Mission to Marathon Read online

  MISSION TO MARATHON

  GEOFFREY TREASE

  Contents

  1 The Persians Are Coming

  2 Job For a Boy

  3 Over the Hills

  4 Where to Hide?

  5 The Cave of Pan

  6 The Waiting Time

  7 The Day of Destiny

  Glossary

  Historical Note

  Map of Ancient Greece

  1

  The Persians Are Coming

  ‘Is that you, Philip?’

  Father sounded impatient. Philip hurried into the workshop.

  ‘I’m here, Father.’

  ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘Only school.’ Philip was puzzled. Where else could he have been?

  His father faced him, hammer and chisel in hand. The floor was littered with marble chippings. ‘Dawdling along with your school friends, I suppose?’

  Father was really the kindest of men. But he was also Lycon, one of the best sculptors in Athens. Any artist could get impatient when his mind was full of the work in hand.

  Philip had not dawdled. In fact he had hurried home. Some of the men in the street looked so worried. They were talking in low tones. He had felt a tension in the air.

  He pointed to the shadow at his feet, cast by the sunshine slanting through the doorway. The workshop faced south. That shadow might be short or long, according to the season or the time of day. But its angle proved whether you were late or early.

  It now stretched roughly along the line it usually did when he returned from school.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Father. ‘I was so anxious to get on with the statue. I’ve done so little work of any kind today. There was a sudden meeting of the Assembly. I had to go.’

  Every citizen was expected to attend. They had to stream out to a little rocky hill, the Pnyx, on the west side of the city, crowding its slopes in their thousands. Every man had the right to speak in the debate if he wanted to. Every man had a vote. Father was not much interested in politics but he had to be there.

  Was this why the passers-by had been looking so anxious? Philip wanted to ask, but he knew better.

  ‘Now you’re here,’ said Father, ‘I can get back to the statue. It’s that left arm. The muscles.’

  Philip was his model for the young god Pan, the protector of shepherds, who led the nymphs dancing over the mountains to the music of his pipes. He was worshipped all over Greece but not so much by the townsfolk of Athens. His father had been delighted when a rich man ordered a statue of Pan. The shepherds’ god, half boy, half goat, made a change from the more dignified gods and goddesses.

  Philip jumped up on the slab of stone they used as a pedestal, threw aside the kneelength tunic which was all he wore, and picked up his pipes, which he had made with reeds corded together and waxed. He raised them to his lips as if about to play.

  ‘An inch or two higher,’ his father ordered.

  It was a tiring pose. Father gave him occasional rests but he seemed anxious to get on. The tightened muscles showed in the uplifted arms.

  ‘I must get them just right,’ he said. So many statues were so stiff and solid. He always tried to get life and warmth into them – even in marble.

  At last Father seemed satisfied. ‘That will do. I had to get this done today. I shall not have your services tomorrow.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Philip in amazement. He stepped down and put on his tunic.

  ‘You will not be here, my boy. Let me explain. As we heard a day or two ago, the Persians have got as far as Euboea.’

  Philip nodded, listening eagerly. Euboea was dangerously close. It was the long narrow island stretching down the eastern coast of mainland Greece, separated from it by a thin strait of sea. So the Persians were now as near as that! No wonder the people in the streets were looking scared.

  He had heard a lot about the Persians. Their Darius – who was known as the Great King – ruled over a vast empire. It now extended far beyond Persia itself and came down to the shores of Asia, facing Greece across the Aegean Sea.

  ‘We were told at the Assembly today,’ his father went on, ‘that their expedition has conquered Euboea. They have plundered the temples and burnt them down. They are deporting the people into slavery—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes,’ said his father firmly. ‘And now, we learn, they are crossing over to the mainland. The Great King is determined to teach Athens a lesson. But his armies are not likely to sail straight across to us here.’

