The victory of Sparta seemed only a matter of time. The news that reached us gave hope: the coalition army hadn't won a single battle. They suffered defeat after defeat, retreating deeper into their own lands. But the farther the enemy fell back, the stronger my feeling grew that the Spartan army was being led into a trap.
There were no high-ranking officers left in the camp. There was no one I could confide my thoughts to. But I didn't believe Sparta was full of fools. Surely, someone had already begun to suspect that something was wrong. And yet it was as if they couldn't see the full picture or weren't allowed to.
With each victory, with each enemy slain, the Spartans seemed to fall further under the influence of Ares. They likely weren't even considering a retreat. Perhaps something greater was at play here some external force, divine or otherwise.
Day by day, my conviction grew: the Spartan army was being deliberately drawn farther and farther from its homeland. Either it was being prepared for a final, decisive battle or led toward something far more ominous.
"All Spartans, prepare to march!" came the booming command of Enomotarch Lokrat, temporarily appointed as our commanding officer. "Form up outside the camp! Ages sixteen to twenty, no exceptions!"
No one argued. Without a word, we dropped what we were doing and began forming ranks. We assembled three full enomotiai about two hundred men.
"We're heading for Sparta," Enomotarch continued. "The Athenians have already crossed into our territory. The Spartan army won't return in time. We are the last line of defense. We must protect our homes. Drive the enemy from our land."
Even in the most desperate battles, Sparta had never sent boys younger than twenty into combat. It was a law, a tradition honored for centuries. But now, everything had changed. We were facing something beyond the bounds of ordinary war.
It was clear the Spartan army had been deliberately pulled into battle far from home, so that it could not return not in time. And when the victory finally came, it would be too late. The Athenian army would already be trampling Spartan soil.
"Enomotarch, permission to speak!" I called out, stepping forward. Instantly, dozens of eyes turned toward me.
"Speak, Damocles," he replied. He knew my name.
"The younger ones aren't properly equipped," I said. In Sparta, real armor, shields, and spears weren't issued until eighteen. That meant half our force now stood nearly defenseless, wearing crimson cloaks, armed only with short swords and light spears.
"Equipment will be delivered to the assembly point," Enomotarch said calmly but firmly. "Everyone will be issued full gear armor, shields, spears. Right now, we must not lose time. The enemy is only days from Sparta. We must intercept them before they reach the city."
I nodded silently and adjusted the red cloak on my shoulder. It would have been foolish to think they'd throw us into battle without armor, but I had to say it aloud just in case, in the chaos, someone had forgotten.
"Damocles! You're now responsible for distributing the equipment," Enomotarch added as he prepared to leave. "You'll issue the gear on arrival. Make sure everyone's ready to fight."
"Yes, sir," I answered. Maybe I should've kept quiet.
If we managed to gather an army a thousand strong, it would already be a success. But of those, no more than five hundred would be true Spartans. The rest helots and perioeci. In the best-case scenario, we'd have six thousand men. But how many did the enemy bring?
The helots were poorly armed and barely trained. They weren't an army just people handed spears and light armor. Their courage was all we could rely on.
We marched at a forced pace. Spartan endurance let us keep it up all day. The assembly point was a small village at the foot of the hills Kephalas just a few hours from Sparta. There, wagons of equipment were already waiting.
Everything moved in a rush: armor, weapons, squad assignments. There was barely any time to prepare.
By nightfall, most of Sparta's remaining forces had gathered here. Only reserve garrisons, watchposts, and patrols remained in the city. About fifteen hundred warriors had assembled. Many had been pulled from guarding settlements, border forts even the city itself.
According to early reports, we'd face around nine thousand enemy troops. The best warriors from all lands allied with Athens. It now became clear why the coalition army had lost so catastrophically. All this time, they had merely been a distraction sacrifices while the main force was being moved to our shores. And they'd done it almost unnoticed.
"Kratos, you'll lead the youth divisions," Lokrat said.
"Understood," he replied.
Kratos had become something of a favorite if such a word could even be used among Spartans. Flawless. Stern. One of a kind. Everything a warrior could and should be, he embodied. He and I rarely spoke, hardly crossed paths, but I knew one thing: he was calm. Cold. There was no rage in him yet, no fury. He was quiet, focused, distant like many of Sparta's sons. A man others looked up to.
By evening, the formation of our small army was complete. According to the scouts' reports, there was no point in waiting for reinforcements. We would be sent to the frontlines tomorrow, where we would meet the enemy.
It felt like a suicide mission.But there was still a chance.
The terrain favored us: a mountain range, wild and scarcely traversed, with hardly any roads. The enemy might try to go around us, but that would cost them time and time was not on their side.
We aimed to hold the only pass large enough to move a full army through. That's where we hoped to delay their advance, even if only for a little while.
We had just one day.If the enemy didn't clash with us if we failed to intercept them Sparta would fall. They would march straight through and burn it to the ground.
Sparta's greatest weakness had always been her inability to withstand a prolonged siege. Our entire doctrine was built on attack on war, not defense. Yes, the city had walls, but they were more symbolic than practical. Easily breached with ladders and rams. We had too few archers, and little chance of mounting a true defense.
[image] Such was the terrain in those parts.
At dawn, as the sun began to paint the mountain peaks in pale gold, our army set out for the pass. According to the scouts, the enemy was less than half a day's march away. Perhaps it was just the vanguard not yet the full army.
By my estimate, it would take them at least two days to reach Sparta directly from their current position at best. Especially considering they'd need to cross mountainous terrain with no roads, where moving large forces would be a true ordeal.
Marching swiftly, we took position between two mountains. We felled trees and blocked the narrow ascent, making it impossible to bypass. This pass was now the only way forward. And it led through us. Through our bodies.
If the enemy chose to go around, they'd need time climbing over steep ridges, finding new routes down into the valleys, losing precious days.That was our only hope.
It would give us a chance to regroup, fall back to new positions where reserves were waiting. A coastal town the first to face the enemy's wrath had already bought us what mattered most: time. Time to rally, time to reach this place.
By noon, the first refugees began passing through our lines. There weren't many. The survivors. Frightened. Shaken. None of them spoke. Only their eyes wide with horror and the way they walked betrayed what they had seen. The gait of those who had met death.
It was my first time facing a battle of such scale. And not as a victor, as we had been trained to be from childhood but as someone standing on the edge. From a place of weakness.
But there could be no doubt. Only victory or death. No other endings.