‘Look!’ he shouted. ‘The other ship. Its anchor has gone.’

Beyond the first, the other trireme was drifting on the tide, turning almost prow on, so that it seemed a narrow shape. They muttered in dismay at the thought of the trierarch waking to find himself aground. There would be floggings in the morning without a doubt.

In shock, they saw oars rattle out all along its length, then plunge into the water and pull. The ship seemed to leap at the beach as they gaped. Questions from panicking men filled the air until the long hull slid hissing onto the sand and came to rest. A light showed on the high prow and they fell silent, as if they were experiencing a vision of the gods.

Dark figures began to throw dead men from the deck, splashing down into the surf, or thumping onto black sand like dead birds. In the light of a swinging lamp, some of his own crew recognised Androcles as he was brought forward, his arms bound by the two who held him. The light there revealed Persian beards, their ringlet hair oiled and shining, wet as dolphins. They smiled as they cut the young sailor’s throat. As Androcles heaved against his bonds, his eyes dark with death, they cupped the wound with their fingers, flicking red spatters and chanting in a language none of the Greeks knew, as sacrifice to their god. While the sailors watched in horror, more ships came sweeping in, packed with their enemies, armed and ready for slaughter.

The third crew exchanged grim glances, the decision forced upon them. Whatever loyalty they owed the others, they had a duty that came before all – to bring warning back to the fleet and Themistocles. As one, they hared away along the beach, heading into the darkness to where they had left their galley tied and safe. Cries of anger and betrayal sounded from the others, but there was no help for that.

Their ship seemed much further away than it had earlier that evening, when there had been light to see. If they could reach it, if they could float her, they could bring word that the Persians were further south than anyone knew. Behind them, they heard the first clash of arms, with strange chanting and terrible cries of pain.

36

Before dawn, Xanthippus had brought up his kit from the hold. He unwrapped a cloth and cut a curl of cheese rind. When it resisted being chewed, he left a bit tucked inside his cheek, like a coin. The cook had brewed some sort of stew from grains and vegetables. The men ate without obvious relish, as if it was just another duty. It was already clear that fresh food and meat would be a rare pleasure at sea, if they appeared at all.

Themistocles was awake and busy before anyone, of course, proving he needed less sleep than his fellow Athenians. Yawning, Xanthippus wondered what it cost him to seem so … unyielding. While he waited for a boat, Xanthippus oiled and sharpened his weapons, including the iron leaf head of the long spear. The lion on his shield had been touched up, of course, after Marathon. Agariste had employed some great artist to remove the scratches and battering of war. It gleamed gold in the morning sun and he smiled to think of her. She was still young enough to have another child. More importantly, he was not too old. He had proved that.