No one wanted to be on Salamis. The Peloponnesians, who all wanted to go home, felt trapped. They had sailed into the straits; they had drawn their ships up onto the beach that faced Attica; they had agreed to fight there alongside the Athenians. But none of them were remotely happy about it. At any moment, they knew, the Persian fleet was bound to arrive. Then what? The risks seemed immense. Every day we held a council of war, and every day the Peloponnesians would fret, and complain, and jab their fingers at Themistocles. The Corinthian admiral was particularly indignant.
“The Great King will order his ships to block our escape route from the straits. We will all be trapped like rats in a sewer. Meanwhile, in the Peloponnese, our cities will stand defenceless. We will perish in Athenian waters. And for what? For what? To die for Athens!”
Every time, Themistocles would patiently explain his strategy: that the only prospect of defeating the much larger Persian fleet was to lure it into the straits, where its numbers would cease to be an advantage. Every time, he would manage to calm the Peloponnesians down. But it was hard work. I could see why he had wanted me to come with him to Salamis. Eurybiades, the Spartan officially in command of the Greek fleet, was no help. Although he tried to stay neutral, it was clear to everyone that he was just as eager not to fight in Athenian waters as all the other Peloponnesians. That left me to lend Themistocles support. Yes, I was a woman – but I was the daughter of a Spartan king, and the widow of one as well. The Peloponnesians knew that I spoke with the authority of Leonidas. And so they listened to me.
It was not only the Peloponnesians who were under strain, however. So too were the Athenians. Between Salamis and their beloved city rose a mountain called Aigaleo. This meant they could not see what was happening in Athens. Even so, they had spies who crossed the waters from Salamis to Attica and back again. They knew their city was lost. The Persians had arrived. First Median cavalry had come clattering through the empty streets; then had come the infantry. Numberless hordes had spread their tents across Attica. The King of Kings, whose portable palace had been brought all the way from Susa, was camped at the foot of the Acropolis. From there he could direct the campaign to storm the rock, and to flush out the defenders from behind their palisade.
The Acropolis was the heart of the city. So long as it held out, Athens had not truly fallen. But the Athenians on Salamis hourly expected the worst. They dreaded it was just a matter of time.
And then it came. Walking the beach, I heard a low and terrible moan. Everyone along the line of the shore was pointing. I turned and looked. Beyond Mount Aigaleo a plume of black smoke was rising.
“The Acropolis,” an Athenian cried. “The Acropolis is burning.”
And so it was. Persian mountaineers had scaled the rock. The defenders had all been slaughtered. Everything on the summit was being put to the torch: temples, monuments, Athena’s olive tree. The city’s divine protectress had abandoned it. Athens had fallen at last.
Over the days that followed, the city was systematically obliterated. The smoke that drifted from its burning buildings across Salamis blotted out the sun and put everyone on the island in shadow. For the Athenians, helpless to do anything to stop the destruction of their homes and their temples, it was agony; for the Peloponnesians, frantic at the prospect of a similar fate being visited on their own cities, a kind of agony too.
Then, adding to the mood of panic, the Persian fleet left harbour. It bore down on Salamis. Large squadrons began to patrol the exit from the straits. Our own ships were now – just as the Corinthian admiral had warned they would be – bottled up. There was no escape. The Peloponnesians exploded with fury. The Corinthian admiral had to be physically restrained from assaulting Themistocles.
As for me, I held my peace – but only because I did not wish to give voice to my growing feelings of despair. For the first time, I had begun to doubt Themistocles’ strategy. I did not see how the Great King could possibly be persuaded to send his ships into the straits. I feared that we were fated to starve, and that my city was doomed. Every night, I would dream a familiar dream: the sea black with Persian ships, and Sparta in flames.
Then came what seemed a crisis point. North of Salamis, clearly visible from the island, lay Eleusis. Several days after the Persian squadrons had moved to block off our escape from the straits, a cry went up from the lookouts. A cloud of white dust was rising from the Sacred Way, the road that led from Athens to the shrine of Demeter. What was it? The season was a holy one. In any other year, there would have been no doubt what we were witnessing: a procession heading along the Sacred Way to Eleusis, there to pay honour to Demeter and Persephone. Clearly, though, with Athens abandoned to the barbarians, that was impossible. So who was kicking up the dust? There seemed only one answer: the Persians. Word began to sweep Salamis that the enemy were taking the road to Corinth. They were launching an attack on the Peloponnese.
