Miltiades had not forgotten his overall responsibility, he saw. Just a few paces away, the man was glaring down the lines, checking and adjusting the phalanx formations as they formed. The men tended to cluster too tightly at first, so that they could hardly march without stumbling. It was just an instinct, but it had to be avoided while the enemy were two thousand paces away, closer with every moment.

Xanthippus could see the archon biting his lip as he compared the length of their front with that of the enemy. The marshland had not constrained the Persians as much as they’d hoped. It was clear enough that with forty or fifty thousand on the field, the enemy would immediately overlap the Greek wings, as soon as they came into contact. Xanthippus noted how Miltiades was sweating in his armoured coat as he considered what to do. No answer was ideal and Xanthippus was not sure what the older man would order. He waited, his heart crawling slowly up his gullet with every step. Sixteen hundred paces – eight stades. Twelve hundred – six stades. He could just make out individuals in the enemy line as their banners rippled across the face of their army, an impossible number of them.

‘Strengthen the wings!’ Miltiades called at last. ‘Centre tribes rear four – ease right and left. Eight ranks deep on the wings. Four in the centre.’

Xanthippus breathed, relieved a decision had been made. It had surely been the correct order, though it didn’t seem to please Miltiades. The very heart of their strength was that the tribes fought alongside one another in tight formation, standing with men they knew. Male pride was a powerful thing to harness. The Spartans went even further, with each rank representing a year graduating from their training, so that young men stood behind the year ahead – and in front of those who looked up to them. They could not run. Shame was the other side of the same coin – and at least as powerful as pride.

With just eleven thousand, Xanthippus knew they would always struggle to prevent the wings being overrun. The phalanx formations were bronze hammers – dense blocks with shields overlapping. They could not widen the lines without a cost, not without more men. All they could do was strengthen those wings to withstand the assault that would come. The long spears would hold them off. He nodded, accepting. At worst, they would be a golden stone dropped into a flood. It would be a hard day, but there was no turning from it.

Xanthippus saw Themistocles send runners to query the order was accurate – the closest the strategos would come in battle to refusing. Miltiades sent those men back to their master with red faces and the centre formation shifted as they had been ordered. Themistocles looked furious, though Aristides seemed unruffled, as calm as ever. Xanthippus was proud of him, pleased a man he admired was acting with dignity. The battlefield was no place for petty emotions, nor the ego of men like Themistocles. Victory lay in cooperation and complete trust.