“Go!” he ordered.
The Corinthian would have seized his hand. He shook him off. At Leonidas’s elbow was standing the trumpeter for his three hundred from Lacedæmon.
“Blow!” commanded the chief.
The keen blast cut the air. The chief deliberately wrapped the purple mantle around himself and adjusted the gold circlet over his helmet, for on the day of battle a Lacedæmonian was wont to wear his best. And even as he waited there came to him out of the midst of the panic-stricken, dissolving camp, one by one, tall men in armour, who took station beside him—the men of Sparta who had abided steadfast while all others prepared to flee, waiting for the word of the chief.
Presently they stood, a long black line, motionless, silent, whilst the other divisions filed in swift fear past. Only the Thespians—let their names not be forgotten—chose to share the Laconians’ glory and their doom and took their stand behind the line of Leonidas. With them stood also the Thebans, but compulsion held them, and they tarried merely to desert and pawn their honour for their lives.
More couriers. Hydarnes’s van was in sight of Alpeni now. The retreat of the Corinthians, Tegeans, and other Hellenes became a run; only once Euboulus and his fellow-captains turned to the silent warrior that stood leaning on his spear.
“Are you resolved on madness, Leonidas?”
“Chaire! Farewell!” was the only answer he gave them. Euboulus sought no more, but faced another figure, hitherto almost forgotten in the confusion of the retreat.
“Haste, Master Deserter, the Barbarians will give you [pg 240]an overwarm welcome, and you are no Spartan; save yourself!”
Glaucon did not stir.