‘I see, Majesty,’ Mardonius said.

‘Yes. They pull masts like teeth to make my path across the waters.’

Onto the open hulls came more carpenters, carrying boards and pegs, drills and hammers. Xerxes smiled to see planking begin to fill the space, the first steps on a wide road that would reach right across the strait when it was done. His father had shown the way, at Byzantium. He had not made a bridge of stone, but of ships. His people would step from land to land.

‘I could have had the fleet carry my soldiers, though it would have taken an age and lost me another campaign season. This is a grand gesture, a signal of my intent. Do you see, general? It shows we will not be stopped. Let the Greeks report I have tamed the sea, Mardonius. That I have no limits in all I devote to this.’

The general looked over at him, his eyes showing awe.

‘It is true, then? Your Majesty went down to the coast and lashed the ocean?’

‘With a stick, yes. Three hundred lashes – and then I branded it with heated irons. I did it where a Greek fishing crew could watch me. Oh, their faces! You should have seen it.’ Xerxes laughed in happy memory. ‘They were so afraid, general! Like children. I do not fear their Poseidon. Even his sea is my servant in this. I will not be turned back. “Remember the Greeks,” Mardonius. That is what my father’s slave used to say. I tell you this: when I am finished, they will remember me.’

Far below, Xerxes could see the movement of shoals of fish in the blue water, like shadows beneath the surface. Another ship made its way down the strait to be bound in place, a bridge from one empire to another. The masts would be cut down and hammered into the seabed to keep the bobbing vessels stable. His engineers had assured him they could make a platform able to withstand the storms that came racing down the strait in winter. Their lives rested on their word. Out on the waters, a dozen ships waited to come in, their crews busy with purpose. Xerxes smiled. It was a good day.

27

Themistocles struggled not to show his irritation. He had thought once that having a new epistates every morning had been a stroke of genius by the lawmaker Cleisthenes. No tyrant could ever arise, not in the time from sunset to sunset! He scratched his chin, feeling the bristles. Perhaps he should grow a beard, he thought, glancing at the latest Athenian to lead the city. He hadn’t quite appreciated how often he would need to explain the realities of politics to a new man, pink and fresh from his ballot, determined to make a mark on Athens. It was … wearying.

‘Themistocles?’ the man said.

Hippothontis tribe, Themistocles recalled. To save his own life, he could not remember the man’s name. With a new face every day for years, they all blurred in his memory, with few exceptions. Cleisthenes may have been a genius, but his determination to preserve democracy in Athens also averaged out the abilities of its officials. Worse than dealing with the fools, Themistocles hated losing the good ones. Just the day before, a young stone-carver had been epistates. Diophenas had been sharply intelligent. He’d pushed a jury to the right decision with just a few words and understood completely how to manage the council meeting. For once, Themistocles had found an ally. Yet the following sunset had come around just as quickly and Diophenas had gone back to his work carving posts and lintels. The new man seemed full of questions, but of the sort to frustrate rather than aid him.