It was slower and more chaotic than he would have liked. In that moment, Themistocles was genuinely pleased the Spartans were not there to sneer at them. The Immortals heaved forward and killed some of those who dared to turn away from them and try to slip through the rank coming forward. Themistocles saw men he knew well hacked down, but then the front line re-formed, fresh and furious.

‘On my mark! Six paces back! Six paces on my mark. Ready spears,’ Themistocles bellowed over their heads.

It was a hard order to hear. They did not want to step back again, not then. They fought in a frenzy, killing panting Immortals who thought they had been close to breaking.

‘Six paces … now!’

With something like a shout of anger, they pulled back. The Greek line disengaged faster the second time, stepping away without looking behind, keeping their eyes on Persians who found themselves swinging iron through empty air in confusion. The hoplites drew clear as Themistocles counted off the steps. The shields came up – and some picked up spears from where they lay on the ground. The forest of thorns rose once more.

‘Now advance,’ Themistocles roared at the top of his lungs.

No one stood in sword range of him, though the damned archers and slingers were taking their shots again, picking off his men, his people. Where was Miltiades? The Persians had no reserve, not beyond the royal guard. They’d thrown everything on that beach at the Greek formations. More, they were winning, a victory bought in gold and treason. There was no other explanation.

7

Xanthippus watched as Themistocles and Aristides rallied the centre, pulling off a disciplined retreat and then re-forming the phalanx. It was well done, though they’d lost half the ground they’d taken in the first charge. Neither were they still fresh and unmarked. Both sides stood battered and visibly weary. Fighting exhausted the fittest of men. The sun had moved in the afternoon sky and the blood of hundreds had already been spilled. Yet the Persian forces still teemed and their king watched from his pavilion, his guards standing at perfect attention as if it was no more than a display and not a battle for the survival of a city – and a people.

‘See there?’ Epikleos said. ‘The Persian archers are coming back.’

He stood in the front line with Xanthippus. They were all edging forward, straining to see every detail. The slingmen and archers had retreated as soon as battle joined, when their missiles were as much danger to their own as the enemy. Yet with the entire left wing drawn up and halted, they had begun to creep back. In full view of Xanthippus and Miltiades, they were loosing shafts and stones once more. It left the archers vulnerable and Xanthippus itched to charge them.

His line shuffled another pace, as those behind pushed and craned to see what was happening. The shorter men could see hardly anything, from just a rank or two back. It meant they were shoving and swearing, more desperate with every passing moment.