‘The Persians have already landed up the coast,’ Epikleos said, leaning closer. ‘Perhaps twenty thousand, perhaps thirty, with as many oarsmen on their ships. Across the water, they say Eretria is gone – still burning. No, Xan. We need to go today. We need to hit them before they come too far inland. Before they build fortifications. We have one chance to throw them back into the sea. So we’re not waiting for the Spartans. Let them come when we’ve won. I’ll enjoy seeing their faces then!’

‘At least it means no cavalry,’ Xanthippus said.

Epikleos shook his head.

‘They have landed horses from the ships.’

He and Xanthippus shared a glance of worry at that. Any man who had stood in a square, with flutes wailing and drums beating time, knew to fear horsemen on the field. They were just too fast.

‘Where have they landed, then? How far off is it?’ Xanthippus demanded. He could feel his heart thumping, not in excitement or fear, but … anticipation. He would march with his people, with ten thousand hoplites in bronze. They were the elite soldiers of Athens. They would not fail.

Epikleos rested the point of his spear on the dusty ground.

‘On the plain where the fennel grows, by the sea. I think …’

He broke off as the archon – the most senior strategos of the Athenian force – called the tribes to attention. Miltiades was heavily bearded and wore a panelled coat studded with polished nubs of iron, more Eastern in his personal style than Greek. His arms were bare and powerful, with thick black hair on his forearms, and hands that looked like clubs. It was hard to imagine the man caressing a lover. His fists were made to crush and strangle.

Themistocles and Aristides commanded two tribes apiece in the centre, under his orders. As archon, Miltiades had authority over the hoplites of Plataea and all ten Athenian strategoi in battle. His place was the left wing, his own tribe at the heart of it. Xanthippus swallowed. The tribe of Acamantis would be in that wing. Every man there would know those around him, from school and training, from work and the Assembly. They carried shields with the symbols of their houses and their fathers. They could not run, not with those eyes and those spirits watching them. Not with the men of Plataea looking on! There would be no stories of Athenian cowardice to tell all Greece afterwards. This was why they trained. This was why they built fitness with thousands of mornings on the gymnasia running tracks. For days like this.

At the stone altar, Miltiades threw one leg across to stand astride a massive black ram, gripping its head from behind, though it struggled mightily. As Xanthippus watched, precious maps were rolled up and bronze bowls set out for blood and the liver. Two soothsayers stood ready to read the future. Silence settled on them all, so that Xanthippus could hear banners snapping in the breeze.