The Immortal officers wore white, panelled armour. Mardonius stood with a group of twelve of them, gesturing to the pass. They became aware of the king’s presence and scrutiny in the same moment, dropping to the ground and waiting for his command to rise.

‘Up, all of you,’ Xerxes said. He watched how they leapt to their feet, strong and fit and healthy. It raised his spirits to see them so eager for the fight.

‘You are called,’ Xerxes said. ‘First in, at dawn.’

‘Our lives are yours, Majesty,’ the Immortal general replied.

Mardonius gave a sharp nod – a promise – as Xerxes rode on. These were not Medes or Egyptians, or any one of the subject nations. They were pure-blooded Persian warriors. Their presence on the field of war would send a ripple of fear through their enemies. The white coats stood out against the darker earth. They would not fail.

48

Leonidas roared defiance at the men coming at him. He could feel blood seeping down his side and he had taken any number of blows. His arms felt so heavy he could barely lift them. He had rotated the lines, saving his guard and letting the perioikoi take their turn, until they too began to fail. He’d called the rest forward then, though they lacked the years of Spartan training that made flesh like bone and bones like bronze. He had lost count of how many times he’d rotated the Spartan guard back in to let the others rest, over and over, asking more of them than any of the others.

The Persians had given them no respite. They had sent in their white-clad Immortals, rank after rank, as if there would never be an end to them. The Spartans had slaughtered them by the hundred, by the thousand. They’d heaved bodies into the sea just to keep the ground clear underfoot. All while their spears broke or were wrenched from their hands.

They’d drawn swords then and found new strength. The perioikoi had surged forward at Leonidas’ command, men who had lived and trained around Sparta since boyhood, yet never been considered true Spartiates, true men. For the first time in their lives, they had been called to war by the battle king of Sparta himself. When Leonidas congratulated them, some of them had tears in their eyes.

By noon, there were no spears left whole. The golden shields were cut and cracked, while even the Spartan guard stood panting, with many of them bleeding freely from cuts they could not stop to tend. The Immortals still came on, though the ground was littered with the dead, and gold buckles and brooches lay scattered like stones. Whenever there was a break in the slaughter, Leonidas ordered the helots to drag more bodies out of the way. He had noted how many seemed to have festooned themselves with the wealth of kingdoms.

Leonidas did not reprimand them, though not one of his Spartiates had stooped for such treasure. They had no gold coins in Sparta, no silver. There were different kinds of wealth. That had never been clearer to him than in that pass.