A Spartan's Tale
Just a quick story following a Spartan at the battle of Thermopylae. Thanks to all my watchers for the past support. I hope y'all like this one. As always, helpful criticism is always welcomed and appreciated.
- * * Thermopylae 480 BC Call me Ariston. This is the day I died. This will be our third day in this place. At least it will be over soon. Three days... Three days of death and hell. Dawn breaks, grim and terrible, over the Hot Gates and the Spartan camp. The sun cracks over the horizon like a single blood-shot eye; bathing the sleeping forms of my brother Spartans in its terrible blood-colored light, a grim foreshadowing of the day to come. A pale sea fog has sprung up from the Artemesium Straits lending the air a moistness, not refreshing like the cool mists of Sparta I had so loved, but rather stinking and malignant, clammy in the heat that is already building though the sun has scarcely risen. The dampness lends an oily stickiness to the fur, which combines with the sandy grit in the air to coat ones face with an annoying film. Dark clouds of gnats and flies swarm over the still forms of sleeping Spartan warriors, seeking moisture at the corners of lips and eyes, driving the pack animals and younger warriors mad with their incessant buzzing and stinging. I let my eyes drift over the resting forms of my leonine brethren. We are all lions, the "Lions of Greece" they call us. I don't know how they can sleep. Hypnos, the god of sleep, has avoided me since we came to this accursed place. With a resigned sigh I rise from the rock on which I have been perched. I need to get my squad mates up and ready for the coming fight. I tread quietly around the sleeping warriors as my paws take me to the curled up form of my boyhood friend. I pause and smile at his sleeping form. He is wrapped tightly in his crimson cloak and only his muzzle is exposed to the outside world. I nudge him gently with my foot paw. "Iatrokles, it's time to get up." I whisper softly. My friend grumbles roughly in his sleep and turns over to avoid my questing foot. "Lions of Greece" indeed. "Iatrokles," I growl a little more roughly, "if you don't get up I'll kill your entire share of the Persians." This produces a response. My friend throws off his cloak and leaps to his feet with a nimbleness that belies two days of hard combat against the nations of Asia. His amber eyes twinkle at me as he gives in to a distinctly feline yawn and stretch. "Well since you put it that way," he says with a chuckle "I'd best rouse myself. I would hate to think of your spear finding the belly of one of these Asiatic ass-fuckers that is rightfully mine!" Throwing his arm around my shoulders he steers us toward the cook's fire and bellows loudly to the rest of the camp, "Wake up, lads! A new day has come and the boatman awaits. It would be rude for us to show up late!" Moments later myself and Iatrokles are seated on the cliff-side, our foot paws dangling dangerously over the edge as we eat our "black broth" from humble wooden bowls. "Black broth" a horrible concoction of pork, salt and vinegar boiled in sheep's blood for flavor. It is chow. It is Spartan chow. It's all we've ever known. I stare into mine like a seer seeking a prophecy in the slaughtered ram's entrails. "Why so distant, Ariston?" Iatrokles asks from my side. I open my mouth to speak but, before I can I am interrupted by the booming voice of our king. "Men! Ready your breakfast and eat hearty, for tonight we dine in hell!" We turn our heads to peer over our shoulders at our king. Leonidas stands in the chow line with his men and his silver mane shakes with laughter as he jokes with the lowliest of scruffs. I marvel at him. Most kings would never view the battlefield, let alone join the ranks with their soldiers. Leonidas is not most kings. He is a Spartan king. He laughs at our jokes and bitches about the hardships of a warrior's life like any line soldier. He is not just our king. He is a fellow soldier and we love him. I chuckle as Leonidas accepts his chow and makes a face at the awful mixture. Without taking my eyes off the king I query Iatrokles, "What is the difference between a Spartan soldier and a Spartan king?" Iatrokles answers the old adage before spooning a pawful of chow into his muzzle. "A Spartan soldier sleeps in this shithole here, and a Spartan king sleeps in that shithole over there." * * *
