The Spartans March on Athens
It was 404 B.C. and the Spartans were finally coming for Athens. For months, we had been waiting for them, but now the waiting was over.
The vicious Spartans had unsuccessfully attacked our walls many times in the past years, but now they were quite confident of victory. Last summer, we lost half of our men in an ill-planned conquest in Italy, and our remaining force was not strong enough to sustain their attack.
I was just a young soldier at the time. I had never seen war. But if my beloved homeland were to stand, the Spartan soldiers would have to be driven back, and all men who were able, including me, would have to join the fight.
* * * * *
All of Greece had learned to fear the Spartans. They were a war-like people whose sole ambition was to be soldiers. The average Spartan soldier had been training since age seven. They were fierce, cunning, and skilled in the art of war. I feared them, though I had never seen them in battle.
My father, who died defending our city from them, had told me many stories about the quickness of the Spartan swordsmen. He had great respect for them, and even adopted many of their fighting techniques, which he in turn passed on to me before he died.
At dusk, I went to my chamber to put on my armor: a bronze breast plate, leather gauntlets, and a simple metal helmet. Reliving the lessons from my father in my head, I strapped my shield to my forearm so my hand could be free for combat. As I buckled my sword hilt around my waist, I could hear his words, “don’t try to fight a Spartan with your spear, they’re too quick, they’ll unarm you an’ thrust you through with their short swords before you can say Apollo. Nah, best to throw your spear away and fight’em with your own blade.”
The blast of an officer’s horn pulled me from my reverie; It was time to go. I grabbed up my spear, kissed my wife, and headed for the gates. The entire city was a ghost town. Those who weren’t fighting were in hiding while others had fled the city altogether.
By the time I reached the gates, the remaining troops, with the exception of our archers atop the wall, were gathered in a tight file, about 50 men deep, along the outer wall. The sun was casting the last of its fiery orange rays over the land as Apollo sped his chariot toward the western horizon. In the distance, I could see the shimmering reflection of copper armor and iron chariots; the Spartans were marching.
From my vantage point, there appeared to be about five thousand of them, chariots included. I glanced to my right, down the ranks to the far end of the wall. There were only about two thousand of us. We were outnumbered. If only those greedy politicians hadn’t sent most of our forces on some stupid conquest, then the Spartans wouldn’t even have dared come here at all. I pushed the thought from my mind. There was no point in worrying about politics when five thousand blood thirsty warriors were marching on your town.
The Spartans marched with the exactness and precision of the stars. So synchronized were their movements that their scarlet robes and golden-bronze armor seemed to meld together into a single, furious beast.
I felt the ground began to rumble as they quickened their step until at last, they broke into a dead run, their swords drawn and mouths agape in violent screams.
The first volley of our arrows sent many of them to the ground, but it did not stop their advance. I threw my spear and watched it arch in a tight spiral until it drilled its way into the chest of an unlucky Spartan. Charging, I drew my sword in a flash, and blocked an oncoming arrow with my shield.
Both armies were in full tilt now, and we slammed into each other with the force of two iron plated chariots. The battlefield was chaos, a spinning nightmare filled with the sounds of clattering iron, the tearing of flesh, and cries of agony. I fought on blindly, parrying blows with my sword, knocking back attackers with my shield, and sending them to the ground with a swift kick to the chest.
Sweat poured from my brow and the blood of my victims covered my arms and splattered across my face, as I and my country men waded though the ocean of Spartan warriors.
We fought like heroes, and we cut down wave after wave of advancing troops. But on they came. In the rush of the battle, I lost sense of reality, cutting and slashing in all directions, spittle hanging from my mouth.
The battle seemed to rage for an eternity, and I realized that we were about to die, when suddenly, weary, but not defeated, the Spartans retreated.
Dropping my sword to the mud, I fell to my knees in exhaustion. Through my sweat filled eyes, I watched the enemy flee across the plain and out of sight. I felt such great pride in my countrymen. The great warriors of Sparta had come to take our city, and our outnumbered little rabble of men had held them off.
Yet, I knew our victory was only temporary. They would be back. They had lost many men, but so had we, and they had many more to spare. In the morning, or perhaps that very night, they would return to attack. They would hit us again and again until at last, Athens would fall. But I was not afraid. I was an Athenian soldier and this was my home, and I would happily die defending it.
TO BE CONTINUED…
