Free Gates of Fire by Steven Pressfield Page A

upon the earth in sleep. Dienekes was far from an old man, barely two years past forty, yet his limbs and joints creaked like an ancient’s. His former squire, a Scythian called “Suicide,” had instructed me in the proper manner of kneading the knots and loaves of scar tissue about my master’s numerous wounds, and the little tricks in arming him so that his impairments would not show. His left shoulder could not move forward past his ear, nor could that arm rise at the elbow above his collarbone; the corselet had to be wrapped first about his torso, which he would support by pinning it with his elbows while I set the shoulder leathers and thumb-bolted them into place. His spine would not bend to lift his shield, even from its position of rest against his knee; the bronze sleeve had to be held aloft by me and jockeyed into place over the forearm, in the standing position. Nor could Dienekes flex his right foot unless the tendon was massaged until the flow of the nerves had been restored along their axis of command.
    My master’s most gruesome wound, however, was a lurid scar, the width of a man’s thumb, that ran in jagged course across the entire crown of his brow, just below the hairline. This was not visible normally, covered as it was by the fall of his long hair across his forehead, but when he bound his hair to accept the helmet, or tied it back for sleep, this livid gash re-presented itself. I could see it now in the starlight. Apparently the curiosity in my expression struck my master as comical, for he chuckled and lifted his hand to trace the line of the scar.
    â€œThis was a gift from the Corinthians, Xeo. An ancient one, picked up around the time you were born. Its history, aptly enough, tells a tale of my brother.”
    My master glanced away, down the slope that led toward the Avenue of the Champions. Perhaps he felt the proximity of his brother’s shade, or the fleeting shards of memory, from boyhood or battle or the
agon
of the Games. He indicated that I might pour for him a bowl of wine, and that I may take one for myself.
    â€œI wasn’t an officer then,” he volunteered, still preoccupied. “I wore a banty hat instead of a curry brush.” Meaning the front-to-back-crested helmet of the infantry ranker, instead of the transverse-crested helm of a platoon leader. “Would you like to hear the tale, Xeo? As a bedtime story.”
    I replied that I would, very much. My master considered. Clearly he was debating in his mind if such a retelling constituted vanity or excessive self-revelation. If it did, he would break it off at once. Apparently, however, the incident contained an element of instruction, for, with a barely perceptible nod, my master gave himself permission to proceed. He settled more comfortably against the slope.
    â€œThis was at Achilleion, against the Corinthians and their Arkadian allies. I don’t even remember what the war was about, but whatever it was, those sons of whores had found their courage. They were putting the steel to us. The line had broken down, the first four ranks were scrambled, it was man against man across the entire field. My brother was a platoon leader and I was a third.” Meaning he, Dienekes, commanded the third squad, sixteen positions back in order of march. “So that when we deployed into line by fours, I came up to my third’s position beside my brother at the head of my squad. We fought as a
dyas,
Iatrokles and I; we had trained in the pairs since we were children. Only there was none of that sport now, it was pure blood madness.
    â€œI found myself across from a monster of the enemy, six and a half feet tall, a match for two men and a horse. He was dismasted, his spear had been shivered, and he was so raging with possession he didn’t have the presence of mind to go for his sword. I said to myself, man, you better get some iron into this bastard fast, before he remembers he’s got that