The sun is well into the sky and blazing down on us before we first spy the foe stirring farther down the pass. The time for battle has come. Before long the hordes of Persia will be at our front and the Immortals will be at our rear. As the fight draws closer we fall into an ageless pre-battle pattern which we Spartans have observed since time immemorial. Before we can assemble into our ranks we must arm ourselves from the feet up. We start by lacing up our heavy oxhide soles which can tread over fire; then our bronze greaves, which we bend around our shins, securing them at the rear of the calf by the flex of the metal alone. Next we warriors bind our private parts; this is accompanied by obscene humor as each man bids his manhood goodbye and offers a prayer that they will still be acquainted when the day is over. Next comes the linen spolas corselet and bronze breastplate that covers it. We Spartans have practiced this same arming ritual hundreds of times in countless campaigns. The older warriors will have done it tens of thousands of times before their lives come to an end. Hefting my shield, I feel a tug of sadness at my heart as I realize this will be my last time taking part in this sacred act. I let my right paw softly stroke the hard wood of my spear, like a lover caressing the soft face of his new bride. My eyes stare vacantly at the assembling enemy as my paw tries to memorize the feel of my weapon. Will I ever feel my spear again? Will I remember the protective, sheltering weight of my shield on my arm? Will I ever again hear the salpinx's wail as we warriors march off to meet our fates? Does it even matter? My heart tells me that the answer is: no. All that matters is my wife and young son back in Sparta. My wife... my love... my Damatria... I smile wistfully as my mind brings forth her beautiful face. What a cursed thing the mind is! Standing there in the Hot Gates I can still hear her beautiful voice floating through our home as she sings to our young cub. I can even see her soft brown eyes smiling at me in the darkness of our bedroom. Her fur is softer than the newest fallen snow and smells of lilacs as we hold each other close in the darkness. I'll never forget our last moments together before I marched off to this place. * * *
That last morning at home, as dawn illuminated the earth with Phoebus' torch and scattered the dampness and night-gloom, I awoke in my humble bed feeling cold and alone. Without opening my eyes, my paw reaches for the slumbering form of my love. My questing paw finds nothing, but the bed is still warm and smells faintly of lilacs. She hasn't been gone long. Soundlessly, I rise from my bed and pad across the cold marble floor. As I pass the foot of our bed my gaze lingers on our son's simple wooden cradle. In dawns' faint, rose colored light I can see that it is empty. The two greatest loves of my life are not where they should be. A short search takes me out of the front of my home. There I find my wife, standing bathed in early morning's golden light, cradling our infant cub in her arms. Her ears flicker and she turns to face me as I approach. I smile broadly as I take in her awe-inspiring beauty. "Good morning, my love." I breathe in the stillness between us. My wife looses a breath-taking smile back at me, but I notice that it fails to reach her eyes. It is easy to see why. The poets say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and staring into my love's eyes, I can see that hers is too filled with sorrow to allow for smiles. Quickly I step off the distance between us and take her into my arms. Holding her close I long to comfort her, to ask "What is wrong, my love?", but I bite back the stupid question before it can leave my lips. What's wrong is that, in a few short moments, I march off to a war that I will not return from. My mind searches desperately for the words that will bring her comfort, but my efforts prove fruitless. What words could I possible give her to soften the blow of this moment? Looking into her eyes, what humble offering can I give as I watch her heart torn asunder by the very thought of my departure? My mind fails me so I turn to the commands of my heart, and I hug her gently in the early morning light. As one, we turn to watch the glorious golden orb rise in the east and bathe the distant city of Sparta in its life-giving light. After a moment I am startled by the soft whisper of Damatria's voice. "Death stands close upon us now, Ariston. Can you feel him?" Again my mind proves useless and I speak from my heart. "I do. I am human and I fear him. My eyes caste about me for a sight which will fortify me in that moment when I come to meet him face to face." I lift my gaze from my beloved city and stare into the eyes of my far more precious wife. "And there it is," I whisper. "My heart finds courage in your eyes and in the face of our son. Countless times you have stood out and watched me march off to war. Now, here you stand again. I can see in your eyes the pain you bear; as you watch your loved one march off, but know that three hundred other wives share it with you also." "But why you, Ariston? Surely there are other men in this city who would gladly take your place! Please don't leave me, my love! Please don't leave our son to grow up without a father..." Damatria's choked sob tears into