Salamis (38 page)

Doru, I owe my honour to my king. But I will pray that you save her. And I remain your friend.

It was plainly written in Persian, in the new script that the soldiers used. I knew it well enough, and I knew who would have written it – Cyrus. I wondered at it though. Why on earth would young Artaphernes, who’d already, I assumed, been accepted as Satrap, need to kill Briseis? Why would he ride home to do so?

I found Seckla just rising, and visited Leukas, who was still in agony. But not dead. Onisandros, however, was. Seckla had just closed his eyes.

I put a hand on his forehead, and it was already cold. Death is … death.

I went and knelt by Leukas. He looked terrible – grey instead of fleshy. He was in control of his voice though, and he locked my right hand in a grip of adamant.

‘I want to come to sea,’ he said.

I knelt by him. ‘You’re better off here – look at all these pretty girls,’ I said with, I confess it, false humour.

Leukas pulled me close. ‘I want to die at sea,’ he said. ‘Clean. Put my body in the water. Float home. Closer to my gods. You owe me, sir. Promise me!’

I gave my oath and Seckla and Brasidas had him taken aboard. We also shipped Harpagos’s corpse. I intended to return him to his sister.

We rigged a big awning forward of the helmsman’s station and made Leukas as comfortable as we could.

That is, Seckla did. I went and visited the other wounded men. A dozen had died but now the rest would probably make it. That’s what I thought at the time – the horrible maths of the butcher’s bill. If a man lives a week, he’s probably going to make it. Apollo takes a few in the third week, from infection, but if you live even three days your odds are much better.

I thought about Leukas. And about Seckla. About Briseis and Artaphernes and even about Xerxes; and war, and men who inflict war.

And then I moved on. This is one of the hardest aspects of leading men, and women. You cannot stop, not to mourn, not to admit defeat or even to rest on the laurels of a well-won victory. Because people need to be fed and clothed and motivated, and you just cannot stop. Sometimes, when my spirits are low, all I want is sleep, and yet … there are wounded men to visit, there’s the supply list to check, there’s Seckla feeling the darkness and needing a friend.

Don’t start on the road of leading men unless you plan to finish, or die trying. Because when you accept responsibility for them – by the gods, if you fail, they all fall with you, and on your head be it.

I drink now to my own dead. If you could see them, if, like Odysseus, I might pour out a libation of blood and see them come to drink it, what a crowd there would be in this room, my friends!

Anyway, I asked all the oarsmen to gather on the beach. While they were coming in, many with hard heads and some looking almost green, we heard cheering from the headland and before I had my people together, news had come that the whole of Xerxes’ fleet was putting to sea.

I wasn’t surprised – they’d been getting their masts and sails aboard the day before – and yet I
was
surprised. These days, when people speak of Salamis, it is as if our big fight won the war. I know better. Until we saw them running, most of us assumed we’d have to fight again. When they ran, they still outnumbered us.

The problem, of course, was that the part of the fleet that had been destroyed was the part most loyal to the Great King, and the part now cutting and running for home was mostly Ionian. They had fought well – many were ships commanded by the Tyrants and their families, who would lose everything if a democratic government arose. But at the same time they had little love for the Persians. And no interest in taking further losses fighting us.

War is complicated because it
is
politics.

I gave up on speaking to my people. We all ran, pell-mell, to the peninsula and looked out over the sea, where hundreds of sails covered the ocean to the east, as far as the eye could make them out – not just triremes, either, but smaller ships, all the Egyptians who’d never been engaged and all the hundreds of merchantmen who had supplied the fleet.

Most of the men saw in that stampede of enemy ships the moment of victory.

Cimon was by me. He grabbed my chiton. ‘Look at that!’ he said. ‘A fortune for any pirate quick enough to snap them up.’

‘But we’re not to pursue them,’ Lykon said.

As events proved, Eurybiades and Themistocles had already decided on the next step. We had a brief conference near the ashes of the altar fire.

Eurybiades didn’t need advice. He simply reiterated the ideas put forth the day before as to why we should not race the enemy for the Hellespont.

