It could not last; nothing could. Spears were wrenched from the grip of hoplites. Some snapped near the hilt or were hacked aside and weakened by some Immortal blade, so that they shattered on the next impact. The perfect bristling wall of spears sprang gaps as the Immortals fought to contain the advance. Their king watched from the shade of his pavilion, not even a mile from the heaving lines.

Those Greeks who lost their spears drew swords and used them, standing alongside brothers in arms. The shields stayed locked in close formation, each man protecting the one to his left, protected in turn on his right. Blades jabbed out at anyone who tried to wrench that line apart.

The Persians were used to destroying tribes who could not even stand against their archers, never mind hold a battle line. As individual Immortals struggled past the long spears, they could only hammer at shields and helmets of bronze, while all the time, men of Athens cut low and high, gashing them across the head and stabbing at their feet, anything vulnerable. The gold bands the Immortals wore seemed to attract high overhand blows.

Despite terrible losses, the Persian lines settled and recovered. New orders were passed on from General Datis. Those who got inside the long spears ignored swords or wounds to strike on either side, cutting as many spears as they could before they were killed. It was an astonishing tactic and it cost them hundreds of men, especially when Themistocles saw what they were doing and growled new orders. Those Persians who stepped forward then to throw their lives away were killed the moment they turned to hack at shafts.

The battle heaved and swung and the right wing held well with eight ranks, while Themistocles saw Persians streaming around on his left. The right flank was always weak where the shields ended. It made sense to keep it strong, even at the expense of the centre and left. That he could grudgingly appreciate. Yet how long had it been? He had no way of knowing. It seemed as if he had been fighting for an hour or more, but the sun hung like it had been painted.

He cursed as a rattle of new stones and arrows brought cries of pain from the men of the centre. Where was Xanthippus, with his stern disapproval of everything that made life worth living? Where was Miltiades, with his coat straining to cover his paunch? The left wing had been held back and the result was this boldness of Persian archers and slingers. They had withdrawn down to the shore as the main forces clashed. Seeing the Greek left holding back, they crept in again like flies to ply their trade. It was not yet the massed volleys of before, but every moment brought more of them into range.

Themistocles blocked a high blow with his raised shield and risked his life to look over his shoulder. He could see the left wing waiting there, stopped – actually stopped on the sandy earth, while the rest of them fought and bled. In the image that flashed across his vision before turning back, he’d thought he had seen Miltiades standing like a whore on a corner, waiting for customers. Themistocles prayed then that they would come, or that he would survive the battle to bring them down. If Xanthippus had betrayed him, it would be because he feared a popularity he would never understand. If Miltiades had done … it would be for gold. There had always been greed in the older man, Themistocles knew it. There had been rumours of Miltiades losing his family wealth. Some men coveted power, some gold; Themistocles understood that much. The easy life was just too tempting, especially for those who had once known hunger. He had experienced more than his share of that himself …