my heart as she gives voice to her fears. Her tear-filled eyes plead with me and I can see that she is on the verge of breaking down. Men's pain is lightly borne and swiftly over. Our wounds are of the flesh, which is nothing; women's is of the heart- sorrow unending, far more bitter to bear. How can I ask her to stand here and accept the fate my departure brings? "Why must we sacrifice so much, Damatria? What one lesson are Spartan boys and girls taught from a young age?" My wife's soft brown eyes silently search my own, beseeching me to give her the answer. "We are taught," I continue. "That nothing good in life comes but at a price. Sweetest of all is liberty. This we have chosen and this we pay for. We have been raised to scorn the life of leisure that this rich land of ours would bestow upon us if we wished, and instead enroll ourselves in the academy of discipline and sacrifice. Guided by these principles, our fathers for twenty generations have breathed the sweet air of freedom and have paid the bill in full when it was presented. I, as a Spartan son, can do no less." I halt myself just long enough to plant a gentle, reassuring kiss on her sweet lips before I continue. "In six hundred years, no Spartan woman has beheld the smoke of the enemy's fires. I go now to ensure that the same can be said about you." My breathe catches in my throat as my wife's eyes continue to search my face. I can only hope she understands and that she will not hate me forever. After a seeming eternity, Damatria nods and gives me a brave but weak grin. It is more than I hoped for and my heart soars to see her smile. I kiss her lovingly before burying my muzzle in the fur of her neck; trying to memorize the feel of her soft fur and how it feels to hold her in my arms. "But remember, my dearest love," I whisper softly into her ear. "That I love you with all of my heart...and I always will." "And I you, Ariston" comes Damatria voice, choked with emotion. Once again I kiss her lips, but it is not a kiss of passion. It is the soft, tender touching of lips of a man telling a woman goodbye for the last time. The time has come and I cannot tarry any longer and, without a further word, I turn my back on my wife and son and all that I love. As I trudge solemnly down to the city I can feel Damatria's eyes on my back. It takes all my strength not to look back for I know that my heart could not bear the sight. * * *
"Be strong my brother," the voice startles me from my blessed memories and I find Leonidas standing at my shoulder. "Try not to think of home, lest it cause your paw to stay at the moment of truth." My king's blue eyes blaze fiercely and seem to pierce into my very soul. Yet, behind the burning gaze I can see the same forlorn sadness in his eyes that threatens to consume my being. "Come," Leonidas says to me, "and let us be done with this place." * * *
We Spartans form seamlessly into our phalanx like water rushing into the stream. Each of us knows our place in the ranks and each of us knows our duty to our comrades. I take my position in the second rank with Iatrokles on my left. We have polished our breastplates, helmets, shields and spearheads to a mirror-like gleam. These now shine dazzlingly in the sun as we form into ranks. The effect makes us look less like a mass of fur and flesh, and more like a giant milling machine... a machine made to kill. Standing in formation, the sun beats relentlessly down on is, turning the outside of our armor and helmets hot to the touch, steaming our bodies inside like loaves of bread. The merciless heat causes the air to shimmer making the space around us seem hazy and ill-defined. The usual cloud of flies buzz around our faces, and I can feel sweat trickle down my sides and under my corselet. What I wouldn't do for half a mouthful of cool water. I must not allow such discomforts to cloud my mind and rule my thoughts. With an effort, I tear my gaze from the marching enemy in the distance to the nearer perspective of our more immediate surroundings. For thousands of yards around us lays the detritus and destruction of the previous day's fierce and wide ranging battle. Spear shafts, javelins, and arrows are spiked into the hard earth at crazy angles where they have landed, the ends sway and quiver as if curious, invisible sea nymphs are testing the depth and strength of the shanks. Slowly my gaze falls onto the dark lumps scattered about the pass in numbers too daunting to count: the twisted bodies of lamed or trampled horses, and yet more horrifying, the men. Thousands of men, or former men, as most are unrecognizable as such. It has only been a day since they fell, yet the furnace like heat has cooked them where they lie on the hot sand, and many have swollen to twice their size with the gas in their bellies. Most lie deathly still, inert and silent as the rocks and shattered weapons