Sequel: The White Doe ›
Status: 1 of 7 volumes. Complete.
A Good Run
Twelve
The sun is blazing and it is still well before noon and the Athenian men are formed in their lines on the field of Marathon and the Persian soldiers--the human soldiers--are thundering toward them.
Thessily sees the flare of sunlight off metal from the corner of her eye and she stops for a moment to watch the battle as it is joined. Her shoulders ache and her side still bleeds. Her labrys is heavy against her back. On ropes slung over each shoulder she carries skins of lamp oil and the weight of it would not bother her if she hadn't already run over three hundred miles in the last three days.
She knows she doesn't have time to stare, but she still does all the same and a pressure builds against her heart that, at first, she fears is the poison and her death, but it isn't. She cannot describe the feeling, but it brings tears to her eyes.
She sees Phidippides, spear low, set against a charge, standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow citizens, free men, civilized men. Men who have walked of their own free will to a barren plain twenty-six miles north of Athens to fight a battle they believe they are certain to lose. Fighting for their homes and their loved ones and their lives.
She realizes she is watching history.
The sounds of the fighting drift across the plain to her and then the screams of dying men. The Persians are desperate in battle and savage and the Athenian hold their line and then it breaks and she understands what she is seeing. One of the Athenian generals--she thinks it is Miltiades, he's the smartest--is trying to flank the Persians.
As she watches, the Athenian line breaks into three sections and the outer two move to the sides and the Persians are caught by surprise. They cannot go forward without dying. They cannot go to either side without dying.
They can only retreat.
Thessily runs, as fast as she can, for the coast.
If they can only retreat, they will retreat to their ships.
She has to get to them first.
Thessily sees the flare of sunlight off metal from the corner of her eye and she stops for a moment to watch the battle as it is joined. Her shoulders ache and her side still bleeds. Her labrys is heavy against her back. On ropes slung over each shoulder she carries skins of lamp oil and the weight of it would not bother her if she hadn't already run over three hundred miles in the last three days.
She knows she doesn't have time to stare, but she still does all the same and a pressure builds against her heart that, at first, she fears is the poison and her death, but it isn't. She cannot describe the feeling, but it brings tears to her eyes.
She sees Phidippides, spear low, set against a charge, standing shoulder to shoulder with his fellow citizens, free men, civilized men. Men who have walked of their own free will to a barren plain twenty-six miles north of Athens to fight a battle they believe they are certain to lose. Fighting for their homes and their loved ones and their lives.
She realizes she is watching history.
The sounds of the fighting drift across the plain to her and then the screams of dying men. The Persians are desperate in battle and savage and the Athenian hold their line and then it breaks and she understands what she is seeing. One of the Athenian generals--she thinks it is Miltiades, he's the smartest--is trying to flank the Persians.
As she watches, the Athenian line breaks into three sections and the outer two move to the sides and the Persians are caught by surprise. They cannot go forward without dying. They cannot go to either side without dying.
They can only retreat.
Thessily runs, as fast as she can, for the coast.
If they can only retreat, they will retreat to their ships.
She has to get to them first.