  The invasion forces would choose a place where they could land without opposition, have good anchorage for their hundreds of ships and find a level plain – so rare amid the mountains of Greece – where they could use the splendid cavalry of which they were so proud.

  ‘So,’ Father concluded, ‘the Bay of Marathon is an obvious choice.’

  ‘Marathon?’ Philip’s eyes almost started out of his head. What about his grandmother? And his aunt?

  ‘Won’t everybody be in danger?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly. That is why you will not be here with me tomorrow.’

  2

  Job For a Boy

  The family talked over the whole situation as they ate their meal.

  It was a good solid one. A tasty mutton broth. They seldom had meat. More often it was fish.

  ‘But I thought we’d better build our strength up,’ said Mother grimly. ‘Only the gods know what lies ahead.’

  Father’s elder brother, Nearchus, had the old family farm overlooking the sea at Marathon. Their mother lived on in the old home. They would all be in terrible danger if the Persians came ashore there. But whereas everyone else, if worst came to worst, could take to the hills, Philip’s grandmother was now too frail for that.

  ‘We must get her down here to us – if she is fit to travel at all,’ Mother agreed. ‘And the sooner we get the warning to them the better.’

  Philip’s elder brothers, Lucius and Callias, were old enough for military service and had been given their standby orders that afternoon.

  Philip had made the journey countless times throughout his childhood, but never alone. It was about 25 miles by the usual route. A little shorter if you cut across the mountains by the higher way, but it was naturally steeper and rougher underfoot.

  ‘I hope he’ll be all right,’ said Mother doubtfully.

  Philip hoped so too, but secretly. Aloud he said, confident and a little cross, ‘Course I shall! I could find my way there with my eyes shut.’

  ‘Well, don’t try,’ ordered his father. ‘We don’t want you to break your neck.’ He raised his hand to quell Philip’s protest. ‘You can’t do it in the day, even if you run some of it. Your legs just aren’t long enough. That’s not your fault. When it gets towards dusk look round for some sheltered corner where you can curl up and get a few hours’ sleep.’ He laughed at the look on Philip’s face. ‘You think you won’t sleep? You’ll see, lad, after all those miles. Then, at first light, you’ll be dropping down to the farm just as they’re starting their day’s work.’

  After the meal Philip helped his brothers clean their armour for tomorrow’s parade. He felt envious. The bronze metal took on such a superb polish. But, he reminded himself, he could not help being too young to fight in battles. After all, he reminded himself proudly, he was being trusted with this vital and possibly dangerous mission across the mountains.

  Both his brothers were tall and strong, so they were in the heavy infantry. That meant a crested helmet with a narrow nosepiece and good protection for cheeks and ears. The helmet was lined with leather inside.

  For the body there was a breastplate moulded to the shape of a man’s chest, and another to go over his back, the two pieces joined toget
her by leather straps. From kneecap to ankle, the soldier had greaves.

  For further protection he carried a round or oval shield on his left arm. It was made of leather and wood, with metal plates. One of Father’s friends was a clever painter and he had decorated the shield of Lucius with a very fierce-looking porcupine. For Callias he had gone one better.

  He had painted a Gorgon’s head. Gorgons were hideous mythical monsters who grew snakes instead of hair. The mere sight of them could turn a man to stone.

  Philip hoped the shield would have this effect on any Persian who tried to harm his brother. But he didn’t have much confidence in it. Such stories came from long ago.

  Athens could muster only about ten thousand armoured infantry. What was that against the countless hordes the Great King could send over from his Persian Empire?

  The trouble was, Greece was not only a much smaller country but it wasn’t a single united country, ruled by one government. It was divided up, every big city on its own – Athens, Corinth, Thebes, and so on. They were all Greeks, but were often jealous of each other and would even fight wars.

  Surely, at a time of crisis like this, they ought to stand together and face the Persians with a united front?

  ‘They will,’ Lucius assured Philip. ‘It was agreed today at the Assembly. We are sending an urgent appeal to the Spartans. The Spartans are marvellous fighters. They’ll come and help us.’