that litter the battlefield. Others, however, hiss and belch in the heat , their limbs occasionally jerking and twitching. The dead's repose is further disturbed by the raucous screeching of hundreds of vultures and gulls circling and gathering in the sky above, summoning their courage for forays to the ground, aimed precisely at those corpses whose inner workings are now most exposed to the heavens. Staring at the slaughter I feel disgust rising in my soul. I've been trained for war since I was young, yet I cannot bear the sight any longer. It is just too much for any man to bear. Swallowing my revulsion I bring my gaze back to the approaching foe. Now the enemy is two-fifths of a mile away and we can see them more clearly. I can clearly make out the forms of Persian infantry in their fish-scale armor and bright purple pantaloons, their wicker shields and reed-like spears have been almost useless against our phalanx these past two days. My eyes also spy the orange and gold colored tunics of Xerxes' Mede archers. I suspect these dogs are what will finish us off. I can also make out the armor of hoplite regalia in the enemies massed ranks...our brother Greeks who bowed to Xerxes long before this fight. "We are not long for this world, my friend," speaks Iatrokles in an almost forlorn tone. It is the first time I have glimpsed a chink in my friend's invulnerable confidence. I turn my head to look at my closest mate since the agoge. In full hoplite armor with his helmet tilted back on his head and shield resting against his legs; he reminds me of the heroes of old. Planting his spear in the sandy soil, Iatrokles bends down and takes some of the earth into his right paw. Slowly he works the dust over the pads of his paw to better his grip on his spear. Standing with a groan, Iatrokles returns his gaze to the approaching foe. "Look at their spears, Ariston. They are shaking with fear." I look and see that what he says is true. The veritable sea of enemy spears is shaking and clattering like trees in a fierce gale. "Listen to me, Ariston. These men that Xerxes sends against us are not fresh. They've been sitting on their dog-blossoms these past two days watching their wounded and butchered comrades come back to camp. Their minds have been torturing them with the thought of facing us. Now, terror grips their guts as they march forward. Each man out there knows that we are about to present their entrails to them on the ends of our spears! We are not the ones who are tired, they are!" Iatrokles ends his musing in a low rumbling-growl. I continue staring at the foe as I turn his words over in my mind. Staring at the shaking soldiers I feel contempt well up in my soul at their pitiful display. These are the men who threaten all of Greece!? These are the men who have dragged me from my home and my love!? I am disgusted. "I hate the Persian," I say, spiting the nationality from my mouth. "He is a beast and a coward that fights without honor. But what I hate most is he has dragged us down to his level. How many men have we slain here? How many wounded men cast down their arms and begged for their lives before we dispatched them in cold blood? Is this the Spartan honor we were raised to believe in?" Out of the corner of my eye I see my friend's muzzle break into a dark smile. "There is no honor in war, my friend. Only in poems of war." "Then what is there?" "Victory." Again I am struck silent by my friend's words. "Victory," Iatrokles repeats in an even tone. "Nothing else matters. Not decency, not chivalry. Look war in the face. See it for what it is. You'll go crazy if you don't." "And will the death of three hundred Spartan sons bring victory?" I whisper solemnly back at him. "Whether or not our deaths will bring victory does not matter. We are soldiers and we follow orders. All we can do is pay the price and hope for the best." Iatrokles now turns to look me in the face. "I admire you, Ariston. You're a good soldier and you have been my friend for as long as I can remember. We have marched into battle side-by-side more times than I can count." Iatrokles voice falters and he smiles warmly as he stares into my eyes. "Now, as we stand in this place, I can honestly say that I would have no other at my side. Let us go on and win glory for ourselves, or yield it to others." I smile ruefully back at my friend's grinning visage. "Glory," I reply, "is in short supply around here." Instantly Iatrokles rejects this. "Does a wolf hesitate? Does an eagle hold back? What is the call of a gallant heart, but to aspire to mighty deeds? Here is the standard which the gods hold before us. By Zeus, men a thousand years unborn will curse bitter fate that they have not strode here at our sides. They will envy us, who have labored in such a cause and wrought such feats as no corps-at-arms will ever achieve again." Even as Iatrokles speaks these words I know that they are true. Yet, I also know that these truths are not what my heart longs for. I would trade all the world's glory for the assurance that my wife and son will be spared from the horrors that I am about to face. * * *
