He hesitated, wondering if the king should be told of desertions. It was impossible to move hundreds of thousands of men through a foreign land without having a few wander off, drawn to some lonely farmhouse, or following a pretty face glimpsed in a market. Outside of the Immortals and senior officers, his men were often simple types, Mardonius knew. He could have told a thousand tales of regiments marching for days in the wrong direction, or losing the only map to a food store, or watching vital supplies ridden over a ravine by one drunken fool. Armies wore out on the march, that was just the truth of it. He did not think the young king wished to hear of that, however.

‘Majesty, your army is lean and strong, made into wood and leather over hundreds of miles. They are devoted to you, as am I. We will be there, alongside the fleet.’

Mardonius bowed his head again, wondering how long he would have to endure the king’s drowsing mood. His back hurt and one of his fingers had filled with pus from a simple splinter of iron that had gone deep. The damned thing had to be drained again. He could feel it throbbing. Of course it was his right hand, so that it hurt doing almost anything. He could feel the prickle of sweat on his brow as he sat there, wasting a morning with a son of Darius. The old king would never have drunk the milk of the poppy on campaign, no matter how stiff or sore he had become. Mardonius hid any distaste he felt as the young man seemed to drift off once more. Xerxes was no sailor; they’d all learned that much. He’d insisted the fleet and the army should advance in sight of one another, regardless of terrain or the conditions at sea. Mardonius thought the young king was responsible for the loss of over a hundred ships when he’d refused to let his captains seek safe harbour, all while a gale rose around them. All because the army had not come into view! Mardonius repressed a shudder. He still remembered that march, with his scouts riding themselves ragged and killing precious horses to pass back news of the fleet. He’d lost men too that day, men who had fallen and refused to return to their place in line. He’d stained the earth in his wake with their blood – and in truth, he had no time for weakness. Their lives – his life – were to be spent in service of the Great King. Mardonius might pray not to be thrown away, not to be wasted, but it was the whim of Xerxes and the elements that would decide his fate, long before he met the Greeks.

‘Would it raise the morale of the men to have me inspect them?’ Xerxes said, his eyes snapping open.

Mardonius struggled to hide his dismay, but the king was not watching him, instead lying back and looking to the billowing cloth above his head, suddenly fascinated by it. Even so, Mardonius did not think he could ignore the question.