‘Go down to the coast and find a fishing boat, anything that will take you out to the fleet. Find the ships with red sails and seek Eurybiades. My message is for him.’

‘Red sails. Eurybiades,’ Dromeas replied. He began to breathe long and slow, readying himself for the run. He was far leaner than the warriors in that column, bones showing beneath tiny fluttering muscles around his chest.

‘Tell him, “Leonidas will hold the coastal pass.” That is all.’

Dromeas did not wait to be dismissed, but set off, his bare feet raising little swirls of dust. Leonidas nodded. Every one of his helots was extraordinary in some way. He had chosen them all carefully, as befitted men who would stand at his back in the midst of battle.

The ones who marched with him that day had come because he was the battle king and he had called, in a time of crisis and war. They did not know Leonidas marched to his death. He accepted it, as he had always known he would. He would give the priests the time they asked of him, to honour the god Apollo – and gather the army.

Leonidas felt a pang at the thought that he would not lead them then, when they came out, ten thousand strong – the army of Sparta, without equal in the world. They would be his answer then, to the Persians. They would be his vengeance. He smiled as he marched. The air was sweet and clear. The sun shone and the sky was a perfect blue. It was a good day.

40

The sea was calm as the fleet raised sail to clear the headland. Over the previous weeks, Xanthippus had taken charge of fleet training. Under his watchful eye, they had worked themselves to exhaustion, over and over, building fitness in the rowers and hoplites alike. At times, he had put hoplite crews into the rowing benches, so that they had some idea of the limits of that labour. They would never again complain as a trireme fell behind, not after an experience that had left them panting and stiff for days of pain. Nor had it hurt the free rowers to drill with sword and shield. If they were boarded, they would have to fight.

Whenever they’d returned to Athens, Xanthippus had organised runs against the hoplites training with Aristides, right round the city. Little by little, the contests had become more serious. The army had led for a time, but the fleet had slowly reeled them in, keeping a close tally. The honours had still been roughly equal until the week before, when Cimon had led forty sailors to cross the line first. It was not a small thing. Xanthippus had accepted the victor’s wreath from the hand of Aristides, then passed it to Cimon, to a roar of acclaim from his crews.

Under sail, the fleet seemed a vast enterprise as it hissed and cut through the sea, each crew turning a single yard beam back and forth to catch the wind and swell the cloth. They were not as fast as when the oars rattled out, but the rowers did not complain as they rested like hunting dogs, lean and strong, fed better than they had known before Xanthippus returned from exile. He had insisted on eggs and meat and wine for them, over and above the slop of beans and pulses they usually consumed. Even in a few short weeks, the results showed in their muscle and health.