The foe is close now and we can hear the sounds of an advancing army; the tramping of feet, the clank of arms and armor, the screams of captains as they seek to whip their men's spirits into a frenzy. We Greeks call this last part: pseudoandreia or false courage. Standing in our phalanx we Spartans display none of this. We talk and joke quietly amongst ourselves as if this is as inconsequential as another day's tedious labor. Our spears stand erect, proud and unmoving. "Let's be at it, lads!" Leonidas' voice booms from the front rank. As one we snap our helmets down over our faces. The effect is awe-inspiring. No longer are we the massed flesh and fur of individual warriors. Now we are an unmovable phalanx of faceless and soulless wraiths made of bronze, iron and wood. But the effect is not merely an aesthetic one, it is also forces a change in my soul. The lion now standing in the phalanx is no longer the same Ariston he was before. He is a mere half of the same being. Gone is the Ariston who takes delight in his child, which lifts his voice in the chorus, which clasps his wife to him in the sweet darkness. That half of me, the best part, I have set aside and left behind. Now all that is left is the baser Ariston. This Ariston has banished from his heart all thoughts of tenderness and mercy, all compassion and kindness, all thought or concept of the enemy as a man, a human being like himself. This crimson clad warrior is a monster which knows only slaughter and butchery and turns a blind eye to quarter. This is not the Ariston that my wife fell in love with. She would hate and fear this man; and in my heart I feel the same. "Forward to victory! Zeus savior!" Now we march forward as one being with the paen to Apollo on our lips. We swarm over the terrain without breaking ranks or losing step. The time for bloodshed has come and I find myself suddenly unafraid. How can I be afraid when surrounded by such warriors? We are brothers. We are the best. We are Spartans. There will be no negotiating with Xerxes now. That time passed when we slaughtered his soldiers on the first day. Now, there will be no quarter asked and none shall be given. Now we can see the whites of the terrified enemy's eyes, the first three ranks snap their spears from the vertical to the attack position. This is a seemingly un-complex maneuver, which we Spartans call "spiking it" or "palming the pine", so simple to perform on the parade ground and so formidable on the battlefield. As when some colossal beast, brought to bay by the hounds, wheels in its fury, bristling with rage and bearing its fangs, and plants itself in the power and fearlessness of its strength, so does the bronze and crimson of our phalanx now snap as one into its mode of murder. With a primal, blood-chilling roar the two armies crash together. On one side are the vast hordes of the Persian Empire; on the other, a small contingent of the finest warriors in Greece. I cannot truly convey the earth-shaking feeling of two armies coming together to one who has never experienced it. Our frontlines collide and the sound of slaughter begins. All along our lines the air is torn by the sounds of clashing weapons and screaming men. The sandy soil is quickly transformed into a muddy quagmire straight from the bowels of hell. Our legs churn this quagmire of blood, sweat, piss and spilling bowels as we seek to gain purchase against the foe. Peering over my shield and the back of the Spartan in front of me I can see the bloodstained faces and wide eyes of our foe. Between the adrenaline coursing through my veins and the fever pitch of close combat, the enemy seems like a blur before my eyes. I blink the sweat from my eyes and focus on a Persian soldier directly in front of me. With practiced ease I bring the lethal head of my eight-footer flashing downwards and into his belly. My arm feels the visceral resistance of his abdominals travel into my arm as my spear "spills his groceries" out in a spray of bright red blood. Fear and stupefied disbelief flash across the man's face before his knees give out and he falls, screaming piteously, to the ground. My arm may have felt the kill, but my heart did not. I savagely wrench my spear free from his belly and move on to the next enemy. I do not know for how long we struggled against the foe, but it seemed like an eternity. An eternity of mindless slaughter. An eternity of hell which no man should ever have to face. I am glad Iatrokles is by my side. Before long I hear the words which make my blood run cold in my veins. "Here they come!" the cry echoes up and down our line before being lost in