Hoplites of a dozen cities lurched forward with them, each rank pulling down helmets of felt or bronze, raising spears high where they would not foul the legs of those ahead. Those men gleamed in the sunlight as they crested the dunes and passed through the first trees. Behind them, smoking lines flew from Greek ships to land amongst the Persian fleet. It was not long before they were all aflame, a conflagration that spread and roared, high and dark enough to be seen in Greece, or so they hoped. That fleet would not go to sea again, to threaten and kill. Persia had come for war. This was the ending they had earned.

25

Aristides forced a hard pace to reach the caravan of carts dawdling across the plain. The Persian cavalry had grown bolder. Over the course of just an hour in their wake, they’d ridden dangerously close. They were met by Athenian lines on the edges, but there was chaos there as well as order. His hoplites could not easily shield helots and still raise spears in formation.

The reward for their tormentors was a blood trail. For every barrage of spears clattering off shields or helmets, for every arrow that missed, at least one Greek would shout in pain and stagger, falling behind. Some fell and lay still. Others took a wound that meant they could not keep up with their friends. Those men called farewells and turned alone to face the enemy.

The horsemen had returned in giddy excitement the first time that happened. Too eager, they circled back, jumping down with swords drawn to kill the wounded man. They had forgotten he might still be dangerous. While his mates cheered, the hoplite cut two of them down before a third took his legs out from under him. They tore his armour and shield from his body then and held them up, jabbing the air in triumph as the Greeks marched on.

The dust helped. Thirty thousand helots kicked up a boiling, shifting wall of it, pale gold and pink as it smeared past the sun. Even as he coughed and blinked grit from his eyes, Aristides was grateful for the run of dry days. Of course, it meant he and the others marched with mouths like sand. His quickly gathered army carried only a few of the skins he had filled at the stream, the water now mixed with wine for vigour. It was never enough. As they kicked and stamped on dusty earth, they lost sight of the Persian camp dwindling behind them. At times it felt as if the land itself was their protection. Aristides hoped it was true.

The caravan master gaped in shock as an army seemed to appear out of a dust storm, like a desert djinn. Faced with that host, the man halted his mules and dismounted to kneel. Aristides came forward, dragging him to his feet.

‘Where are you from?’ Aristides demanded.