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ILIAS KASIDIARIS

THE OTHER SPARTANS

The Battle Of Thermopylae Seen Through The Eyes Of 700 Thespians

Copyright Ilias Kasidiaris All rights reserved worldwide

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Dedication

To the men of Commando Battalion A, who one starry night spread their wings and flew boldly into the unknown.

PREFACE

In 480 B.C. an army of 7000 Greeks, led by Spartan king, Leonidas, confronted a horde of uncountable Barbarians in the Strait of Thermopylae. After two days of epic resistance, the Greeks were betrayed by Ephialtes and surrounded by the Persian army. In the battle to the bitter end that followed, the selected garrison of Lakedemonia did not fight alone. At their side stood 700 heroic Thespians. We will attempt to trace the march of the men who wrote the saga of Thermopylae with the Spartans, with this historical narrative. As a small token of respect for those giants of military virtues whom history has misrepresented exceedingly, but whom Greece is eternally grateful for.

The allies obeyed the orders of Leonidas and left. But the Thespians did not want to desert Leonidas and his companions. They remained there, led by Demophilus of Thespiae, the son of Diadromes, and sacrificed their lives alongside them. ~Herodotus, Histories

Valley of the Muses

We broke at night for Mount Kallidromo with the prayers of the priests, the cheering and crying. We waved to parents, siblings and spouses. Leaving behind our lovers and children. The ultimate Hail to eternal Thespies. Our sacred Homeland. The ark of our soul. We attended the divine Valley of the Muses and Mount Helicon. Beyond the sacred grove, in which we reached manhood. Days and endless hours we bled in the palaestra. Having our egos deflated in unceasing war games. Subjugated to the raw steel column of the phalanx. With devotion we followed the commandments. To become one. Years of training now guide our military machine. The nonstop repetition of the same, monotonous movements: I repel I hit I spear! I spurn I kick I spear! The phalanx is united and indivisible. An iron fist that will stop any intruder. And we, the soldiers of Thespies, now standing on the plain, which we watered, for years, with the blood of our soul.

A moment only, the years which passed. Nights that wouldnt end in the middle of the valley. And we, kids, shaking from the cold and fear. Without food for days. We survived with a few drops of water. With a single shield we defended the soul of our companion. Over nature, the elements of the forest, and fury of the wind. That is where we matured. Among the bellows of the captain and the veterans. Thus we reached manhood. Left behind the last drop of our sloth. Tamed our fear. Our only true nemesis. Victory is the daughter of Fear. Victorious is the man who cleverly manages his fear. Who will not surrender to it, nor despise it. That is the lesson of the Valley of the Muses. We walk on the same training ground and mental training, As men, finally. Now we are all one. A steely satellite of human souls silently crosses the valley. The silent phalanx of soldiers marching in the dark. Invisible and restless, each of us drowning in silence the agony of our souls. Seven hundred hoplites march forward. Seven hundred men who carry on their back their weapon and the weight of the whole world. Our destination is obviously Thermopylae. Together with the united Greek army. First and foremost with the King of Sparta. Leader of the Dorians. The great Leonidas. Our destination is obviously Thermopylae, but we all know where this journey ends. In a glorious battle we will distinguish ourselves. Unbroken phalanx of hoplites. Shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield. Our chests will form impenetrable walls against hordes of barbarians. Our destination obviously Thermopylae, but all of us entertaining the inevitable end. In the glorious battle we will be certain to fall. Blood sacrifice to our fathers and to eternal Greece. Black the color of our chiton. Black the color of our death. Black chitons are marching into the unknown. Destination unknown, and for

all united the gates of Hades. A few days and nights we will still move. Until the eleventh hour. Until we enter the kingdom of Pluto with glory.

MOUNT KALLIDROMO

The limits of the world seem small and insignificant when you march toward war. When Ares, the God of war is guiding your footsteps. A laborious course under the summer sun. Then a heavy road in the black of night. Stop for rest superfluous. Uninterrupted the phalanx marches toward the unknown. A single image ahead of us, and in the depth of our thought. The glow of the warriors ahead of us. That glow is our guide. The glow is reflected from the sun and the moon onto the surface of the shield, like an error-free compass, in the dense forest and high mountain. Until we hear the captains cue to stop. Our road is nearing completion. The sea appears on the horizon. Mount Kallidromo appears in the West, joined by the new sun in the East. And Thermopylae in our souls. Eagerly we approach the guards of the Greek cities. Fever and excitement in the Greek camp. Thousands of hoplites awaiting war. Theyre sharpening the short swords and peaks of their spears. They prepare, lament,

