Though his eyes were shut and his head dipped low, he smiled at that. He had brought back Xanthippus and Aristides. He had mentored Cimon in politics and restraint, making him the man he should have been and not just a weeping drunk. More than any of them, Themistocles had played his enemy well. Xerxes had split a huge fleet into two halves they could beat. He had abandoned an unassailable position on the word of an Athenian! Themistocles began to chuckle. That was what he had seen in the chaos of the battle. A king with Greek allies had to accept that any Greek might choose to follow him. It was the greatest strength of the Persian force, that no man standing against them could ever trust his brothers. Yet it meant Xerxes had listened, and believed, even as their fleets clashed. Themistocles opened his eyes, though they stung with salt. He looked out, in pride, upon the strait.

His crew had lined up on deck. He understood the small noises had been them shuffling into place, standing to ragged attention despite all their wounds and battered equipment. Themistocles cleared his throat then, like a growl. The sound covered his body’s protest well enough. Slowly, he rose, feeling very much the old lion. His blond hair hung in a great mass of dried salt, sweat and blood. He tried to run a hand through it, but it was impossible. His fingers tapped each wrist, a habit of old as he looked for a thread or leather thong to tie it back.

Only eight hoplites remained of his command. One of the helmsmen had taken an arrow in the eye. The other gripped both steering oars, standing in the centre point. Beneath their feet, the rowers were quiet. It would be some time before they were able to do more than pant and stare. They had rowed and rested and rowed again for days, a thousand wild turns and lunges, all on little food, trapped and cramped, with death stalking them. Their world had become the oar in their hands, a drumbeat and the calls of the keleustes.

That man too had lived, Themistocles saw. The fellow had come to stand on the deck, abandoning his usual place in the great open trench that ran down the middle. There were tears streaming down his face and Themistocles could not think of anything to say to him. Instead, he just nodded and gripped the back of his neck, squeezing. A father might have done the same with a son he loved. The man’s face crumpled, eyes vanishing into folds at that simple mark of thanks and praise.