‘But,’ he said, ‘it would be foolish for us to let them go without any pursuit. If those more eager for freedom see our ships coming behind, some may yet defect.’

That made sense, too. A half-dozen Ionians had defected
before
the battle.

Eurybiades looked around. ‘I ask you gentlemen to make one more throw. The weather is fair. Let us pursue them a few days at least.’

Themistocles wouldn’t meet my eye, but he waved for attention. ‘Nor can we simply give chase,’ he said. ‘We must be prepared to fight. I would like to put to sea in three columns: the Athenians under Xanthippus, the Corinthians and Peloponnesians under Adeimantus, and the Aeginians under Polycritus.’

Polycritus smiled without mirth. ‘I can be off the beaches before the sun rises another finger’s width,’ he said. ‘See that you Athenians keep up.’

Cimon caught me as other men began to race for their ships. ‘Let’s form together,’ he said.

‘When Themistocles turns,’ I said, ‘I’ll be going on. All the way to Ephesus.’

Cimon knew why. But he was still hesitant. ‘You could find yourself alone in a sea of enemies.’

‘Perhaps you’ll come too,’ I said.

He scratched his beard. ‘Prizes,’ he said aloud.

And then he turned and ran for his ships.

The squadrons were putting every hull in the water – indeed, the Athenians were fitting out half a dozen captures from the battle, although none of them was fit for sea quite yet. But we had volunteers that morning – hoplites and other middle-class men who offered to pull an oar. I had intended to take only
Lydia
, but it became plain to me that, again, Themistocles was right, traitor or no – we had to be ready to fight again. So I lost an hour putting together crews for all five of my ships. I put Megakles into the ship Hector had taken, with Hector and half a dozen Athenian archers and as many hoplites as marines. We promised the oarsmen their freedom at the right end of the sea if they would row, and they did, at least that day. We renamed the ship, and Hector called her
Iris
, to no one’s surprise.

We were not the last ships off the beach, but Xanthippus’s
Horse Tamer
was making the turn by the island and preparing to enter the open sea by the time my column was formed, with
Naiad
and
Iris
in the lead where I could watch them, and
Black Raven
and
Amastris
and
Storm Cutter
behind me. There were almost two hundred Athenian ships in four columns, over stades of sea. We rowed from the beaches to Psyttaleia, and there I caught up with Cimon’s squadron.

Then we saw the difference between the old sea wolves and the new ships made plain. Eurybiades had done well to train this fleet – better than many I had seen in action – and they could row, they could back water, and they could manoeuvre. But sailing and sea-keeping in a pursuit are very different from keeping a careful line, forming an orb, and backing water. Now the new Athenian ships with their heavier, slower design were struggling, and their deck crews fumbled with raising sail.

Cimon turned out of the column. We had come off the beach as a mob and then made our way through the narrows at Psyttaleia in single file, but now he turned north towards Phaleron and raised his sails in ten beats of a calm man’s heart – beautiful seamanship. And every trireme in his squadron followed suit, so that they seemed to blossom like flowers.

We followed his lead. I could hear Hector and Megakles shouting at a new and unwilling crew and I didn’t want to pass them, so we lost distance on our leader, but soon enough their boat-sail set, and then their mainsail, and
Naiad
was twice as fast with her good Ionian crew.
Lydia
had the sails on the wood already and they went up like glory, and the three old pirates behind me were as fast, and then we were running along Xanthippus’s inboard column, passing ship after ship. Xanthippus waved, or perhaps shook his fist, as we passed – certainly Cleitus looked none too pleased, but if I was going to contribute my part of the wedding, I needed some ready money and there it was, four hours’ sailing ahead of me.

It became clear as we ran down on the enemy that they were in no condition to fight. They had almost no formation – indeed, three hours into the morning, I could have snapped up a pair of little merchant tubs, but they weren’t worth the bother. The Ionians weren’t stopping to protect anything, the Phoenicians had their morale broken, and the Egyptians, although we didn’t know it, had been stripped of their marines by Mardonius – Egyptian marines are crack troops and no mistake – and consequently the Egyptians didn’t dare try any kind of conclusion with us, but simply ran downwind.