argue and yell continuously. In the background is the wall that the Phoceans once built to entrench their land. Now the wall is being repaired to stop the hordes of barbarians. Dozens of skilled workers are carrying stones, raise the walls, and raise the courage in the souls of the soldiers. Malians, Phoceans and Lokrians quarrel over the fate of the country and over their childrens future. The first Greek cities north of Thermopylae were close to the Panstratia. The soldiers praise Liberty. They expect divine messages. But their fear does not consent. The oracle to the Athenians is terrifying, and plants a seed of fear in the hearts of the Greeks. Why are you sitting doomed? Run to the edge of the world. Leave behind houses and hills that enclose the city like the grinding wheel. No head will stay put. Neither body, legs or any parts of them. Everything will be destroyed by fire and by raging Ares in his Syriac chariot. Many towers will be destroyed; many temples of gods who now bathe in sweat and tremble with fear. The black blood on the roofs foreshadows inevitable misfortunes. So, get up and leave, and deliver your hearts in grief.

Delphi does not deliver any hope to the slight Greek army. However, these words do not spring from Phoebus Apollo. They are not words of a god, but of soul-less men. The priests thirst for riches is talking. The golden Darics of Xerxes. The phalanx is hot with our betrayal by the priestly. Most are demanding a new prophesy. Only few are indifferent, feverishly preparing for the march. The picture changes at the entry to the straits. Absolute discipline. Red chitons glow in the sunlight of the day. The winds of war suddenly subside. Xerxes army seemingly disappears deep into Asia. Calm

and order cover Thermopylae. Unprecedented images give rise to awe in our soul. Young, upright and unreachable, complicating their crown. With swift movements they sculpt the beauty of their image. (, , . .) Becoming beautiful for death. And we, ignorantly, watch the in silence. At the head of the Greek camp, a priest gives honors to Apollo. He pours the libation with harmony and beauty. ( .) Soon a thunderstorm of war will erupt. The officers prepare to honor Ares and the virtues of war. And just when the night covers the earth, libations of blood will drench the soil in honor of the dead and the God of the underworld. The awe is great. It is the first time we encounter Spartans.

LEONIDAS

The war council of the Greeks. Extreme oppositions and disagreements are the order. The wise words of Amphictyon are quickly forgotten. The echoes of the congress of Corinth seized. Now the facts have changed. The monstrous army of Asia is imminent. Millions of our enemies are visible to the naked eye. The upheaval moves from the soldiers to the commanders. Two diametrically opposed views divide our camp. The Peloponnesians remain unyielding. Our forces serve no purpose in Thermopylae. Only in the isthmus can there be a solid defense. All other Greeks refuse and persist, If Xerxes crosses the narrow pass everything will be lost. Our cities will be leveled to the ground from one end to the other. The Athenians, clearly absent, watch the great events from their ships. The burden of decision falls on the Lakedaemonians. King Leonidas has the word now. When he stands up, it suffices to calm everyone.

Silence and peace return to the Greek army. A mature man, mighty (?) and imposing. With a short, tidy beard and hair. A different image from the Spartans, with their long hair. He speaks with wisdom and vigor. We all hang on his every word. Thermopylae is a gift from the Gods to the Greeks. The field favors us. Here, the mother of all battles will take place. Here, a great trophy for Apteros Nike will stand. Brothers, unfold the virtues of war! Thicken the yoke and solidify the armies! May the phalanxes be impenetrable! Shoulder to shoulder, shield with shield, body and soul united for eternal Greece! The Gods are watching. The demigods are dictating it. Hercules and the Dioscuri will guide. Our land will become a tomb for millions of barbarians. Leonidas leaves the meeting in amidst cheers and war songs. His words were a clarion call. His heavy voice travelled to the farthest edge of our awareness. Here we are Greeks once again. Greeks, raising our swords until they reach the heavens. But the Gods are deaf. There is no one to hear our invocations. No divine power is here to stop the scourge from Asia. Few among us know of the secret Delphic prophesy for Leonidas, the Spartans, and the inevitable end.

Listen to your doom, inhabitants of spacious Sparta, either your glorious city will be taken by the sons of Perseus, or the whole earth will mourn with the Lacedaemonians for a king of the house of Heracles.

Millions of barbarians march. They traverse Asopos River and extend to the entrance of the (Euripus?) Strait. The Greeks are silent for a

moment. A clanging sound awakes us. Leonidas hears it first. He lived many, many years awaiting this sound. Xerxes messengers approach us. They gaze at our army with awe. Who are the men who dared to stand so few against so many? A barbarian dismounted. He stands before our king in terror. The sacred moment. A breeze suddenly cools the hot field. The breath of the universe attaches to the virtues of the Greeks. Words fly through the air, lost in the vacuum and resonate through eternity.

SURRENDER YOUR WEAPONS! COME GET THEM!

