He looked left and right, seeing a solid phalanx. Ahead, Xanthippus heard Persian officers snap commands. Arrows began to rise slowly from their lines, so very slowly! Like flowers opening. Xanthippus called his orders not just to hoplites of Athens, but for all those who marched with him. Hellenes and sons, all.

‘Shields high … wait for it! Lock shields!’

Across his marching ranks, golden eyes were made to overlap like scales. Arrows rattled like hail, but there were no gaps, no sudden cries wrenched in pain. The hoplites growled as they brought the shields back down. Some of them used swords to cut shafts that quivered there. Others left them as trophies. The hoplites were breathing hard, ready to begin the worst labour of their lives, the task that would leave even the fittest red as clay. There was nothing like killing in line to break a man, to make his muscles so weak he could hardly lift his arm. Half the ones who died in battle did so because they were no longer able to stop a blow. Xanthippus sent a prayer to Apollo’s son, Asclepius, god of health. He asked for blessings too from Ares, who always stood where men shed blood. The god of war would be on that field by the sea, with a mountain overlooking all. Death would stand on his right shoulder. Perhaps one of the Moirai would be with him in her white robe, ready with her shears to cut the threads of life. The Athenian shuddered at the thought of that gaze falling on him.

Xanthippus glanced at Ariphron, his son. The spike of fear he felt would not find an echo in the younger man, of course. It was for fathers to worry, not their sons. He felt his gaze drawn further once again. None of his men returned his stare at first. All their attention was on the enemy. Yet they sensed his eye on them, intruding on their concentration. One, two, then dozens turned to see who watched. When they understood it was Xanthippus, they bowed their heads. Some smiled, showing him confidence. They were men of bronze; hoplites of gold. The Persians had the numbers, but they were poor soldiers. The Greeks were the hunters, the hounds. They had brought their stag to bay and they were ready to finish the work.