Iron Scars: A Novel of the Spartan Empire by Baker Hamilton

Author:Baker, Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-ONE

Do you want your name to live through the ages? The names of heroes survive. Be like them, and yours will too.

Thrasilaus of Thebes

BENEATH A DAWN of grey gloom, the 16th and 9th Phalanxes had formed ranks in front of the camp. The Emperor’s Elites followed, their gold cloaks distinguishing them amongst the sea of red.

Kaletor shifted in the saddle, teeth clenched and fingers itching. From his position atop the pinnacle of a steep-sided hill, he looked beyond his army to the city of Athens.

It remained just as it had the day before—silent and shut. The towering stone walls protecting those within appeared unmanned.

He glanced left and growled, “Where are their defenders, General?”

Hullis, also mounted and fully girded for battle, kept his eyes on the city as he replied. “Hard to say, sir. Maybe hiding inside the towers to deceive us.”

“Or still asleep in their beds,” Ackadus chimed in from the line behind them. “They always were a bunch of weak fools—”

“Silence, Captain,” Kaletor snarled over a shoulder. “If I wanted your childish opinion, I would have asked for it.”

The demoted prince still sported scrapes on his nose and forehead, the result of falling on his face back in Sparta. Though his eyes burned with hate, he kept his tongue still.

Dismissing the insignificant brat, Kaletor looked right. “Any thoughts, Belisar?”

The grizzled veteran, his black beard streaked with more silver every day, gave a grim look. “This reminds me of when I stormed the city of Tylis. Like the Thracians we fought there, the Athenians will be ready to fight. But it won’t matter. Only the strong prevail, and no one is stronger than we Spartans.”

Kaletor nodded. “Agreed.”

He looked back to the army in time to watch the last of the Elites exit the camp. He released a hot, gusting breath and bellowed, “Sound the advance!”

The trumpets blared a solitary note, and he heeled his mount into a walk. At his back, his handpicked personal guard of five hundred Spartiates followed.

Thousands of crimson-cloaked hoplites marched steadily across the open plain, keeping in tight rows that stretched over two hundred across and twenty deep. The 16th and 9th led the way, side by side, each Phalanx forming six blocks that were separated by narrow gaps. The Elites, far fewer in number, followed in a long, single line, a sheet of gold carrying a forest of black pikes.

Kaletor looked from his army to the towering walls. The front ranks had moved within bowshot range, yet still the ramparts remained empty.

“You see,” Ackadus called over the lazy clop of horse hooves. “Cowards. They think stone walls will stop . . .”

The fool went silent as hundreds of figures suddenly appeared all across the top of the wall. A cloud of arrows rose with them, silently arcing high, then diving towards the Phalanxes.

“Charge!” Kaletor yelled.

Howls of pain erupted all across the line as the deadly missiles struck. Dozens staggered and fell. Another volley was in the air when the horns blasted two short notes. More hoplites went down as the rest broke into a sprint.

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