Xanthippus looked up in relief as Pheidippides came running across the face of the left wing, clearly aiming at his position.

‘About time,’ Epikleos said.

The herald of Miltiades bowed his head. Xanthippus thought the man looked less urbane and relaxed than usual.

‘Gentlemen, Archon Miltiades asks that you dress your line. Your indiscipline has been noted. You will hold the position. He asks that each strategos acknowledge his orders.’

Xanthippus did not reply. Instead, he stared at the long-limbed herald in silence, while the man’s brow creased in confusion.

‘Strategos?’ Pheidippides said, a little uncertainly.

‘Wait,’ Xanthippus said between clenched teeth.

He looked past the man to the ranks of archers stealing back onto the battlefield, then further to the centre as it heaved with hoplites and Immortals, its left flank horribly exposed. In the end, Xanthippus stared along the lines to where Miltiades himself was watching him speak to the herald, the face of the archon dark with anger.

‘Tell Miltiades I accept his order to advance,’ Xanthippus said.

Epikleos laughed and clapped him on the shoulder as the herald gaped.

‘Strategos?’ the man stammered. ‘Th-that is not …’

Whatever else he might have said was lost as new orders cracked out along the lines. Epikleos roared one of them right next to the herald’s left ear, so that the man flinched and retreated.

Ahead, a larger group of Persian archers came up at a run. They were keeping a sideways eye on the stationary ranks of Greeks, wary of them. They were the first to see the left wing jerking into motion, following Xanthippus and the Acamantis. The Plataeans came with them, relieved at last to be fulfilling the promise of honour they had made. Athens had saved them years before. They had come to pay their debts, not be witnesses to a tragedy.

The Persian archers pivoted their attention and drew as a second group arrived. Xanthippus cursed. He hated archers almost as much as he hated cavalry. His attempt to confuse the order from Miltiades had resulted in real confusion. Not all the tribes on that wing were moving, and those that were marched in a ragged line. The forces around Miltiades seemed to be half-advancing, half-calling for orders. No doubt the archon himself was at the heart of the conflict, demanding to know what his strategoi thought they were doing.

‘Damn it!’ Xanthippus shouted. ‘Acamantis! Plataea! Ready shields!’

The groups of Persian archers and slingers had become a flood, emboldened by the success of the first ones to return. If the Greeks did not move, they could shoot at will. It must have been too tempting for them, Xanthippus thought, as he strode forward. He gave up on those behind. His attention was on all the archers and slingers turning in his direction. He swallowed as the first ones let fly, a ragged volley. Every archer there knew he was exposed. They were all turning to face Xanthippus and the chaotic Greek advance.

Xanthippus found himself panting, his mouth gummed. Four hundred paces separated him from bank on bank of Persian archers. His lines were broken and without the overlapping shields held overhead, they could be slaughtered. It was the archers’ dream, which was why some of them were still running back, determined to take advantage. They were forming up two stades from where he marched. There was only one thing to do, though in the heat and in bronze armour, he did not know if it was possible. Four hundred paces, filled with death.