There were few in Persian coats. He had blooded his army without great cost, raising their spirits. Around him, his people marched with heads held up and weapons high, seeking out the enemy in the haze.

Mardonius had known fogs and autumn mists at home. He jerked his head, craning to hear as new fighting broke out on his left. The wind could carry sounds in strange ways, he knew. He whistled for one of his messengers to attend him. The young rider who came was little older than a boy, red-eyed and stained in dust and sweat. He touched a hand to eyes and lips and bowed in the saddle. Mardonius had intended to send part of the centre out to support the left. As he began to speak, the dust cleared ahead and he could see further. Words died in his throat.

Out of the pale storm, standing lines appeared, emerging like a rock from a shining sea. They carried round shields of golden bronze, with helmets and spears. They wore red cloaks. Mardonius tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. He had seen the destruction three hundred of them had wrought. These stood still as stones on the dry ground, but thousands upon thousands of them. They had not run from his approach. Nor had they tried to hit his flank, as he had expected. No, they had raced out ahead of his army and planted themselves in his path, waiting calmly for him to reach them. Dust swirled back in, but he had seen them and he could still make out their shape. They were there, like ghosts, waiting.

Mardonius heard some regiment give a great howl on his right. They had the smell of blood in their nostrils, the enemy sighted. He echoed it, banishing his fear. Suddenly, the entire Persian army was bellowing, a sound to fill the world. Arrows flashed out in vast, clattering volleys that whipped through the dust, making it swirl. He saw the golden ripple as the Spartans raised shields, but they did not fall. Mardonius felt the first whisper of helplessness. He had seen one Spartan king stand against archers, soldiers, the elite. They made other men feel weak and that was half the battle. He strangled the doubts in him. The God of Light would hear the prayers of his men.

Mardonius raised and dropped his hand, sending them all in. There would be other Greeks out there, he knew. He did not fear those. No, he feared the red-cloaked devils who fought so calmly, with faces set, who made his men choke on their own blood.

Mardonius went forward with the rest, drawing his sword as the pace increased. The dust thickened, making the Spartans appear and disappear as it swirled. Yet they stood still, waiting for the sea to crash over them.