Xanthippus sensed the mood darkening around him, men filled with earnestness and hate. Golden shields and greaves reflected the sun as they moved. Their shadows writhed before them on the ground, as if in submission. It was a good thought.

‘This is it, then,’ Epikleos said from the side of his mouth.

Xanthippus came out of his reverie and dipped his head once, as if he made an oath. He and Epikleos broke rank with the others of the left wing, not a dozen yards from Miltiades himself. The column became a rabble in instants, men jogging to new positions and looking for strategoi to tell them where to stand. Xanthippus could hear Themistocles and Aristides bellowing to the mid-column, herding them into central squares. Their tribes of Leontis and Antiochis led a block of four as the unbreakable heart of the hoplite formation, eight ranks deep. On the right wing, another formation of three tribes matched the three on the left with the Plataea thousand. It was all slow and clumsy to Xanthippus’ eye. Yet when they were done, ten tribes and eleven thousand men stood in neat ranks, in wide battle formation, spears raised like the quills of a porcupine. It was hard not to feel the thrill of it as they lurched forward, though each step across the plain brought a clearer sight of the enemy host.

Dry-mouthed, Xanthippus stepped over a thick, crushed shrub, feeling stems crack like bones under his sandals. He licked his lips and looked for the water boy again, though he was nowhere to be seen. Why was his mouth always like cloth before a battle? He wished he had brought his own flask. His two seconds had fallen back with the baggage, of course, as soon as the enemy was sighted. No doubt they were drinking and idling back there. Some of the men carried pottery flasks on a single shoulder strap. Xanthippus tore his gaze away from those. It was poor form for a man who hadn’t brought any to ask for water from one who had.

They walked loosely in step, falling into rhythm as pipers and drummers struck a tune. It was the ‘Theseus March’ and it brought its own memories, of youth and strength. Xanthippus felt fresh sweat break out, as well as an old ache in his right knee. He had dug a spear-point out from under his kneecap, a dozen years before. It had not seemed like much at the time, but the pain kept returning, something else to endure on a long march.

There was marshland on their left-hand side, hills to their right, enough to limit the width of the Persian front. Xanthippus could hope for that, at least. For the rest, he could see a dark mass of slingers whirring their weapons, far out of range but loosening muscles ready for the fight. Perhaps they hoped to intimidate, he did not know. Archers, too, were unmistakable on the wings, black men striding back and forth without armour, bending bows in and out and waiting, waiting to send precious shafts down their throats. Xanthippus had never seen so many.