Sleep beckoned and then withdrew from him, drifting further away. He fretted that his ignorance would get men killed. When his stomach began to gripe, he silently cursed Spartan food – and Themistocles for assuming he would know how to fight a war at sea. Even simple things were new. He had seen men emptying their bowels at the stern that day, hanging bare over the rushing water. Rowers used their left hands and a bucket of seawater to clean themselves. Xanthippus had seen a few using small, rough stones, while one or two had old rags they’d wash out and dry, kept as precious luxuries. There was no privacy at sea; he’d learned that much already.

The ship rocked at anchor on still waters and he felt peace. He would transfer to his own command the following day – Themistocles had not wanted him to look a fool on his first ship. That had been the purpose of his initiation. Beneath him, the ship creaked, as if it had a voice. He felt his spirits rise, almost inexplicably. Athens was threatened by the might of all Persia, but he was back! Once more he was in the heart of life!

He felt Themistocles’ trust in him, as a weight pressing on his pride. He would not let him down, Xanthippus promised himself, yawning. He would learn everything and he would be useful. It was not as if he had a choice.

After all, his people had been seafarers for thousands of years. Xanthippus saw competence on all sides. They would face the lion coming for them. They would be the shield …

The stars were a blaze overhead, littering and speckling the night sky in such dazzling splendour, it was hard to see the patterns some said were there, the shapes of gods and heroes from the past, watching over them.

One Greek trireme rested on the sand, the crew sitting around a fire of driftwood on the beach. Another had been drawn up a little further down the coast, its crew choosing a spot they knew and liked, well sheltered from a sudden squall. The last of the three bobbed and swung at anchor, with just a few men aboard in case the wind rose and it dragged. The ships were so shallow in the draught that they brought even experienced sailors to vomit over the stern, at least when the swell grew restless. When the oars bit, the ships were steadier, like stones skipping across the waves.

They had been on that stretch of coast for weeks, waiting for a Persian fleet that might never appear. It was restful work and what sense of nervousness or dread they had known in the first few days had slowly faded. Though the trierarch captains were disciplined enough, they were not averse to letting the men fish for squid and mullet as the stores ran low. The weather had been kind and they stayed close enough to shore to run onto it whenever dark clouds threatened. It was the great weakness of oared ships, that they could not survive even a mild storm at sea. Merchant vessels sometimes weathered great tempests with just a scrap of sail and deep keels to keep them upright. In comparison, the triremes were death traps. The moment the swell grew strong and they began to lean, water would come gushing in through the rowing benches.