Mardonius looked away for a time. The silence was in part for him to gather his thoughts, but also to remind the little man facing him that Artabazus truly waited on his whim. Mardonius had spent the previous day watching Greeks smash a Persian fleet, growing stronger and more skilled with every hour that passed. He had looked around at a city in ruins, its walls pulled down, some streets still burning – and in that grim hour, he had sent men for a tally of their supplies.

The figures that had been brought to him had not been pleasing. The army of Persia had marched for months, each man needing to be fed twice or three times a day. The sheer volumes were beyond imagination, but despite all their planning and all the caches they had left along the route, they were running dangerously low – with cold months coming. Mardonius sensed the poorly hidden worry in his second in command. He too had felt adrift ever since Xerxes had panicked, his nerve deserting him. There was anger there too, words that Mardonius would never dare say aloud. They had been abandoned in a foreign field, with food running low and two hundred thousand hungry men to keep alive. No one fought in winter! It was impossible. Men went home and hung their sword above the door, eating wizened apples and the grain their families had dried and kept. An army had to carry its food or take it from the land. When the cold came, starvation and death threatened anyone fool enough to remain in the field. Yet there he was, with barely enough left to feed the men for another month.

‘I am going to head north,’ Mardonius said, ‘into the region of Thessaly. It is a rich, flat land, with flocks of sheep and golden crops. It is known as the breadbasket of the Hellenes, so I am told.’ The general reached past the edge of the rug on which he sat, picking up a handful of dust. ‘Not like this poor stuff. If we remain in Attica, we’ll starve before spring.’

Artabazus digested this, his head slightly lowered so that his eyes were hooded and hidden. After a time, he nodded.

‘As you say, general. I obey. His Majesty trusted you with the campaign. You are responsible.’

Was there a knife-edge in that choice of words? Mardonius wasn’t sure. Artabazus was not above considering his own future, perhaps his own promotion if Mardonius failed to bring about victory. The general allowed himself a tight smile, inclining his head to a competitor. The responsibility was indeed his. Yet he was not one of those who feared authority. Mardonius enjoyed the exercise of power, and all that came with it. It was always more satisfying to lean on others than to be leaned upon. That thought guided his reply.