And the Persian fleet? The barbarian squadrons patrolling the waters beyond the straits had begun to withdraw. By late afternoon there was no sign of them. Mingled panic and excitement swept the Peloponnesian ranks. On the one hand, this seemed to confirm that Xerxes was getting ready to attack the Peloponnese. On the other hand, with the exit from the straits now unguarded, there was an opportunity for the Peloponnesian squadrons to slip out to open sea and make their escape.
That afternoon, at the council of war, all chaos broke loose. The Athenians and the Peloponnesians were at loggerheads. The Athenians accused the Peloponnesians of abandoning them; the Peloponnesians accused the Athenians of wanting to trap them. Everyone outside the council of war could hear the shouting. No one even bothered to pretend that there was anything even resembling a united front. Instead the entire alliance seemed on the verge of collapse. I felt such a sense of despair that I could no longer bear to stay in the tent. I rose, and gazed out at the setting sun, and wished that things might have been different.
It was then that Themistocles approached me. Everyone inside the tent was too busy shouting at one another to note that we had both departed. Without saying anything, Themistocles led me down to the shore. Only once we had reached a jetty where a small rowing boat was moored did he turn to face me.
“My lady, I must be frank. I have failed. My plans are in ruins. Our hopes are turned to dust. There is no easy way out of this mess. The entire Greek fleet is falling to pieces. That being so, we must do the best we can.”
I stared at him in horror. “You are giving up?”
“As I said – we must do the best we can.”
“How?”
Themistocles paused. He seemed embarrassed. He cleared his throat. He paused again. Then abruptly he began talking. Out came his explanation in a sudden breathless rush. How over the past few days he had come to despair of the Peloponnesians. How he had approached Eurybiades, the Spartan admiral of the fleet, and asked for his permission to open negotiations with the King of Kings. How Eurybiades had given him the nod. How Themistocles, for the past few days, had been in open communication with the barbarians. How the terms of the Athenian surrender had been agreed.
Here Themistocles paused again. He looked at me.
“The terms of the Spartan surrender as well.”
“The Spartan surrender?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Spartans never surrender.”
“Your husband would have appreciated that there is no choice.”
I stared at Themistocles in disbelief. “He died for freedom! For Sparta! For Greece!” Never had I felt such anger before. “How dare you!”
“He died because he believed that Greece might still be free. But it cannot be free. Not when we are faced with such overwhelming odds. And so, as the king of his people, he would have sought to save his city. You know this, my lady. You know it. Xerxes has come here to punish two peoples: the Athenians and the Spartans. If we surrender, if we ask for terms, if we prostrate ourselves before him and beg for mercy, then perhaps our peoples will be spared. We will live. Live, perhaps, to fight another day.”
I shook my head. “I will never surrender.”
“You must, my lady.”
I turned in surprise. Behind me stood Eurybiades. He bowed his head. “There is no choice. I have been in direct touch with the council in Sparta. We are all agreed. We must do as Themistocles suggests.”
“And what exactly does he suggest?” I asked in fury. “This … this traitor!”
Themistocles stared at me impassively. “Tomorrow morning, the Persian fleet will sail into the straits. Eurybiades and I will formally submit. The other Greek commanders will have no option but to do the same. Then we will sail back to our homes.”
“Why would the Persians ever come into the straits? They are not fools. Surely they will suspect a trap?”
“They will believe us,” answered Themistocles, “because a queen of Sparta will have crossed the straits the evening before, and come into the presence of the Great King, and personally offered the surrender of her people.”
I stared at him in shock and disbelief. Then at Eurybiades. Both men bowed their heads. I turned and looked at the boat at the end of the jetty. A man with his head covered by a hooded cloak sat at the oars.
Themistocles gestured. “Please, my lady. Sicinnus, my slave, will row you there. And then, when you have done what you must do, he will row you back again.”