  ‘Will the message get to them in time?’

  Philip knew that Sparta was a long way off. About 140 miles.

  ‘It should. They’re giving it to Pheidippides to take.’

  ‘Oh good!’ Philip was much relieved. He knew that name – that of the finest runner in Athens. He had won trophies at the last Olympic Games. Who could cover the ground faster than he could?

  ‘And the Spartans won’t waste time when they get it,’ said Callias. Even in their armour the Spartans could do forced marches at incredible speed.

  Philip felt happier. Other cities would follow a lead from Sparta. Troops would soon be streaming in from every corner of Greece.

  ‘Hadn’t you better get some sleep?’ Callias reminded him. ‘Marathon is not as far away as Sparta – but you haven’t such long legs as Pheidippides.’

  3

  Over the Hills

  Philip set off at dawn. Now the moment had come, he was really keyed up at the thought of the responsibility laid upon him.

  His mother tried to sound matter-of-fact but he guessed that she too was anxious. She insisted that he took a short cloak, fastened with a brooch under his chin. Though it was still September it would be chilly after nightfall, especially in the high hills. His linen tunic wouldn’t stretch to cover his legs.

  ‘And remember, you won’t be walking – let alone running – once it’s dark. You must find some sheltered corner out of the wind.’

  She handed him a little package. Dried figs and raisins, bread and his favourite honey cakes.

  ‘If you lose your way these will set you right.’

  ‘They should!’ He laughed. The honey came from his uncle’s hives, it should have given the cakes the same homing instinct as the bees who had made it.

  Old Davus walked with him for the first mile, to see him out of town and make sure he took the right route.

  This was like old times. Davus had always taken him to school when he was little. Most of the younger boys were escorted by a family slave.

  That was what Davus was, though Philip always thought of him as a friend.

  He was the only slave they had. Many people had none, but a sculptor needed a strong helper for handling the massive lumps of marble or other stone he had to shape into beautiful figures.

  So, years before Philip was even born, his father had bought Davus from the silver mines at Laurium, where he had been toiling away under terrible conditions. ‘He saved my life,’ Davus would often say. ‘Men did not last long in those infernal mines.’

  In Athens, a slave’s life wasn’t too hard, unless he was in mining or a galley slave straining at a heavy oar. A few were in small workshops, helping a craftsman such as a carpenter or potter. If trade was bad they couldn’t be sacked like free men. They were always sure of their food. Most – the women especially – did housework.

  ‘The Spartans sneer at you,’ said Davus. ‘They say that in the streets of Athens you can’t see the difference between a free man and a slave.’

  ‘I think our way’s better,’ said Philip.

  ‘The Spartans are harsh masters,’ Davus admitted, ‘but they are the finest soldiers in Greece.’

  That morning Philip was thinking a good deal about that, hoping that the runner would soon arrive in Sparta and that help would be quickly on the way. How could the Athenians beat the Persians on their own? What would happen if those barbarian hordes overwhelmed them? Would the Persians do what they seemed to be doing to the islanders of Euboea – carry off all the population into slavery?

  He shuddered at the thought. It would be very different from being a slave in Athens.

  The last houses were behind them. ‘I must go back now,’ said Davus. ‘I have to take a message to your schoolmaster – your father is sending an apology, explaining why you will be absent for a few days.’ He pointed to the track leading steeply up into the hills. ‘This is the way you must go. Don’t get lost.’

  ‘I shan’t,’ Philip assured him. He quickened his pace as they parted. He wanted to show that he could get to Marathon much faster than Davus could have done.

  After a little while he looked back. Davus was plodding his way back at the leisurely speed of an old man. He was just vanishing into the outskirts of the city.

  Would that low ground soon become a battlefield, with his brothers standing shoulder to shoulder, their heavy spears levelled against the wild charge of the famous Persian cavalry? He tried to push such thoughts out of his head. He could not.

