The fleet training showed as they came round the headland, rank by rank, those on the inside slowing a dozen strokes to make the turn. Themistocles blessed Xanthippus for that, knowing that they would have lost ships if he hadn’t come home from exile. He thanked himself too for his wisdom in returning Xanthippus and Aristides to Athens. Perhaps there would be a reckoning for that, in time, but he knew he truly needed them that day.

Themistocles found himself swallowing hard as the line of warships formed around him and the headland fell away, so that every ship of Sparta, Athens, Corinth and the rest were heading straight for an enemy fleet that seemed to fill the sea from edge to edge.

‘Ready, boarding crews!’ he roared over his shoulder.

The trierarch repeated it, followed by the keleustes. He heard the jingle of kit and weapons being clashed together as the hoplites came on deck, though it was all for show – they had been ready since the first warning horns sounded. Those still droned on from some of the ships in line, though Themistocles wished they would stop. The sound was mournful. They all knew where the enemy were by then. They all knew what they had to do.

‘Ready, oarsmen!’ Themistocles said. ‘Ready, keleustes!’

The wind seemed to steal his breath, though he knew it was just nerves. Every order had to be clear and strong, beyond any misinterpretation. This was where the training would reveal itself, he hoped, thanking Athena once more for Xanthippus. To smash the hull of another ship then manoeuvre away safely took the finest judgement. Orders had to be passed to a hundred and eighty oarsmen down in the hold – and there, amidst the sweat and flying spray, obeyed. If just one bank missed a beat or fouled their oars, the ship would be as vulnerable as a child’s wooden toy.

Forty galleys formed the Athenian line that had Themistocles in the centre. It was as many as they could fit abreast without danger of running aground or fouling the oars alongside. Even then, he saw half a dozen fall back into the next line, having overestimated the sea room. Such a manoeuvre was impossible under sail, but with sweeps out and good men on the tiller, they could indeed make a line almost as tight as a shield phalanx.

Ahead, Themistocles watched the Spartan sixteen approach the enemy with no sign of hesitation. Nineteen, he realised with a sudden fierce grin. Xanthippus had forced his three to a higher speed, matching the pace of Eurybiades so that the Spartans would not take first honour alone. Themistocles began to chuckle at that. Athens too would meet the Persians in first blood and cracking timbers. The sound died in him and he shivered, telling himself it was the sea wind.

Further back along the strait, Themistocles thought he could see some of the Persians turning. His eyes were sharp enough over distance, but he still summoned the signal boy and had him describe everything he saw. The Athenian lad was wide-eyed with the honour of it, but he spoke clearly enough, rattling out a hundred details and answering questions as best he could, with little understanding.