MOLON LABE

LAKEDAEMONIANS

We hear the war siren. All of us take to our weapons. In full gear we are ready for the battle. At the head is the royal guard of the Spartans. Spartans march in front, followed by 4000 Peloponnesians. We cover the rear left wing of the formation. The length of the strait does not exceed 10 stadia. The front of the phalanx covers its breadth. The Spartans will march completely alone. 300 red chitons enter the narrow pass and surge into Thermopylae. With rapid steps they march toward the unknown. Across from us the picture of the enemy clarifies. Endless rows of soldiers shout, as well as invade the passageway. The barbarians crowd together at the western entrance of the battlefield. Diffused over Thermopylae like a formless mass. The horde following are pushing those in front. Crushing them rudely at the narrow of the strait. Only shouts and curses come from the mob of the Persians. Now only two stadia separate them from the Spartans, who after passing the wall of the Phoceans, marched towards them.

An indomitable ingot treading with firm, brisk steps. The sun beats down on the brass, each decorated with a Lamda for Lakedaemonia. From their united shields protrude killer spears and form a death grid at the front of the phalanx. At the highest level the ultimate horror. The compact helmet. Hundreds of faceless heads with dark boxes instead of eyes steer this unknown war machine. The plumes flutter in the soft air gusts. Awe is born in the armies of the barbarians by this otherworldly picture. That very hour the enemys archers start an incredible storm of fire. The sun is covered by this dark cloud of thousands of arrows. Prophetic were the words of formidable Dienekes, who said in defiance of the cowardice of the Trachinians: Battle in the shade, and there is no more sun. And now thousands of archers are directing their pellets in our directions. An endless wave of arrows pass over the heads of the Persians. Their trajectory curve is perfect. It freezes our allied army in its tracks. But the phalanx reacts lightning-fast. For years and years preparing to counter such hazards. With a single shout, 300 shields face the sun. The same in the prone position absorb the brunt of the attack. Thousands of deadly arrows wound the ground. Not a single Spartan is affected by the barbarians attack. Meaningless hazard deterred by the Lakedaemonian Lamda that adorns the face of the phalanx. It is sufficient to feed the anger of the Spartans. The soldiers stand up again. The pipers now provide the pace. The pace now changes, gets faster, and more war-like. And suddenly the atmosphere vibrates with the hymn. Rhythmically, with coordinated footsteps, the war machine of the Greeks marches into the unknown. The vanguard of the foreign army now prepares the infamous Medes, the most feared warriors of their empire. With wounded pride of their allegiance to Xerxes, they throw themselves into battle. With imposing shields and armor. With deadly spears

and swords. With slow and rhythmic steps they approach the front of the Laconians. Thousands of Medes have just flooded the strait and are advancing. One stadion separates them from the Greeks. Suddenly, an event occurs, which leaves the soldiers of both armies stunned. A barbarian soldier, full of impertinence and arrogance, breaks the formation and runs toward the Greek phalanx. He screams and provokes, brandishing his spear. With elaborate movements he twirls it over his head. His figure is darkly hidden under a loose uniform and shabby (?). His entire head is covered with a black scarf. He curses us in an unknown language and is indifferent to the deadly wall ahead of him. He doesnt seem to see the hundred spears prodruding from it. He raves deliriously. He gives no reason to Gods, not humans. The Medes are cheering him on. The deamon worshipped by the tribes in wilderness reigns inside him. Thus brag the barbarians. But we know the source of his divine ecstasy. The spirit of wine, and the juice of poppies are driving him. Then the Mede takes one final step. He lifts his spear with both hands and jumps with vigor on the shield of one of our soldiers. Tearing the brass, his lance does not reach the body of the composed Spartan. The blow doesnt move him even one millimeter. The Mede is mystified. At that very moment a small window opens in the airtight Greek infantry. Through this secret gate emerges the invisible death. The shield is sidelined and the spear shakes like lightning. The tip of it succeeds in hitting the Medes face. Metal and wild cherry wood penetrate his skull. His dead body is paralized and drops down to the knees. The strong hands of the Spartan lifts the full weight of the enemy. With one lightning move the spear is directed and reverts to its original position. The twist and the output crash the enemys skull entirely. His nosebone and cheekbones are ravaged. Brain and skull bones break into

pieces and fly in the air. A hollow, bony circle awash with blood is the new face of the dead man. At the same time his lifeless body collapses. A feeling of enthusiasm erupt in the ranks of the Greeks. A loud exclamation of victory escapes our ranks. It covers the Thermopylae and reaches the peak of Mount Olympus. Ares himself is ecited by the horrific human sacrifice of the Spartans. The first major battle of the day has just been won. Without any fuss and without sacrifice, fear has masked the soul of the enemy. Oh, and the war starts at last! The Spartans accelerate and the phalax retracts. Shields close, bodies unite, the Greek army becomes a solid mass of metal and human will.