VI Tee

Thermopylae, 480 BC They didn’t speak much that morning. The sun was rising over the cliffs, casting long shadows down the pass. The enemy—Xerxes' Persians—stretched beyond the horizon, a tsunami of men and horses and steel. But the 300 Spartans did not fear death. They had brought it with them. Leonidas walked the line, his armor dusty, his beard stained with blood. No crown, no ceremony. Just a spear in hand and eyes that had seen the future—and accepted it. “You are not here to survive,” he said quietly. “You are here to make sure none of us dies alone.” Behind him stood Dienekes, the Spartan who had laughed when warned that Persian arrows would blot out the sun. “Then we shall fight in the shade,” he had said—and he meant it. There was Alpheus and Maron, the sword brothers. Stelios, whose son had kissed his shield before he left. And Eurytus and Aristodemus, who had fought blind rather than leave their brothers behind. Their bond was iron. Forged in the agoge. Hardened by battl