Ahead, Xanthippus saw the enemy halt and make ready. Eight hundred paces separated the two armies – four stades. The sea was behind the Persians. They had come up fast from the beach and found firm ground under their feet and room to manoeuvre. Xanthippus grimaced, knowing they would be wanting to use their missile men from as far back as possible. Slingers and archers were no more use than wasps in the churn and heave of battle. Their task was to ruin an enemy before he could ever get close enough for a spear-thrust. Yet they faced armoured hoplites, with equipment and tactics designed to counter their advantage.

Xanthippus gave the order for his tribe of Acamantis to ready shields, which was echoed up and down the lines. He swung his own shield on its cord, from his right shoulder onto his left arm, gripping the leather and feeling the comfort it brought. His entire forearm disappeared into the deep wooden bowl with its bronze skin, so that it felt a part of him. The lion’s glare would be bright against the gold, he knew. He brought his spear low, held underarm, ready to stab with the men of his line. Sweat trickled down his face and he felt fear, but also a sort of joy. He was very strong. He was fast and fit and clad in bronze. He would kill the first man to stand before him that day. He would kill the second as well. What happened after that lay with the gods.

The rest of the tribes brought shields to the ‘ready’ position alongside Acamantis, as if Xanthippus had ordered it. It was just a coincidence, but it was a good feeling even so, though he saw Themistocles watching him. The man took anyone else’s foot over his line as a personal insult. Xanthippus knew from training days that Themistocles was quite capable of approaching him with a complaint after the battle. If they both survived.

On the left, Xanthippus saw Callimachus arguing briefly with Miltiades, before stalking over the field to join the right wing. The red-faced polemarch seemed to have found a shield and spear, at least. Perhaps Callimachus had annoyed the more senior man, Xanthippus could not tell.

Behind him, left in sole command, Miltiades raised his arm. Xanthippus thought he might still order a brief halt, perhaps to make the enemy waste their first stones and shafts. It was a hard thing to endure, but the men knew how to hold shields. They had practised and drilled, so that the sudden bronze shade was something they all knew. Still, the reality was different. Men rarely died in formation practice.

Instead, Xanthippus heard Miltiades bellow a different command.

‘Left wing … slow advance! Slow advance! Centre and centre right … engage!’

The order was repeated by Xanthippus at full volume, though he could not see the reason for it. The marching tribes on the left wing halved their pace immediately, as the centre and the right wing surged.