It was glorious.

Cimon and I exchanged just two signals all day, one query from me and his answer that we’d stick together.

But it was heady stuff, to be at sea on a perfect autumn day, not a cloud in the sky, the sea blue, the sky bluer, the wind behind us, the sun warm – running at a fleeing enemy! I wish I could tell you some great event, but it was simply beautiful to go along, to eke every scrap of speed out of the hull, only to have to slow again to avoid over-reaching the slower ships.
Naiad
was a fine ship, but
Iris
had a curve to her hull – a common enough flaw in hasty boatbuilding, or so Vasileos used to tell me – and she sagged off to starboard all the time, keeping Megakles and Hector busy.

Well before evening, I let
Lydia
have her head, and we raced past the ships ahead of us and caught Cimon’s
Ajax
. Because of the perfect wind and the oars all being in, Seckla was able to lay me alongside
Ajax
in easy hailing range.

‘Are – you – going – to – weather – Cape – Zoster?’ I roared.

Cimon vanished for a moment and then reappeared. ‘Yes!’ he called back. ‘Good idea!’

I had my people brail up the corners of my great sail until
Lydia
proceeded at a more sedate pace and we dropped back into our slot in line. The ships were now spread over the seas – we had, for the most part, six or seven ships’ lengths between each ship in our column, and half a dozen stades between the columns; indeed, the seaward column was more like a flock of birds. As the day went on, it became obvious that there would be no fight. Our enemies were
running.

Our course had been south of west all day, past Phaleron and Aegina just visible on the starboard side. In fact, some ships of the seaward column turned due south and camped on Aegina’s beaches, but kept on a more westerly course. Cape Zoster protected a set of beaches, the last really good beaches before Sounion, and I promise you, not a man in my ships or Cimon’s was eager to return to those beaches.

We had plenty of daylight left. I remember this mostly because what came next surprised me. My head was down, looking after Leukas, who was in great pain despite a draught of poppy from one of the doctors on the beach. All I could do was hold his hand and sacrifice to the gods. I did both. Something bad was happening in his guts.

‘Better have a look,’ Seckla called. I thought perhaps he was just trying to give me a break – is it horrible to say that spending time with a dying friend is hard on the soul?

But Seckla was not just buying me a minute’s reprieve from my conscience. Technically speaking, we didn’t have to ‘weather’ Zoster, because the westerly allowed us to swing past without much course change. But when we were well past we could see a big portion of the enemy fleet – and we
knew
there were no allied ships north of us.

‘Ten, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-four,’ I counted. I looked back at Seckla. Brasidas came up.

I thought that they were Ionians. I didn’t recognise any ships, but they were still many stades ahead of us. The problem was that we were no longer in company with the rest of the allied fleet; they were well over the horizon already, headed for anchorages and beaches on Aegina and the islets.

Cimon gave the signal for us to form line.

We obeyed. But we were under sail, and before the ships came up with him he’d turned further north, so that we formed our line at a narrow angle to the coastline.

After almost an hour of very tense sailing Cimon flashed our signal for taking our sails down and preparing to fight. Naturally this slowed us a good deal, but our oarsmen had had a picnic all day and were happy to get a little exercise, or so the wags phrased it. Still, by the time we had all twenty ships in line, oars out and in good order, the Ionians were
gone.
They didn’t stop or slow or threaten. They just ran.

Except the three that were coming towards us with men waving olive branches in the bows.

I didn’t know any of them, but we picked one up, and Cimon’s ships took the other two. Mine was Chians – that is, men of Chios. The navarch’s name was Phayllos and he knew me – knew my ship, in fact.

I was in armour, and so was Brasidas, but I didn’t even take an aspis when I leapt from my ship into his. We clasped arms and I was glad for us both that we had not gone ship to ship a few days before – there was no hatred between us, or even anger.

‘I don’t want to run any more,’ he said with a shrug. ‘And the Phoenicians didn’t play fair this morning with fresh water, so my crew is parched. I have heard you are a fair man and have men of Chios among your people.’