With the sun rising in the east, the whole island of Samos was made an extraordinary yellow-gold, the coast of Ionia still in shadow. Xanthippus looked for the masts he had seen before, but they were gone. He felt a moment of panic. In the few hours they’d been given, they had moved from the island itself to the shore of that vast Persian coast. They’d beached all their ships. He swallowed a knot in his throat.

The Greek fleet had blocked both ends of the strait between Samos and the mainland. The symmetry of that was not lost on Xanthippus, as it had been exactly what the Persians had tried to do to them at Salamis the year before. King Leotychides of Sparta came from the south with sixty ships. He may have been the civilian king of Sparta, but he had still been raised a warrior and soldier. He could follow a battle plan, on land or sea.

Xanthippus felt anger swell. All morning, he’d had the sense of drawing a net against the Persians, one they could not possibly escape. Yet rather than face him, they’d simply crossed to the mainland, where the mountain of Mycale loomed. Their shore, not his – and a task suddenly much harder than a sea battle he’d been certain he could win.

The strait was deep under his keel. He found his half of the fleet approaching ships of Sparta and Corinth as if they faced one another in battle. Xanthippus called to his keleustes and heard the order repeated below. The hiss of waves faded and the way came off the ship. The Greek fleet slowed, sweeping the waters still. His net of ships was silent for a moment, the wind just a breeze.

The Persian warships were still emptying their men onto the land, even as he watched. They had not had too long a warning, then. Crews and soldiers could be seen like ants, trotting inland, heading away from the Greek threat. He saw the glint of armour and pointless gestures of defiance.

In a way, it was a compliment to him. The Persians had met the Greeks at sea and clearly had no desire to repeat the experience. As soon as his fleet had been sighted, they had run to safety.

Cimon was too far off for Xanthippus to see his reaction. It was hard not to think of the younger man’s father, Miltiades. He had pursued Persians ashore and been ambushed. It had cost Miltiades his fame, his freedom and in the end, his life, dead of wound-fever in an Athenian cell. Xanthippus had played a part in that. He felt acid in his throat. Fate had a way of twisting a man’s life. He had come prepared for a sea war. The thought of having to march into a hostile land made him clench his jaw. He cleared his throat, a sound more of anger than necessity.