The battle king flexed his hands and looked left and right, at those men in thick red cloaks who made his personal guard. Every one of them was over forty and had fathered at least one son for Sparta, safe and well at home while they defended the king. As importantly, every one of them had earned their place at his side. He had known most of them his entire life, from rituals to drunken brawls, like sons or brothers to him, every one. They were his family. He knew every ailment, scar, strength and weakness in them.

They were in good spirits, he was pleased to see. The storm of arrows had not troubled them unduly. Each Greek soldier carried some form of wide, round shield, large enough to crouch and shelter beneath. On a broader battlefield, they might have looked for a moment to rush and scatter the force of archers, but on that coast such a move would have taken them away from the narrowest point.

Leonidas had given and repeated his orders. There would be no counter-attacks, no wild rushes forward, not even if the enemy seemed to break and run for their lives. Under his command, they would hold the pass. The task was simple, with a beginning and an end.

Leonidas knew there was dismay in the ranks, at least beyond his own Spartiate guard and the perioikoi. He saw it in the faces of the others, as they understood and came to terms with it. The men of Corinth and Thespiae had expected to join the armies of Sparta and Athens, not a tiny force holding a pass against numbers so vast they could not even guess how many stood against them.

The battle king felt a touch of guilt at that. They did not know he had come to that place to die. He was the sword master of Sparta, descendant of a demigod. He had chosen his own fate, without regrets. Yet the path along the coast was wider than he had known. He needed them to hold it, even at the narrowest point.

Ahead, the archers of a foreign king had pulled back. The strange weeds of their shafts littered every part of the ground, in fragments and shifting pieces where they had struck rock. Steam rose in wisps in some places, hissing as it touched pools of seawater. The land actually was warm underfoot there.

The archers had indeed blotted out the sun for a few moments. The Spartans and their allies remained even so, defiant as the storm fell away. Their helots had cheered then, to show they were alive. It had been a good feeling.

Leonidas watched as the pass ahead filled with marching soldiers. They came with banners and drummer boys, he saw. They wore panelled coats and carried long shields of their own. He noted swords too, ready to stab and lunge. Leonidas nodded. Well disciplined, well equipped. He had faced the same sort a dozen times in his life. He was still standing.