Twenty-eight of his guard had been killed, dragged down by cloak and stabbing blades. Every one of their killers had been hacked from life by enraged men, but Leonidas felt their loss, both in the line and as king to them. It brought home the reality he had learned at Delphi. He would not walk away from this place, not if Sparta was the cost. His life would end between the sea and the cliffs.

He knew too that he had won time for the army to take the field, behind him. Leonidas had tried to grant them three days, long enough for the festival of Apollo to come to an end. There was a symmetry to it, he thought, battering one shield aside and killing a yelling man half his age, gashing a throat under a beard as black as night. His own beard came through in patches of white, Leonidas thought ruefully. Age crept up on a man, on a king. It was a strange thought, given that he stood on his last day. His arms seemed to lighten at the thought, so that he moved well, almost in memory of his youth. They could not stand against him then. Those who came within his range fell dead, their blood spooling and curling in seawater.

It was a good finish, he thought. He would go in the flower of his strength and be spared the weakness of the very old. That was its own blessing in a way. Leonidas thanked Apollo for the honour of dying as he had lived, without compromise or weakness forced on him. Old men grew mellow in their weakness. He had not been made to change and he was grateful.

As the sun began to dip and vanish behind the crags, Leonidas looked up and felt his stomach sink, recalling the rocks he had jumped from into the sea as a young boy, the sense of space and falling that brought something like nausea. High on the cliffs, he could see men in white, panelled armour trotting like a line of Persian wolves behind a single figure. They had found some goat trail or shepherd’s path to take them around the pass.

It was the end, he knew with sudden certainty. As soon as they had enough men behind him, they would come from both sides and catch his little force between.

His only regret was for those of Plataea and Corinth and Thespiae who had come with him on this last great task, even for the perioikoi and the helots. They had all fought with endurance and courage and not one had run or been driven from the field. He had lost both friends and strangers that day, but he was proud of them all.

Perhaps because the Persians had sent men around the pass, a lull came. The lines tramping towards them died away and all those with Leonidas were suddenly wilting, leaning on their thighs and gasping hard, sweat pouring from them despite the sea wind. Leonidas called for fresh water, but there was none. He did not know how long it would be before another Persian regiment took up the task and he thought quickly.