3

They marched east, with mountains of ochre and green scrub on their left, winding towards the coastal path as the sun reached noon and seemed to hang. Scouts raced ahead, heading out on foot or riding snappy little animals as wiry as themselves. Those men reported back to Miltiades as archon, then the other strategoi down the column. Xanthippus watched the lads coming in hard, dismounting to walk alongside the generals and pass on all they had seen. It was not skilled work and some were little older than boys. He thought they might burst with excitement or at their own importance. Had he been as young once? Sometimes the memories were so close to the surface, they could have been from just that morning. On days like this, he could hardly remember the innocence, or the confidence and strength he had assumed would be there for ever.

Miltiades headed the column, with banners and drummer boys marching alongside him. Weathered and stern in manner, he walked easily enough for a man in his fifties, at least while slaves carried his shield and spear. Even those were an affectation. Miltiades would not hold a battle line with his deme, but remain apart, directing them. The other strategoi would fight in formation, but there had to be at least one cool head on the field.

Another man Xanthippus did not know well walked at Miltiades’ side. Callimachus was the official polemarch, war leader, appointed to the advisory role by the Assembly – their eyes and ears on that march. He wore no armour, Xanthippus noticed. Callimachus strolled along in cloak, tunic and sandals, as if on a country walk. The authority he had been granted had not even survived leaving the Academy field. Without personal experience of war, Callimachus had deferred immediately to Miltiades, almost as if he’d had a choice.

Watching Miltiades bend to listen to his runners, Xanthippus was consumed by the desire to hear the news. He could not stroll ahead. His duty was to stay with the ones he would lead in battle. Of course, Epikleos suggested loudly that he should go and see what was going on, with a hundred others listening. Xanthippus did not reply. The strategoi were not gossiping market traders to be gathering around one of their number. No, he would wait – as Epikleos knew very well he would. He saw the gleam of amusement in his friend and half-cursed him under his breath as he marched on, waiting to whistle to the next boy racing down the line with news. He did not want to be overlooked. Men like Epikleos or Themistocles never seemed to be. They caught the eye.

Xanthippus lowered his head a touch as he strode along, knowing he was glowering. His mood was a dark one, but given what lay ahead, what did they expect? When one of the others offered some comment on the distance they had covered, Xanthippus almost bit his head off, speaking far more harshly than he had intended. He regretted it when he saw the flash of anger on the other man’s face, but he could not take it back and he had learned not to apologise. It did not matter if the men feared his temper, his political power – even the wealth of his wife’s house that could be used against them. As long as they held the line when he told them to stand, or marched into sling-stone and arrow when he told them to advance. That was what mattered. That was what would keep them alive to see the sun set. Marathon was just five hours’ march from Athens, a hundred and sixty stades at most, with each one called out as they put another two hundred paces behind. The road was no more than a dirt track beneath their feet, but it was dry in the summer month of Metageitnion. The longest day of the year was past, but they would still reach the Persian landing place with light enough to act. Miltiades and the strategoi would decide then if they should attack or withdraw to a safe camp.