I breathed in deeply. I looked up at the stars. I could not believe this was happening.
“The prayers of every Spartan go with you,” said Eurybiades.
I stared at him in mute fury, then I walked down the jetty. I took my place in the boat. I prayed to all the gods that deep in the shadows of the underworld no news of this shameful moment would ever reach Leonidas, or Cleomenes, or my mother.
Themistocles unfastened the mooring rope. Sicinnus, his face cast in shadow, began to pull on the oars. Out he rowed us, into the blackness of the straits.
My memories of that evening are like those of a dream. We landed on the Attic shore and were brought by Persian guards who had obviously been expecting us to where a great camp had been set up on the slopes above the sea. Immense hordes of barbarians were everywhere. Their torches blazed like the stars in the sky. Their tents spread as far as the eye could see. These were the very people my mother had warned me about, and now here I was walking among them, a traitor to everything I had been brought up to believe. Again I thought of those I had loved and lost, my parents and my husband, who had once been flesh and blood, and were now spectres flitting about the underworld.
“Forgive me,” I murmured under my breath.
Still the camp stretched on. Sicinnus and I were led through the middle of it. So vast was it that it seemed more like a city. Eventually we were brought to the very largest tent of all. Its furnishings were richer than those of any house I had ever seen. Carpets stretched everywhere. Incense hung heavy in the air. Guards stood at every doorway. And deep in its heart was the richest room of all. Gold glimmered everywhere. There, in the middle of it, sat a king on a golden throne.
The last time I had seen Xerxes, it had been amid the dust and corpses of Thermopylae. Now I looked directly into his face. His beard was long and luxuriant, and his features handsome. But even as I met his gaze, which was very cool and calculating, I felt a guard seize me by the arm and force me to the ground. Then he placed his foot on my back.
“Kiss the ground before his feet.”
I glanced up and gasped. It was Demaratus. I stared at him. There was a long silence. I could sense the eyes of the entire court upon me. Demaratus gestured with his head, and I suddenly recognized, in his eyes, a hint of desperation. I could no longer tell what was treachery and what was not, nor who the traitor and who the patriot.
It is for my people, I thought. It is for them. And so I kissed the carpet.
Xerxes began to talk in his barbarous tongue; Demaratus translated for me. The submission of the Spartans was accepted. Their lives would be spared; so too those of the Athenians. In the morning both squadrons – Spartan and Athenian – were to surrender. The other squadrons in the Greek fleet were to surrender as well. If they did not, they would be annihilated. The King of Kings, so Demaratus informed me, would have his throne placed upon Mount Aigaleo. From there he would watch everything.
“Do justly by the Great King,” said Demaratus, “and he will do justly by you. Betray him, and your city will be wiped from the face of the earth.”
And then the audience was over. I was led from the throne room, back through the camp, down to the boat. Sicinnus, still cloaked and hooded, rowed me back. I felt too exhausted, too upset, too ashamed to breathe so much as a single word.
On the jetty I was met by Themistocles. He escorted me back up to the council of war. I had thought he would sneak me in, but no. As I entered the tent, I found that all eyes were fixed on me. All the admirals, all the officers in the various squadrons in the Greek fleet, Peloponnesians as well as Athenians, rose to their feet. They cheered me. I stared at them in astonishment.
“What courage you have shown, my lady.”
I looked round at Themistocles. “But … I don’t understand. You told me…”
“I told you what I had to tell you; I trust you will forgive the deceit. Only the visit to the Persian camp of the daughter of Cleomenes, wife of Leonidas, could ever have worked. Nothing else would have persuaded the King of Kings that the Spartans were truly prepared to surrender. And if the Spartans, then the Athenians as well. And if the Athenians, then the entire Greek fleet. You had to believe that we were all at daggers drawn. After all, if you did not, you would never have been able to convince the Persians. As it is, they think our fleet is about to crumble.”
“But it is not?”
“It is not.”
“You, and the Peloponnesians?”
“We are still very much on the same side. Our disagreements – well, we had to make them convincing. They had to be loud enough so that the Persian spies in our camp would report them back to their master.”
