Past the avenues of the fallen trudged the spared, each bearing himself neither with shame nor guilt, but with that silent awe and thanksgiving of which Leonidas had spoken in the assembly following the battle at Antirhion. That these warriors yet drew breath was not their own doing and they knew it; they were no more nor less brave or virtuous than their fallen fellows, just luckier. This knowledge expressed itself with a poet's eloquence in the blank and sanctified weariness inscribed upon their features.

I hope we don't look as bad as you, Dienekes grunted to a captain of the Phliasians as he passed. You look worse, brothers.

Someone had set the bathhouses and the spa compound on fire. The air had stilled and the wet wood burned with acrid sullenness. The smoke and stink of these blazes now added their cheerless component to the already baleful scene. The column of warriors emerged out of smoke and sank again within it. Men threw the rags of their discarded kit, blood-begrimed cloaks and tunics, used-up packs and gear bundles; everything that would bum was flung willy-nilly upon the flame. It was as if the allies withdrawing intended to abandon not so much as a scrap to the enemy's use. They lightened their loads and marched out.

Men held out their hands to the Spartans as they strode by, touching palm to palm, fingers to fingers. A warrior of the Corinthians gave Polynikes his spear. Another handed Dienekes his sword. Give them hell, fuckers.

Passing the spring, we came upon Rooster. He was pulling out too. Dienekes drew up and stopped to take his hand. No shame stood upon Rooster's face. Clearly he felt he had discharged his duty and more, and the liberty with which Leonidas had gifted him was in his eyes no more than his birthright, which had been denied him all his life and now, long overdue, had been fairly and honorably won by his own hand. He clasped Dienekes' hand and promised to speak with Agathe and Paraleia when he reached Lakedaemon. He would inform them of the valor with which Alexandras and Olympieus had fought and with what honor they had fallen. Rooster would make report to the lady Arete too. If I may, he requested, I would like to honor Alexandros before I go.

Dienekes thanked him and told him where the grave lay. To my surprise, Polynikes took Rooster's hand too. The gods love a bastard, he said.

Rooster informed us that Leonidas had freed with honor all the helots of the battle train. We could see a group of a dozen now, passing out among the warriors of Tegea. Leonidas has released the squires as well, Rooster declared, and all the foreigners who serve the army. He addressed my master. That means Suicide – and Xeo too.

Behind Rooster the train of allied contingents continued their march-out.

Will you hold him now, Dienekes? Rooster asked. He meant me.

My master did not look in my direction but spoke in reply toward Rooster. I have never compelled Xeo's service. Nor do I now.

He drew up and turned to me. The sun had fully risen; east, by the Wall, the trumpets were sounding. One of us, he said, should crawl out of this hole alive. He ordered me to depart with Rooster.

I refused.

You have a wife and children! Rooster seized my shoulders, gesturing with passion to Dienekes and Polynikes. Theirs is not your city. You owe it nothing.

I told him the decision had been made years ago.

You see? Dienekes addressed Rooster, indicating me. He never had good sense.

Back at the Wall we saw Dithyrambos. His Thespians had refused Leonidas' order. To a man they disdained to withdraw, but insisted upon abiding and dying with the Spartans. There were about two hundred of them. Not a man among their squires would pull out either. Fully four score of the freed Spartan squires and helots stood fast as well. The seer Megistias had likewise scorned to retreat. Of the original three hundred Peers, all were present or dead save two. Aristodemos, who had served as envoy at Athens and Rhodes, and Eurytus, a champion wrestler, had both been stricken with an inflammation of the eyes that rendered them sightless. They had been evacuated to Alpenoi. The katalogos, the muster roll, of survivors marshaling at the Wall numbered just above five hundred.

As for Suicide, my master before departing to bury Alexandras had commanded him to remain here at the Wall, upon a litter. Dienekes apparently had anticipated the squires' release; he had left orders for Suicide to be borne off with their column to safety. Now here the Scythian stood, on his feet, grinning ghoulishly as his master returned, himself armored in corselet and breastplate with his loins cinched in linen and bound with leather straps from a pack mount. I can't shit, he pronounced, but by hell's flame, I can still fight.

The ensuing hour was consumed with the commanders reconfiguring the contingent into a front of sufficient breadth and depth, remarshaling the disparate elements into units and assigning officers. Among the Spartans, those squires and helots remaining were simply absorbed into the platoons of the Peers they served. They would fight no longer as auxiliaries but take their places in bronze within the phalanx. There was no shortage of armor, only of weapons, so many had been shivered or smashed in the preceding forty-eight hours. Two dumps of spares were established, one at the Wall and the second a furlong to the rear, halfway to a small partially fortified hillock, the most natural site for a beleaguered force to rally upon and make its last stand. These dumps were nothing grand-just swords stuck blade-first into the dirt and eightfooters jammed beside them, lizard-stickers down.

Leonidas summoned the men to assembly. This was done without so much as a shout, so few yet stood upon the site. The camp itself seemed suddenly broad and capacious. As for the dance floor before the Wall, its sundered turf lay yet littered with Persian corpses by the thousand as the enemy had left the second day's casualties to rot upon the field. Those wounded who had survived the night now groaned with their last strength, crying for aid and water, and many for the merciful stroke of extinction. For the allies the prospect of fighting again, out there upon that farmer's field of hell, seemed more than thought could bear. This, too, was Leonidas' decision. It had been agreed among the commanders, the king now informed the warriors, no longer to fight in sallies from behind the Wall as in the previous two days but instead to put its stones at the defenders' backs and advance in a body into the widest part of the pass, there to engage the enemy, the allied scores against the Empire's myriads. The king's intent was that each man sell his life as dearly as possible.

Just as order of battle was being assigned, a herald's trumpet of the enemy sounded from beyond the Narrows. Under a banner of parley a party of four Persian riders in their most brilliant armor picked their way across the carpet of carnage and reined in directly beneath the Wall. Leonidas had been wounded in both legs and could barely hobble. With painful effort he mounted the battlement; the troops climbed with him; the whole force, what there was of it, looked down on the horsemen from atop the Wall.

The envoy was Ptammitechus, the Egyptian marine Tom-mie. This time his young son did not accompany him as interpreter; that function was performed by an officer of the Persians. Both their mounts, and the two heralds', were balking violently amid the underfoot corpses. Before Tommie could commence his speech, Leonidas cut him off.

The answer is no, he called down from the Wall.

You haven't heard the offer.

Fuck the offer, Leonidas cried with a grin. And yourself, sir, along with it!

The Egyptian laughed, his smile flashing as brilliantly as ever. He strained against the reins of his spooking horse. Xerxes does not want your lives, sir, Tommie called. Only your arms.