Xanthippus pressed forward. Ahead of him, some part of the Persian line fought with rare skill. He had no fear of their factions and regiments, except for the Immortals – and they were not there. Yet these men wore panelled kilts and breastplates. They carried short, stabbing swords and had good shields of their own. There were no more than a hundred of them in that part of the line, but they cut through his front ranks and suddenly he faced younger, fitter men.

He stabbed one right through the thigh with his spear, making him groan. Xanthippus yanked hard, but the head was stuck. Already the Persian was hacking at the wooden length that ended in him. Xanthippus swore and reached for his sword. The leaf blade was made to come free, but sometimes it stuck even so, held in flesh like a lover. Too many men had lost their lives trying to pull it out.

He drew his sword and kept his shield high and wide, protecting the man standing to his left. Xanthippus saw Ariphron stood to his right. His spear had gone and Xanthippus saw him block a swinging blade on his shield before he too drew his sword. Xanthippus felt sweat flood down, stinging his eyes. He could hardly see or breathe, just barely reacting in time to a man half his age, hammering blow after blow. He was so fast! The man’s sword seemed alive as he blocked it again and again. Instinct saved his life more than once, though he knew he had been cut. Xanthippus felt the wound as coldness and could only pray it wasn’t serious enough to steal away his strength and his place alongside his son.

The man on Xanthippus’ left fell, his neck gashed almost through under his helmet. Two more filled the gap and drove into Persians with fresh spears, killing one and wounding another, so that he cried out and was cut down in turn by Ariphron. Xanthippus found himself fighting for breath, his vision growing light and his heart beating hard enough to hurt. He could not die, he could not! Yet the ones he fought seemed not to grow weary in their youth. They battered at him in a frenzy, as if they thought to bring an old tree down. He could feel his strength vanishing. There was no rest, no chance to catch his breath.

Ariphron saw his father’s shield sag. With a shout of fury, he tried to edge closer, but the Persians sensed the collapse coming and increased their efforts. They knew the plume Xanthippus wore, and the lion shield he carried, already bright with strips and curls of gold. They had cut the old oak down to its last wedge and they were determined to watch it fall.