The king turned away, walking up to the road that led back to the city, still burning in the night. His Immortals fell in beside him in a white-armoured column, their steps tramping together without an echo in that open place. Mardonius was left staring, his entire world falling down around his ears.

Dawn was later than in summer, though the sky remained clear and the air was warm, the breezes soft. Ships rocked gently at anchor or out on the strait. The light began as soft greyness, with men yawning and peeing over the side, dozens at a time. They emptied their bowels off the stern in sleepy distaste. At the same time, the carpenter and his boy heated slabs of stew, unwrapping cloth from something pale brown and filled with beans, more like a stone than food. With fresh water and salt, the result was stirred over a small brazier. There was never enough. Rowers ate like hounds, in great gulps that caused some of them to cough and go red. They were still leaner than they had been, with muscles like cords beneath sagging skin.

The last water casks were broached on deck, the precious stuff within tasted. One had spoiled and was full of thread-like worms. Though men watched and licked dry lips, it went over the side. The rest was given out mixed in wine. Each man was allowed two full ladles before the heat rose. By the time they had all had a turn, the barrels were almost empty. No one had expected to remain at sea for so many days. In normal times, they would have sought out natural springs as they came down the coast, even the ones that joined the sea invisibly under the surface, so that fresh water could be brought up from the brine with buckets and ropes. Local boys always found those spots when they swam through the rushing coldness as children.

Stiff and aching, men groaned as they took places on the oar seats, crammed in like a meeting of the Assembly. Sores from the day before cracked and wept as oars were manhandled into place, resting on the pivots. Fresh oil was rubbed on scabs and wounds, but it was not much comfort. Joints protested as they readied themselves, settling into position with dark eyes as they looked into a day ahead and could not see how to survive.

On deck, Themistocles stood with the sun rising before him. The light spread quickly once it sprang gold, but he could not quite believe what his eyes were telling him. He had slept fitfully and dreamed. This seemed an echo of something glimpsed in the night.