“Euge!” grunted the chief. “So you wish me to believe you a victim of fate, and trust your story? The pass is turned, you say? Masistes the seer said the libation sputtered on the flame with ill-omen when he sacrificed this morning. Then you come. The thing shall be looked into. Call the captains.”
* * * * * * *
The locharchs and taxiarchs of the Greeks assembled. It was a brief and gloomy council of war. While Euboulus, commanding the Corinthian contingent, was still questioning whether the deserter was worthy of credence, a scout came running down Mt. Œta confirming the worst. The cowardly Phocians watching the mountain trail had fled at the first arrows of Hydarnes. It was merely a question of time before the Immortals would be at Alpeni, the village in Leonidas’s rear. There was only one thing to say, and the Spartan chief said it.
“You must retreat.”
The taxiarchs of the allied Hellenes under him were already rushing forth to their men to bid them fly for dear life. Only one or two stayed by the tent, marvelling much to observe that Leonidas gave no orders to his Lacedæmonians to join in the flight. On the contrary, Glaucon, as he stood near, saw the general lift the discarded pot of broth and explore it again with the iron spoon.
“O Father Zeus,” cried the incredulous Corinthian leader. “Are you turned mad, Leonidas?”
“Time enough for all things,” returned the unmoved Spartan, continuing his breakfast.
“Time!” shouted Euboulus. “Have we not to flee on wings, or be cut off?”
“Fly, then.”
“But you and your Spartans?”