the whirling maelstrom of combat. We all know what it means. The Immortals have arrived and encircled us. With a mighty roar, Xerxes elite soldiers fall upon our rearguard. Pressured from both sides, our formation cannot take the strain. Like a dam giving way to the torrential flood... the phalanx shatters. I find myself lost and alone in the chaos. Before me stands one of Xerxes' Syrakusan mercenaries. He is a monster of a hoplite, six and a half feet tall, easily a match for two men and a horse. He has already broken his spear off in a Spartan warrior and stands before me dismasted, he is so possessed with bloodlust he doesn't have the presence of mind to go for his sword. I know I'd better get some iron into this bastard fast, before he remembers that daisy-chopper on his hip. I charge him. He meets me with his shield as a weapon, swinging it, edge-on like an axe. His powerful first blow shatters my shield into useless splinters. Reacting quickly, my paw brings my eight-footer to bear in an attempt to uppercut him. He twists away from my seeking blade and splinters my spear shaft with a second mighty blow from his shield. Now I am bronze-naked in front of this demon. With frightening speed, he swings his shield like a relish plate and catches me square above the eye sockets. I can feel the crown of my helmet tear up and off, taking half of my skull with it. The bottom lip of my helmet's eyehole tears open the muscles of my brow, sheeting my left eye with blood. I am suddenly overcome with the helpless feeling you get when you know you are wounded. I know it's bad but I don't know how bad, I fear I am already dead but I can't be sure. Everything seems to be happening slowly, like a dream. Lying on my belly, I know the Syrakusan giant is over me, aiming a blow to send me to hell. Suddenly Iatrokles is at my side. My greatest friend has never seemed more beautiful in my eyes. Taking a step to gain momentum, Iatrokles slings his xiphos like a throwing knife. The spinning blade hits this Syrakusan beast right below his ugly nose; the razor-sharp iron smashes through the man's teeth, ripping right through the bone of his jaw and into his throat, lodging there with the gripping sticking out of his face. It didn't even slow the foe down. Roaring, he squares his shoulders and comes right back at Iatrokles, with bare hands and the xiphos still buried square in his jaw. Thinking quickly, I lunge for his legs and Iatrokles tackles him about his chest. We drop him like a wrestler. My questing paw finds the blade end of my eight-footer, now a one-footer, which I drive into the Syrakusan's guts. Iatrokles seizes the discarded butt-spike of someone's spear and lays all his weight into it, right through the man's groin all the way into the ground, nailing him there. But Iatrokles isn't done yet. He rips the Syrakusan's forgotten sword from it's sheath and, snarling like a feral animal, hacks through the top half of the man's head, the blade easily cleaving through the bronze of his helmet. The giant refuses to die. Howling like a banshee he hurls the two of us from his body and staggers to his feet. "Zeus Almighty!" Iatrokles cries. It is not a curse but a prayer, a piss-down-your-leg prayer. Now we are unarmed and doomed, and we know it. Then when all hope seems lost...Leonidas burst into the fray. Like mighty Achilles, he hurls his spear. Leonidas' spear flies straight and true, it punches through the monster's liver and clean out his back. This is finally enough. The titan looks right into my eyes, bellows mournfully, and drops like a sack off a wagon. Before I can blink, Leonidas has disappeared back into the chaotic fray. Only now does the full weight of my wounds sink in. Fighting back the bile in my throat, I sink to my knees on the bloodstained sand. Instantly, Iatrokles is kneeling at my side. "Be honest, how bad is it brother?" my voice is shaking with shock as I reach an exploratory paw up to my face. What I find shocks me. My entire face is a mass of sticky blood and, to my horror, I can feel the breeze on my bare skull. "You've got a few scratches," Iatrokles responds as he grabs my quivering paw. "You're definitely not going to be too pretty for a while, but we'll deal with that later." I smile in spite of myself. We cannot pause here. The battle is still raging all around us as our fellow Spartans fight for their very lives. "Come on, I'll get you out of here." Speaks Iatrokles as he hefts me to my feet. With Iatrokles leading me, we fight our way through the chaos. More than five hundred yards of slogging through mire; Iatrokles swings his xiphos at any who venture too close, and I defend his back as best I can with the bladed half of an eight-footer. I can't go on any farther. My legs ache and my head is pounding; sweat mixes with the blood that mats my fur. I thank the gods when Iatrokles comes to