The 301st Man

There are many kinds of men in the telling of history.

There are the first men, who step forward when only the nights horizon is visible. They are from a rare and alarming stock, for they behave as though the future were sunlight spilling down the valley only when the moon has began to rise. Other men follow because the first man walks his steps with assurances as if embodying the betting horse of the gods.

There are the great many who come after, men who fill the ranks, lift the banners and validate the march. Without them the first man would merely be a Diogenes without his Rome.

Later there are the men who arrive at a curious number. The Three Hundredth and first Man had long believed himself to be one of these. He had been thinking about the number since he first heard the old story of the Battle of Thermopylae.Not the battle itself  that part was clear enough. Three hundred Spartans standing in a narrow pass beneath the command of their king Leonidas, holding back a sea of enemies beneath the banner of Xerxes.

What troubled him was something smaller. He wondered about the man who might have been next. Suppose, he thought once while walking along a quiet road, that there had been another Spartan who arrived a moment too late. Suppose there had been a man who would have gladly stood among the three hundred, shield against shield, had there only been room.

What becomes of such a man?

The 301st Man was well aware he was no Leonidas. That much was settled in his heart. Some men are born with a gravity that bends others around them. The Three Hundredth Man had never possessed such a quality. When he spoke, people listened politely, which is the sort of listening that tells you enough. Nor was he the maven sort. Never would he induce the next great Industrial Revolution. He knew things, but never more than what his contemporaries or predecessors knew of. Neither did he possess the easy web of acquaintances that makes a great dignitary. His friendships were sincere but few, like carefully ornate plants in a green house versus how some speak to the Forrest.

He always held a deep reverence for the men with these traits. They were, in a sense, the Leonidases of ordinary life. If a great cause were ever to appear before the world, he felt quite certain it would require such men. The difficulty was discovering what a man should do if he was not one of them and did not possess their traits. The world, as far as he could see, was always standing at the edge of some contest. Not always a battle with spears and bronze shields, those were mercifully rare. But what was as common as the day however, were battles, of Truth against convenience, Courage against comfort, order against the ever rearing head of chaos. And always there seemed to be those who led. He read about them the way some men read about distant mountains, knowing they were magnificent while quietly suspecting he might never climb one.

Often he imagined the moment before Thermopylae. Three hundred Spartans assembled beneath the early light. Shields lifted. Sand beneath their sandals. The narrow pass ahead. And perhaps, just perhaps, a man arriving slightly behind the others. Not a coward. Not a deserter. Simply a man whose step had been delayed. A man who might have stood there wondering, What is a man meant to do when the number is already complete?

The 301st felt something like kinship with that imagined Spartan.

For he often sensed that the great labors of the world had already been claimed by those more suited to them. The boldest had spoken first. The wisest had explained things clearly. The persuasive had gathered the crowds. And he, arriving afterward, is left with the lines already formed. Yet the strange thing was that the 301st man could not quite rid himself of the feeling that a place must exist somewhere. So many positions had already been filled but what whispered was perhaps there was need of another shield in the line. A man who did not shout orders but who stood firm and would grit his teeth once they were given.

It was this thought that followed him one evening as he walked beside a small creek outside of town. The water he found was undulating between its forefathers grooves, neither hurried nor idle. He sat upon a stone, listening to the water whilst he pondered on the number again.

Three hundred and one.

It is certainly a number large enough to form a wall of sinew. Men bound in the cause of greatness. The damn and the damned who would hold back a creek, a river or if need be reach higher to quell the rain itself.

The vision is found in the gaze of the kings but success or failure has always been held in the hands of the 301st man. The line is made, very often, of men who never expected to lead it. A man does not always choose the battle. Nor does he always choose the number he becomes within it. But if a day should come when the line is formed and the shields are raised, there remains a simple and honourable task available even to the most ordinary soul.

Stand where there is space.

Lift the shield.

And when the command is given, by men far greater than oneself, hold fast.

The 301st man rose from the stone and continued down the road. He did not yet know where the line would form. But he had begun, at last, to suspect that when it did, there might still be room for one more shield.