Leonidas

I am Leonidas, son of Anaxandridas, king of Sparta. When Xerxes crossed into Greece, the god at Delphi gave us a hard choice: Sparta would fall, or a king of Heracles' line would die. It was the Carneia, and the full levy could not march. So I took the advance, three hundred citizens chosen because each had a living son. Sparta would not be left childless.

We went to Thermopylae, the Hot Gates, where mountains squeeze the sea. We strengthened the old wall and stood with allies—Phocians, Thespians, others who would not yield. The Persians came on in numbers like sand. In the narrows, numbers break. Their best, the so-called Immortals, found no passage.

When Xerxes sent to demand our arms, I answered what any Spartan knows: come and take them. We held the pass for two days. On the third day a Malian named Ephialtes led them by the goat path above us. I dismissed most of the allies. The Thespians chose to remain. The Thebans stayed and later laid down their shields.

We fought in the open, around my body when I fell. Xerxes cut off my head. Years later my bones were brought home to Sparta, and the city kept festival in my name. Our stand did not end the war. It bought time and resolve. The fleet fought at Artemisium and then at Salamis. That was enough.