‘You see the enemy? Do you? Can you see their fear? Then charge!’ Themistocles called, baring his teeth.

The other strategoi matched his bellow. The Greek hoplites broke into a run. The steady pace of before was lost as they closed. Arrows passed right over them as archers misjudged their speed.

The lines crashed together and long spears punched through armour and flesh. Heaving them back bloody, the Greeks locked shields and roared, drummers rattling and pipes screaming high. Their spears stood out as far from the shields as a man was tall, thick as hairs. The Immortals tried to knock them aside, but iron leaves found them even so, stabbing relentlessly, jerking in and out of flesh, too many to dodge.

The slaughter was instant and brutal. The long dory spears were driven with desperate strength, held by men who had trained to hit gaps no larger than a man’s fist. They jabbed at thighs, faces, anything they could see. Not every blow was aimed well, but they struck with the rhythm of dancers, of drummers and pipes, again and again. Their own shields were so wide they could be overlapped. The Persians saw no weaknesses, just helmets with trimmed plumes, then huge shields, with greaves of bronze stamping below.

The long Immortal coats were not proof against spearheads that struck and twisted and withdrew to strike again, twice with every pace. The Persians fell back, lives spurting red from wounds, or just trying to find space to counter the forest jabbing at them.

There was no respite. The phalanx formations drove on, giving the enemy no chance to breathe or counter. The Greeks pressed forward and if one of their number went down, he was passed over and guided to the rear, his space taken instantly by another. The pressure forward was crushing. As the advance slowed, the front ranks could hardly withdraw their arms to jab, so great was the weight of shields behind. They had to go on or fall – and Themistocles went with them.

‘Dress that line!’ he shouted suddenly, looking displeased.

He lunged his spear under the shield of the man on his right, feeling the solid thump and shudder that meant he had found living flesh. Good. With the lines so clustered he was not sure which of the bloodied Persians ahead had taken the wound. His line pushed on and when they reached Persian bodies, the ranks marching behind drew daggers and cut the throats of dead and still living alike. There would be no feigned death in that line, no mercy. These were invaders who had come to make slaves of Greece. Themistocles bellowed his next words just to be heard.

‘What, are you Thebans, to be so sloppy? Are you foreign metics? Are you slaves? I will not die of shame today, in front of these! Make a better show, would you? By Ares, would you embarrass your leader? Would you shame me in front of Aristides?’

He knew he tended to rattle on when he was nervous. Themistocles was not sure his exhortations and criticism were any use to the men, though some of them smiled. He had heard himself quoted afterwards, though, by those who had survived. It was appreciated then, when their lives were not counted in heartbeats, spears slippery in sweating hands.