the path. They shouldn’t be a problem. They would assume the Persians had come for them and strategically retreat to higher ground where they would be safe. This, however, would leave the way open for the Persians who would sweep contemptuously past them and vanish into the night.

‘Bollocks!’ said Markham in my ear, his voice high with agitation and alarm. ‘No, no, no. That’s not right. Bloody hell! Max, can you hear me?’

‘What,’ I whispered, frantic with worry. ‘What’s not right? What’s going on?’

You’re just supposed to say, ‘Report.’ I always forget that.

‘The Phocians – they’re going to fight. They’re gearing up and advancing.’

‘What? No! They can’t do that. They’re supposed to run away. They’re not supposed to fight.’

Bloody hell. If they fight … if they hold the pass … if the Persians don’t get through … My mind skidded all over the place with the implications. We were here – at a major point in History and everything was changing around us. How can everything go so wrong so quickly?

‘It’s all right,’ said Markham, in my ear. ‘I’ve had an idea.’

‘What? What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to get them to pull back.’

I opened my mouth to tell him no – and closed it again. He’d been with St Mary’s for years now. He knew the score. You don’t mess with History. Lives are always lost when you do. And we’d messed with History. We’d slugged Ephialtes, the most important man here tonight. We’d changed History and we had to put it back. Whatever the cost. I knew what he was thinking. This was his fault. He should make it right. In his place, I would do exactly the same thing. The best thing I could do for him was let him get on with it. Whatever he was going to do.

‘How?’

‘I’m going to attack. I’ve been sweating cobs underneath this armour all night, so I might as well get some use out of it. I can’t use my blaster on them, but I can spray some fire around. I’m going to frighten the living shit out of them. I suspect that now they’ve actually seen the Immortals in front of them, they’re halfway there, already. I attack the Phocians and by the time they realise it’s a trick, the Immortals will be well on their way and they won’t be able to do a thing about it.’

My heart sank. One man. He was only one man. What could he possibly do?

‘What about the Immortals themselves?’

‘My guess is that Xerxes’ orders are to let nothing stop them getting over this mountain. Unless they’re directly attacked, they won’t stop for anyone. That’s what I’m counting on, anyway.’

‘Good plan,’ I said, as calmly as I could. I took a second or two to get my voice steady. ‘Report back to me when you’ve finished.’

‘Copy that. Max …’

I swallowed. ‘Yes?’

He paused. I had the impression he was groping for words. I could hear him breathing. ‘Hunter …’

I closed my eyes. ‘Yes. I’ll …’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’ll …’ What would I do? ‘I’ll tell her.’

‘Thanks. Tell her I … well, you know. And tell her as well that if she … Well, that ugly bugger Randall’s been sniffing around and …’

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. ‘Are you asking me to tell her it’s OK to … to …?’