The men waiting on the beach grew still. Even the oars of the boats froze, so that waiting warships lolled and drifted closer in the surf, in danger of being broken to pieces. Datis saw his officers sending runners to where he stood. He had to make a decision, under the very eye of the Great King. Every moment of hesitation brought the enemy closer and reduced what he could achieve. His cavalry was lost; Datis saw that immediately. He could not call those ships back and land them, not before the enemy was in range to attack. Datis bit his lip as the first running slaves threw themselves to the sand at his feet, waiting for orders, chests heaving. He looked again at the forces stretching across the beach. He had twenty thousand soldiers, with the ten thousand Immortals as the heart and shield of them. As many archers and slingers again, men of Ethiopia who carried bows of great power. In all, forty thousand veterans of Persia stood on the beach at Marathon, ready for his word. He made his decision, even as the king’s royal herald came running towards him.

‘His Majesty, God-King and Father to the World, bids me ask what orders you will give the men,’ the herald said.

He did not prostrate himself, but merely bowed. Datis disliked the man, but liked his own life too well to risk offending him. He bowed in return.

‘Please tell His Majesty that my orders are for the men to advance and engage. I will not decline battle. There is no time to embark our army, not before these Greeks are close enough to harry the last of us.’ He rubbed his chin as he thought, then nodded to himself. ‘We cannot fight on sand, nor with the sea so close to our backs. The ground is dry and steady ahead. We will march and form up, to make ready for them. Archers and slingers on the wings, Immortals and other regiments in the centre. Please suggest to His Majesty King Darius that there is rising ground to the east of the plain. He might wish to find a place there to observe the battle.’

The herald smiled on one side of his face, as if something about Datis amused him. He bowed again without a word and jogged away, his footsteps vanishing beneath the smear of seawater, hissing white over the sand.

5

Xanthippus swallowed nervously as they rounded low hills on either side. ‘Marathon’ meant ‘overgrown with fennel’ and the plants did indeed grow well on the red earth. Crushed by sandals, he could smell the scent thickly on the salt air.

The speed of the march increased almost imperceptibly, driven by the desire to get to where they were going. Pace by pace, the sky widened, green hills giving way to the plain of low scrub bushes, straggling trees like sentinels – and the dark sea beyond. They could see ships still swarming there. Every step revealed more detail, with the scouts and runners racing in and out, visibly excited. Word spread back down the line and the news brought jubilation at first.