  What would happen if the sheer weight of enemy numbers smashed through the Athenian line? His brothers – and all their comrades – would never run away. They would fight their way backwards, yard by yard, to the Acropolis, the hill on which the city had been founded, and where all the women and children would have taken refuge already.

  He stared at that hill now. It rose steeply in sheer precipices, flat-topped – big enough until recent years to carry almost the whole city. It was only on one side that the cliff was broken enough for people to walk up and down.

  The Persians would have a job to fight their way up. With any luck they could be held at bay until the Spartans and other Greek forces arrived. His mother, grandmother, and other members of the family he could bring back from Marathon, would be saved.

  He never forgot the view that morning. It was the smaller city he had known as a boy. Only when he was an old man did he see it in all its later glory, with the great white marble temple of the Parthenon, countless other new buildings, and the famous Long Walls that would keep out future invaders.

  Today, though, all that mattered was to get to his uncle’s and deliver his message. Speed was vital. He could go faster without the old man. He turned northwards, lengthened his stride and made for the skyline. The morning sun was on his shoulders now, growing all the time in strength.

  Nobody else seemed to be using this upland route today. He saw two solitary shepherds, not near enough to speak to. He waved and they waved back. One other he came face to face with, at a stream where he had paused for a drink. At this time of year so many of the mountain streams were dried up. He was glad to find an ice-cold spring bubbling up out of the hillside.

  He asked the stranger if he had heard any news of the Persians. The man had not and didn’t seem worried.

  ‘They won’t come up here,’ he said. ‘What is there?’

  He didn’t even know that they were in Euboea. From where they were standing they could see a great expanse of sea stretching away eastwards to Asia. The long crinkly island of Euboea lay almost at their feet. Only that narrow b
lue channel separated them from the dreaded barbarians.

  Philip continued his journey. It had been good to break the silence for a few moments.

  He broke it again when his mind turned to school and he guessed that about now they would be reciting the lines of poetry they had all been learning by heart. To test his own memory Philip declaimed them as he strode forward through the solitary hills.

  Their teacher was great on Homer, the blind poet who long ago had made up that exciting poem, the Iliad, about the siege of Troy. Philip loved it too – the lines rolled off the tongue. It was the best thing about school, after the games and the gymnastics. Much better than the geometry and the arithmetic.

  He ran out of breath before he ran out of Homer. That up-and-down path, often steep and rough, wasn’t ideal for reciting. The hills became silent again.

  School must have finished by now. His shadow no longer jumped and wavered in front of him. It was getting longer too. Then he couldn’t see it at all. The sun was in his eyes. In a few hours there would be no sun at all.

  His legs ached, he was slowing down. He found himself stopping more and more often. He nibbled hungrily at one of the dried figs. He’d better not gobble up all the honey cakes. Keep them for the night – and first thing in the morning.

  It would be wonderful to get to his aunt’s. She always had something for a ravenous boy. If only he could have got there tonight! Less and less did he fancy a night on this desolate mountainside. He bit his lip and tried to hurry. Could he do it, after all? It didn’t take long to discover that he certainly couldn’t.

  What was there to be afraid of? Nothing, surely. But never in his life, waking or sleeping, would he have been entirely alone for so many hours.

  The sheep and the goats didn’t count. You couldn’t talk to them. It was getting unlikely now that he would meet another human being. Human beings, no – but there were other beings, weren’t there – that might rove the hills at the dead of night?

  Monsters, like the Gorgon painted on his brother’s shield… Or Pan, the real god himself, whom he had dared to model for in his father’s studio… Terrible stories came back to him of people who had encountered the god in some wild solitary place like this. It had been a terrifying experience. The true Pan had been quite different from what they had imagined. No smiling youth, capering about gaily on his shaggy goat legs, playing his pipes and leading lovely nymphs in their dances.