Xanthippus was not completely sure what that would entail, or even whether he could enforce that order with a crew that were presumably loyal to the red-faced and trembling man standing before him. Yet he showed no sign of weakness as he waited for his answer.

After an age, the trierarch dipped his head again.

‘Please don’t take my ship from me,’ Ereius said. ‘This little bird is all I have.’

Xanthippus turned him with a hand on his shoulder, putting the ill-feeling behind them. He would not fight a battle more than once, not if he had fought it well. Instead, he looked up to the sail that billowed overhead, held by ropes so taut they seemed like iron.

‘I want to try signals on the masts …’ He paused as Ereius began to turn towards him. ‘Yes, I know – masts are unstepped in battle and laid down in the hold, or even abandoned on shore to save the weight. Even so. I want to establish the principle – a few simple signals with banners flying at our greatest height. I was returned early from exile to serve my city. Let us find out if there is any advantage in my being here!’

He allowed the trierarch to retreat, heading off to give the orders. Epikleos chuckled when Xanthippus turned to him. He expected criticism, but Epikleos only shrugged.

‘He knows now that you will not bend. Fine, he needed to understand that. Trierarch Ereius is a good man, Xan, however. The crew work hard to please him and he runs a tight ship. You’ll see.’

Xanthippus nodded, though he felt colour come to his cheeks. He wondered if he would find the right balance in his manner, or whether he would just continue to humiliate and break honourable men.

37

The fleet that returned to the Piraeus at sunset was exhausted. It showed in the rounded shoulders of rowers as their triremes reached a berth and were tied on. In shadowy groups, they trudged across walkways to the stone quays, heads down, looking for food, wine and blessed sleep. Thousands began the walk into Athens, murmuring and laughing, meeting friends and comparing experiences. Without orders, unconsciously, those who had spent the day in formations under Xanthippus drifted alongside one another. They had watched for his flag signals all day, raised on masts or long Athenian spears. At that point, there were still only two – cobbled together from the main colours they had been able to find while at sea. ‘Attack’ was red, with a piece of cloth formed from an old Spartan cloak. At least one white robe had been torn into a hundred strips to signal ‘form the line’. All the men knew Xanthippus had sent boats to Themistocles looking for a blue cloak, but either there was no such thing to be had or, more likely, the owner preferred to keep it whole and himself warm.

No doubt the city would provide other colours to signal ‘retreat’, or perhaps ‘slow approach’, or any one of a dozen other possibilities. Half the conversations in that slowly moving group of weary men were about the orders it was even possible to give at sea, over great distances. On land, Xanthippus may have been a battle veteran – hoplite and strategos. At sea, he’d had to discover from first principles what could be done. He had driven them hard all day as he learned. They spoke his name with pride despite their exhaustion, the Athenian who had come back from exile, who cried ‘Again!’ over and over until he was satisfied. Those crews had followed his orders from dawn till dusk, without complaint.