The Spartans went through and found a great plain ahead. In the distance, even the host of Persian forces was dwarfed by the scale of the land itself. The entire army under Mardonius was arrayed before their camp. With air as clear as glass, Pausanias halted his panting men. The shine faded from his blood, stealing the lightness in him. He looked back to the shadowy pass, where the sun never reached and the air was always cold. The helots and his allies were still coming through. He gave orders for his Spartans to stand aside on the northern flanks of Mount Cithaeron. The sun was warm on the earth. He knew they were at least a day from the enemy, yet it felt as if he could reach out and crush them between finger and thumb.

Far out on the plain, Pausanias saw dust plumes of scouts running back to report, still far off from their master and the camp. Regiments of horsemen trotted in formation down below, around what looked like a new city built in the wilderness. He knew the Persians would understand he had come out. Pausanias just hoped his force did not seem quite so small when viewed from the plain.

His people were exposed under the sun. Without food or water at that height, they could not remain on the mountainside for long. Yet Pausanias felt his heart beat faster, his frown deepening. If he went down to the plain, the Persians would use the horsemen he did not have. If he waited, his people would be gasping like crows in just a couple of days. Even with the supplies his helots had brought, there would be no living off the land there, not after a winter with every living thing going into the mouths of Persians.

‘So … shall we go down and cut his head off?’ Tisamenus said.

Pausanias found himself chuckling. The suggestion broke through his sense of being overwhelmed and he clapped his hand on the soothsayer’s shoulder.

‘Mardonius will wait another day. We’ll need to find a good place to camp on the mountain, some lower ridge where we won’t roll down in our sleep. One thing is certain, they can’t climb to meet us. I wish they would! We will decide where and when to bring them to battle. For now, let these Persian bastards wait.’

Tisamenus saw confidence blooming in his friend. For the first time in as long as he could remember, the perpetually raised eyebrow had settled back. It reflected his own confidence in a man who had trained in tactics for his entire life. Leonidas was Pausanias’ uncle, after all. Faced with battlefield decisions, the nerves from before had simply vanished.