6

Themistocles took his place in the front rank. The plume on the helmet his second handed to him was black and white, marking him out. He had considered wearing a cloak like the Spartans did, though of a different colour. He had not made the decision when the call had come to assemble and now he regretted it. The men had to see him; he understood that in his bones. If he ever hoped to lead Athens, his life had to be wagered first as a token on the board. That was simply the truth of it. He had no family wealth backing him like Xanthippus, nor could he make a fetish of poverty and the simple life the way Aristides did. Themistocles enjoyed his water and wine too much for that!

As the two armies closed, he heard prayers muttered beneath the singing voices. They fell silent then, concentrating on perfect lines. Themistocles could not resist a glance at the strange pavilion that had been erected to one side of the Persian forces. It could only be their king, the position on a rising bluff of land giving him a good view. Perhaps a thousand men surrounded him there, so he was not particularly vulnerable. Any force turning to attack him would expose their flank to the Persian Immortals. Darius would watch without having to risk his own life, like the crowds who came to see dramas in the theatre of Dionysus in Athens. Themistocles felt his lip curl. On that day, the God-King was no more than an audience. They were the players.

The Immortals readied swords, but Themistocles could already see fear in their twitching heads, looking back for new orders as they understood the threat coming towards them. The long spears had that effect when they came down together.

‘Ready, Leontis!’ Themistocles called to his tribe. He called further to those around him. ‘Ready, Athens!’

They were all his people. He did not care what some uncle by marriage to Xanthippus had decreed was his tribe. He was Athenian! He had run those streets as a boy and skipped over sewage trenches that overflowed whenever it rained. He had slipped and fallen in once or twice as well. He chuckled at the memory. He had trained every dawn for many years, learning by watching, growing so strong and fast that other men paled to see him step into the fighting rings. Boxing or wrestling was all one to him. He liked to fight – and everything he was had been made by his own hand. Themistocles felt pride soar in him. Aristides could keep his dignity and cold logic. Xanthippus could keep his sense of superiority, though he had married all his fortune. Themistocles was the new Greece – and he was strategos alongside them that day. He laughed aloud at the thought and the men around him responded with grins.

‘Look at their fear!’ he called over their heads. ‘Ready spears! Ready pipers!’

The new rhythm would drive the iron points forward, fast and vicious. It was one of the wonders of the age, how music affected the hearts and strength of men. To fight with music blaring raised the spirits – and guided the arm.