‘No cavalry!’ Epikleos repeated in a shout when he heard.

A cheer went up at that, spreading right along the column. The men of Athens had been in trouble when they’d fought Thessaly a few years before. Horsemen could not break a tight phalanx formation bristling with long spears, but neither could that phalanx advance at any speed. It led to little islands of hoplites, pinned down on the battlefield while their enemies roamed freely and arrows rained down, taking them one by one.

The numbers they faced were another matter. Estimates were wild, as scouts tried to count moving men in different formations and marching lines. Xanthippus could hardly believe how many Persian soldiers were coming up from the beach. At that distance, they appeared as a city wall. He shook his head to free it of the image, narrowing his eyes and trying to think like a strategos. Were the Persian ships still landing forces, or taking them off? It was impossible to say, but he thought back to the description of cavalry from earlier that day. False reports were common, but it would be hard to mistake thousands of horses for anything else. He wondered if the quick march east from Athens had interrupted the Persians taking the army back to sea. There was no such thing as luck. For just such an outcome, they had sacrificed and made an oath to the gods.

Xanthippus heard Persian ram horns blown and saw silken banners shimmer as they began to form up. The sight and sound stilled talk and nervous laughter in the ranks around him. Every man who had left home that morning knew the stakes. The Persian soldiers would be killing Athenian women and children that night, unless they were stopped in that place. There was no one else to do it, no other authority.

Miltiades stepped out from his position in the line. His personal herald, Pheidippides, kept pace at his side. The herald had already run far that day, carrying orders and keeping the strategoi informed. The man shone with oil or perspiration, though he breathed long and slow. Two younger men carried banners of cloth bound to long spears, so that all others knew where the archon stood. Xanthippus felt his heart thump almost painfully as a jolt of fear and rage shot through him. The march had been no harder than a training run to that point. He was loose-limbed and warmed up, breathing well. What would come next had no equal, however. It would be the most exhausting, terrifying and exhilarating experience a man could know. Yet he would not have refused to stand there with his people, not for a kingdom.

‘Column to phalanx! Pha-lanx!’ Miltiades roared. ‘By tribe! On strategos! Column to phalanx formation!’

He had the voice for it, Xanthippus thought. With the other strategoi, Xanthippus took up the order and elaborated on it, cracking out commands to the officers who answered to him. Every man of ten thousand represented the people of the Assembly, the city of Athena. The thousand hoplites who had come from Plataea would stand in their midst, accepting the command of Miltiades rather than fighting as independents. That had been the condition of joining the greater force. They wore the same armour and carried round shields, with different images painted on the skin. For all they were men of Greece, they could never be of Athens.