‘There! Up, archers,’ Aristides roared over the noise. ‘Where I point! Quick now. Loose!’

He saw the master of horse on his black stallion. The man was carrying a spear high, his right arm raised, balanced and watchful as he picked his spot. Not for him the wild throws of younger warriors. Aristides felt time slow as the man seemed to look him over, not a dozen paces away. He swore he could see the Persian’s eyes narrow. It was the mastery of a great athlete, that beat of extra time others can never know. Aristides and Masistius of Persia looked at one another in the midst of a galloping line passing by.

The archers stood, drew and released as if Odysseus himself guided their shots. Aristides saw black marks appear like thorns in the man’s flesh. One struck him in the bicep, making him lurch. Another took him in the neck. His hand let slip the reins and he fell, a great howl of dismay sounding amongst his riders.

The archers drew and loosed again and again, showing their teeth in excitement at having targets so close. The bows were powerful and they were fresh and filled with nervous strength. Shaft after shaft hammered through Persian horsemen, so that thirty or more lay still or dragging themselves away in just moments. The great charge swept on, but the rattle of spears and arrows died away. Only three Athenians had been killed. Aristides looked back and saw his water-carriers hobbling back with full skins, bowed down under the weight. It was good enough.

‘Six of you, with me,’ he said, striding forward.

The riders were already massing for another charge. They looked wounded, as if he had not played the game by the rules they had all agreed. He wanted to laugh at their angry expressions. They had come to Greece and burned Athens. This was owed.

He walked just a little way, past the still-kicking hooves of the great black horse. It too had a shaft in its neck. Aristides did not think it would survive. Its master was certainly dead. Aristides had considered cutting his throat to make sure, but the Persian stared upwards, already still.

Horns sounded behind and above him. Recall. Aristides paused only to glance up at the ranks of red-cloaked Spartans on the mountain, before he was snapping out orders and directing his men back into the foothills. In the excitement of a small victory, he had almost forgotten his own warnings. This was not the battle. This was just a skirmish, a test of will. Of course, those who fell died just as hard. He was glad it had not been him.

‘Back now, gentlemen. Well done. Archers? You were superb.’

He did not know if Themistocles would have said something more moving, to make them blush or weep. They seemed pleased enough. As they scrambled up the loose scree, leaving the plain behind, they held their heads high.