‘Steady! Steady, left wing,’ Miltiades roared over their heads. ‘We need reserves – and you are it. Slow pace now.’

Xanthippus nodded. Perhaps it made sense against so many. He saw Themistocles looking back over his shoulder and gesturing for them to keep up, but that was the point of having one man in command. Miltiades was responsible for the entire field, not just the left. Xanthippus felt a cold spot appear in his stomach as he considered how it might look to Themistocles. Half his men taken away, the centre made weak, then one of the wings hanging back as he was sent in. It looked a lot like … Xanthippus shook his head, feeling sweat sting one of his eyes despite the cloth band beneath his helmet. No. Archon Miltiades was loyal. The alternative was to suspect everyone. Though it was said the Persian king spent gold like water and always, always rewarded those who pleased him. It was easy to imagine some who might choose wealth and comfort over loyalty and poverty. The Great King’s generosity was the stuff of legends. Could a man like Miltiades have been bought …?

‘Epikleos!’ Xanthippus called.

His friend ran to him, looking serious.

‘Yes, strategos.’

‘Give my regards to Miltiades and tell him Acamantis tribe stands ready to support the centre.’

‘Yes, strategos.’

Epikleos vanished from sight as he went to pass on the comment. Xanthippus watched as Themistocles and Aristides crossed the invisible line that meant they were in missile range. The insect shine of the enemy shifted as thousands released some sharp thing designed to break or pierce. The Persians went too early in their eagerness, but then shot again and again, formations rippling like breaths. Their missiles flew too fast and high to be seen or dodged, whining in the air like the call of birds. That was the most terrifying thing. A piece of lead no larger than a finger could break a man’s shoulder when it came whirring down out of the clear air. An arrow could rip his life right out of him.

The barrage cast a flickering darkness across the Persian lines as they shot into the afternoon sun. Xanthippus hoped that was an omen – that they made their own defeat, their own shadow. It reminded him of the hornets’ nest in an oak tree he had disturbed when he was a small boy. On a dare, he’d thrown a bucket of rancid olive oil into the cleft and run. He hadn’t understood how many were still coming back or how they would hunt him. He swallowed in memory, pleased he was not in range. He’d thought the hornets would kill him that day in their rage and spite. They had filled the air with pain and followed him all the way home.

Gold flashed as four ranks in the centre and eight more on the right raised shields overhead like scales. Stones and lead shot rattled in a great hail off the surface, though cries of pain sounded too. Some of the arrows passed through the skin of bronze shields to wound arms or shoulders beneath. One or two bodies appeared out of the back of the marching phalanx, twitching or trying to stand and rejoin. Xanthippus found he had chewed his lip bloody. He stopped only when he recognised the taste of salt and iron.