Xanthippus found himself glancing back at the trireme still alongside. He saw his men hacking slaves down and reminded himself of his vow. There would be no retreat. Whatever those oar-slaves thought they were doing, he would not give them back their ship.

‘Kill them all,’ he ordered, his voice a weapon, so that some of them flinched from it.

His hoplites steadied their retreat and bent to the work, making the ship run red. It was brutal labour and when it was done and the ship was littered with the dead rowers, they were all panting hard. Xanthippus struggled for breath. He was no longer a young man.

‘Steady now,’ he told his men. ‘Rest your arms. Come back with me to ours, so we can sink this bitch.’

He saw Epikleos gesturing as he turned back. How long had it been? An hour? The sun seemed to be in the same place in the sky, which was impossible. Yet the battle lines were still plunging through, with only the Spartans on to their next attack. Ships had been upended in their wake, he saw, or drifted, manned by the dead. Line by line, the fleets would fold into one another, with every ship’s length forward bringing more danger on all sides.

‘Xanthippus! Come back!’ he heard Epikleos bellowing.

He looked up to see a Persian warship already turning, drawn to them in their helplessness.

‘Back! All of you!’ Xanthippus shouted.

He made the leap with forty hoplites, though two of them had taken wounds to their legs and missed the jump with shouts of terror. One went into the water and vanished in a stream of hissing bubbles. The other clung to the deck he had almost reached. When the two ships swung together, he was caught between them. Hands reached for him, but the pressure broke his ribs and his eyes glazed as they heaved. He fell away then.

‘Right oars! Back for your lives!’ Epikleos was yelling.

The prow began to swing out. He and a dozen men were heaving the first Persian ship away with spear butts, allowing the oarsmen of the left bank to take their seats below and rattle out the sweeps once more. The movement revealed Persian oars made stubs, all along its length. The sea moved with a slick of splinters and broken oar blades.

Xanthippus felt the ship tremble as the rowers heaved below. The Persians had seen an easy target in the Greek warship. He hoped the enemy captain could feel his stomach clench as that trireme began to turn to face him.

‘Oarsmen, ready!’ Xanthippus said, clapping Epikleos on the shoulder to signal he was back in command. ‘Give me half speed forward. Be ready to draw in!’

He waited for the keleustes to pass on the order before speaking again. Their drills had beaten the first clash of oarsmen. They had to keep winning that race, until the initial clash was over.

He looked back only once to the crippled ship they had to leave behind. Someone else would pick it off and send it to the bottom, though the labour had all been his.