a
stand-off of several days, he resolved to put this to the test. Dividing
his army, he embarked a sizable task force—including, almost certainly,
his cavalry—and sent it around the Attic coast to see if its appearance
in the harbor off Athens would help to unbar the city’s gates. Yet it was
24 Holland
precisely this same maneuver that gave the Athenian holding force its
chance. Against all expectations, moving against a foe widely assumed
to be invincible, crossing what many of the Athenians themselves must
have dreaded would prove to be a plain of death, they charged an en-
emy that no Greek army had ever before defeated in open battle. The
reward for their courage was a glorious, an immortal victory. Fearful
still of treachery, however, the exhausted and blood-streaked victors
had no time to savor their triumph. Instead, in the full heat of day
they headed straight back for Athens, “as fast as their legs could take
them.”16 They arrived in the very nick of time, for not long afterward
Persian transport ships began to glide toward the city’s harbor. For a
few hours they lay stationary beyond its entrance; then, as the sun set
at last, they raised anchor, swung around, and sailed away. The threat
of invasion was over—for the moment, at any rate.
To be sure, there was no doubt that what had saved Athens on the
battlefield of Marathon was first and foremost the prowess of its own
citizens: not merely their courage but also the sheer pulverizing impact
of their charge, the heavy crunching of spears and shields into oppo-
nents wearing, at most, quilted jerkins for protection and armed, per-
haps, many of them, only with bows and slings. Yet something more
had been in conflict on that fateful day than flesh and metal alone: Mar-
athon had also been a testing of the stereotypes that both sides had of
the other. The Athenians, by refusing to play the role al otted them by
the Persians’ spymasters, had duly served to convince themselves once
and for al that the watchwords of the democracy—comradeship, equal-
ity, liberty—might indeed be more than slogans. Simultaneously, the su-
perpower that for so long had appeared invincible had been shown to
have feet of clay. The Persians might be defeated, after al . “Barbarians,”
the Ionians had always cal ed them, a people whose language was gib-
berish, who went “bah, bah, bah”—and now, in the wake of Marathon,
the Athenians began to do the same. It was a word that perfectly evoked
their dread of what they had been forced to confront on the day of their
great victory, an alien, mil ing numberless horde, jabbering for their de-
struction. Yet “barbarian,” in the wake of such a battle, could also sug-
gest something more: a sneer, a tone of contempt. A self-assurance, in
short, more than fit to go nose to nose with that of a superpower.
From Persia with Love 25
Here, then, was a measure of the decisiveness of Marathon: that it
helped to purge the Athenians of the deep-rooted inferiority complex
the Greeks had traditionally felt whenever they compared themselves
to the great powers of the Near East. Nor, as the Athenians themselves
never wearied of pointing out, had the victory been won on behalf
of their city alone. In its wake, even those Greeks who loathed the
democracy could walk that little bit taller, confident that the qualities
that distinguished them from foreigners might, just perhaps, be the
mark of their superiority. Not, of course, that a temporary reverse on
the distant frontier of their empire had done anything to diminish the
Persians’ own conceit and sense of entitlement; and so it was, ten years
after Marathon, when Xerxes, Darius’s son and heir, embarked on a
full-scale invasion of Greece, that the resulting conflict served to pro-
vide an authentic clash of ideals. Indeed, on the Persian side, Xerxes’
determination to give form to his sense of global mission was such that
it
S. Ravynheart, S.A. Archer
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood