Themistocles batted a shard of wood away as it leaped, whirring like a sparrow at him. In the time it took to pass the Persian vessel, the bronze ram on his keel smashed banks of oarsmen, snapping bones, leaving them helpless. Themistocles could hear their cries over the breaking wood and rush of waves – and he exulted in it. The triple formation had done horrible damage, sending dozens to the bottom. He’d seen one Persian craft roll and show its hull when its captain turned too sharply from the Greeks. The oars on one side had bitten deep and the entire vessel had gone down without a single blow being struck. It didn’t matter how it came about. Those within drowned just the same.

The battle had turned and the results were still unfolding. Themistocles could hardly believe the chaos they had wreaked in the Persian lines, nor how well he, Cimon and Xanthippus worked together, once they had a simple order and a clear strategy. Themistocles felt a sort of wild joy as he left another oar-stripped Persian to be sunk by the rank behind. Eight Spartan ships had eased into his wake and he hoped one of them carried Eurybiades himself under those red sails, watching the results of Athenian command, Athenian silver, Athenian cunning!

Themistocles looked to the shore, seeing clearly that the young king had risen from his seat and come right out of the pavilion his people had erected for him. By Ares, Themistocles thought, if they had an archer worth his pay, could he swing an Athenian ship close enough? Surely Xerxes would withdraw as soon as the threat was seen, but could he make a single shot first? The idea was tempting, but Themistocles shook his head, chuckling at his own madness and exhaustion. He was giddy with it, so that he wanted to shout or laugh or weep.

The sound died in his throat then as he considered a different plan. He and his fleet had broken the back of the enemy over hours. The sun showed as a gleam of gold on the western horizon, light already shading purple and grey, sending shadows ahead. Yet there were still around a hundred Persian warships left – and in truth the pace was slowing.

They were only men, at his oars. No matter how important it was, no matter how their officers called on them to give everything they had, they had to rest or die. Some of them were already shadows of their former selves, rowing listlessly and sunken-eyed. No, Themistocles needed something else, something to grant them a respite before the second half of the Great King’s fleet came surging up the strait with blood in their eye, ready for vengeance at the way they had been used.