a halt. "Hold here." He says to me. Before I can respond he disappears into the whirling mass of war. Iatrokles surfaces from the maelstrom a short time later looking like some lost soul emerging from hell itself. On his shoulder he supports the bloodied form of a Spartan warrior. The lion is weaponless and his arms are pinned to his sides by arrows. But my friend isn't done yet. Depositing his charge he again disappears from my sight. Again and again Iatrokles descends into the madness to drag forth battered Spartans like an angel saving the damned. We survivors band together and form a defensive circle around the more gravely wounded. There is only a pitiful few of us now, less than a score in all. Most of us are wounded and good weapons are few and far between. But where there is life there is hope. Together we are an island of hope in a sea of death. Iatrokles has been gone a long time now and ice-cold fear worms through my gut. I'm not quite sure why. I know we are all going to die in this place, yet, I cannot bear the idea of my friend dying away from my side. But like mighty Hercules, Iatrokles is unstoppable. My eyes sight his form as he staggers through the carnage toward us. The Spartan he bears this time hangs limply across his shoulders. As Iatrokles comes closer I can make out his sad burden. It is our king. Leonidas' helmet has been staved in by a Persian mace and the broken shaft of an arrow protrudes from his neck. Iatrokles' armor is stained red by his king's blood. Having proven that he was a man of valor, like the heroes of old, Leonidas has fallen. Many a Spartan paw reaches forward to help Iatrokles bear his sad burden to the ground. We place our king's body at the center of our pitiful circle and we will give our lives to defend it. Free of his load Iatrokles sinks to his knees, from exhaustion, at my side. The enemy is all around us now, having dispatched all other Spartans outside our little band. We are surrounded by Xerxes swarming hordes on all sides and they press at us like baying hounds at the wounded beast. But the enemy has suffered enough at our paws and does not wish to close with us like true warriors. I watch in horror as the Immortals and Medes bring their bows to bear on our little band. The end is close now, at this range they can't miss. I don't want to die on my knees and neither does Iatrokles. "One last time, my old friend." He growls to me before turning to face the foe. It is not a question but a challenge and he knows my answer without me having to utter a word. Without a moment's pause Iatrokles is off on a wild charge for the nearest foe. Unconsciously my foot paws are taking me with him and I know my heart would have it no other way. The bloody sand flies behind us as we tear toward the enemy in one final assault. What a sight we must make in the foe's eyes. Two battered and bloody Spartans tearing over the sand; Iatrokles weaponless and matted in the blood of others, and me with half of a spear and my bare skull exposed to the clear blue sky. Iatrokles and Ariston... friends to the glorious end. Instinctively, we have picked two Immortals as our prey. I can see the fear in their wide eyes despite the cloth tiaras wrapped around their heads. Iatrokles reaches his man a half step before me and buries his claws in the Immortal's throat. A split-second later I bury my spear in my opponent's belly just as he releases the arrow knocked on his bow. This close the arrow is easily able to pierce my bronze breastplate, but I follow my attack through and pin the screaming man to the earth beneath me. It's so hard to breath now. I can feel the iron arrow head buried in my chest. It seems to be draining the energy from my body. No longer able to stand, I slump to the ground beside the man I have just slain. I can see Iatrokles kneeling atop his foe; with his claws still in the man's throat as more than a dozen arrows and lances pierce his back. I can feel my life draining from my body as I lift my eyes up to Apollo's clear blue sky. My brother Spartans would ask you to remember us, to remember why we fought and died in this wretched place, remember us so that three hundred brave men are not lost in endless pages of history. My request is much simpler and dearer to my heart. I ask you to remember us, not for what we have done but, for who we were; men of flesh and blood and fur, motivated by our dreams and gripped by our fears in the dark of night, men who loved with all our hearts and gave our all for our hearts' dearest love. In the end, we did not come to this place just for king and country. We came here for our wives, sons and all our loved ones whom we left in Sparta. Gladly, we descended into this hell so that they might be spared from it. Remember them for they are all that is best in us. Call me Ariston. This is the day I died. Please tell my wife I love her.