Mardonius watched with his head bowed as the king strode off in the direction of the sea. When the general realised Xerxes would not stop, his mouth became a thin line. The general gestured sharply then, sending a dozen of the royal guard and sixty archers running down the road after him. Mardonius whistled for more support, hearing the sound carried back to the main forces. His men had pronounced the city clear of threats, but out beyond the walls? The road to the sea might not be safe. Who knew if any fanatics had remained behind to ambush and kill Persians? It would not do to have Xerxes stabbed by some old man at the moment of his triumph.

Mardonius shifted his grip on the burning brand as the breeze blew flames back on him. If he had ever doubted the blessing of the great god Ahura Mazda on the family of the king, he could not that day. He and Xerxes had marched or sailed for months to reach that place, bringing an army and a fleet so vast there was nothing they could not achieve.

He frowned in memory of that long trudge across the bridge of ships and around the sea of the Greeks. He and his men had endured much to stand in Athens that day. Many would not return home. Mardonius had witnessed extraordinary skill and bravery at Thermopylae. He could admit that in his most private thoughts. Yet even the Spartans had fallen in the end. Xerxes had ordered their king’s head removed, the body cut to pieces and thrown into the sea, almost as if he feared the great warrior would rise again. Mardonius shuddered in memory. They had not beaten the Spartans with sword and shield. They could not. In the end, Xerxes had ordered his men to stand back and throw spears, over and over, until the last ones fell.

At sea, the Athenian fleet had been driven back and back, Mardonius reminded himself, putting aside stirrings of superstitious awe. For all their skill and courage, the Greeks had not been able to save Athens, the very heart and wellspring of their power. God was clearly with Persia, and Mardonius dipped his head at the thought. He sent a silent prayer to King Darius, father to nations and companion of his youth, when all the world had been sweet and clean as a new peach. The old man would be watching them, of course, in satisfaction.

The shifting wind brought another flash of heat, the flame whipping across his arm. Mardonius put aside his reverie, focusing on the work that lay ahead. He was weary, in need of a long rest. He was no longer young! He sighed. The king owned his breath, his sore knees. Xerxes saw no weakness, allowed none. Mardonius would go on.