And at this Themistocles laughed, and everyone else laughed. I felt a brief flush of shame and anger, at the thought of how blind I had been, and how used. But no sooner had my cheeks begun to burn than the entire tent was being swept by a great gust of joy, and I was caught up on it too. All at once, without anybody saying it should be done, everyone was rising to his feet. The admirals and officers left the tent, and descended the slope towards the sea. I realized that it was becoming light. Clearly my sense of time had been warped by the utter strangeness of everything that I had gone through. Day was already nearing. The whole beach was astir. I watched as ships were hauled out into the shallows. The Greek oarsmen hurried to their benches. The various squadrons took position. They waited for the coming of dawn.
The sun rose. From the far shore, there came a blast of trumpets. I looked. Across the straits I could see that Xerxes had taken his place on the side of Mount Aigaleo. The Immortals were gathered all about him. Even at a distance the sight was a very brilliant one. Then another blast of trumpets. I looked to where the straits met with the open sea. I gasped. There was the Persian fleet. It was coming. It was entering the straits.
Themistocles’ plan had worked.
“Have no fear, daughter of Sparta.”
I looked round. There beside me was Sicinnus. Except that it was no man who had spoken. All night, the face of the person I had assumed to be Themistocles’ slave had been obscured by a hood. No longer. There, next to me, stood a woman. But no, not a woman either. She was too beautiful to be a woman.
I met her gaze. Her eyes were grey. I fell to my knees. “My lady,” I whispered. “My lady, you have come to our aid.”
The goddess smiled. Then she turned and gazed out at the two fleets.
“It is my father,” said Athena, “who has come to your aid. His anger is spent, and now it will be visited on the Persians, who have burned our temples and shown us nothing but disrespect. Did you not see, yesterday, the clouds of white dust rising from the Sacred Way? They were no mortals heading to Eleusis. The gods themselves have rallied to avenge their shrines.”
“And last night?” I could hear blood beating in my ears as I spoke, I was so nervous. “Was it a mortal who went with me to the throne room of the King of Kings?”
Again the goddess smiled. Then, abruptly, her robes began to shimmer. She rose high above me, high into the sky. Like the smoke from a sacrifice she seemed to reach into the heavens. High above the straits I saw her tower.
I realized, as I gazed out at her, that the Persian fleet was still crowding into the narrows. The Greek squadrons, as though to lure the barbarians in ever deeper, kept backing away. For an instant, Athena placed the entire scene of battle in her shadow. Then she was gone. But at the same moment as she vanished, I heard her voice sound out across the straits.
“Greeks! How much further do you propose to back off?”
Her words echoed around the narrows. And as they did so, with a great beating of oars, the Greek ships began to surge forward. Through the waters they sped. From across the entire fleet I heard cheers, and the sound of wild, ecstatic singing. Then, with a great crash, the Greek ships smashed into the barbarian battle line. There was a terrible sound of splintering wood and screaming. It rose across the entire width of the channel.
The battle had begun.
That famous day at Salamis, everything happened just as Themistocles had planned. The barbarians, crashing into one another, were in as much danger from their own ships as from ours. Their oars were soon tangled. Their discipline was lost. Everything became snarled. It did not take long before Persian ships were ramming one another, for such was their confusion that they found it impossible to distinguish friend from foe. Entire squadrons, hemmed in by the Athenians, were progressively driven back onto the shore, or else into open flight.
The more that the Persian ships sought to withdraw, however, so the more they lost formation; and the more they lost formation, so the more they rammed one another. Their crews, clinging to splintered timbers or struggling against the currents, proved easy prey. Like tuna trapped in a net they were, and the Greeks, like greedy fishermen, speared them, or battered them, or shot them with arrows.
Well before the battle was over, I observed, the King of Kings had left his throne. I could only imagine his fury. The trap into which he had sent his fleet was total. Its jaws had snapped shut; there was no breaking free of it. By the end of the day, the narrows were littered with the beams of Persian ships and corpses. The barbarian fleet had been shattered utterly. There was no prospect now of it descending on my city.
Our ships had won command of the sea. Sparta was safe.
I could sleep easily at last.
