He took a flask of water from the next man in line, grunting his thanks as he wet his lips.

‘Charge, Acamantis! Advance, Athens! For Athena! Charge!’

Xanthippus raised his shield clear and pelted towards the enemy. He was looking at thousands of archers and they all seemed to be aiming at him. He caught sight of Epikleos racing at his side. They were fit enough to sprint in armour, though Xanthippus felt his knee sending increasing spikes of pain up his leg.

Behind him, the rest of the left wing saw Acamantis tribe break into a run. It was too much for them. They roared in support and sprinted across the sandy ground, closing the distance as fast as they could. The weight of greaves and shield and sword and spear began to tell on them. They grew flushed and shone with sweat, but they did not slow.

Arrows passed overhead as the massed archers hit the ones who had lagged behind, misjudging the speed of the mass of armoured men coming at them. They were used to hammering slow-moving targets, not spear-wielding maniacs, howling as they came on.

Xanthippus lowered his shield once more as he reached the archers. He used it as a battering ram, with Epikleos at his side. The smallest unit of the Greek army was its pairs – men who had mentored and trained together for years. They and their families were friends and Xanthippus was pleased Epikleos was there to die with him.

The lines of Acamantis and Plataea crashed through the archers like a feast-day sacrifice. They cut a bloody swathe and routed them in short order, so that they ran, back to the others on the beach who would know better than to rejoin the battle. Xanthippus found himself laughing in something like relief as the Acamantis phalanx re-formed around him.

Their presence had not gone unmarked, by either side. The closest Persians were twitching their heads again, looking for fresh orders or some way out. The Greeks in the centre were calling tribes they knew, as much in anger as welcome. There was work to be done and Xanthippus waited as the men settled and shields were overlapped. Miltiades had come with them, he saw. The archon did not even look in his direction, though he was as red-faced as anyone, as if the sun had burned him. Perhaps it had, while he’d stood and watched. Xanthippus wondered if Miltiades would risk complaining about his strategos. If he did, Xanthippus vowed he would make his own accusation. They had remained too long on the wing doing nothing. If that had not been treachery, it might as well have been.

The left wing moved forward as one, all divisions and rivalries forgotten as they hit the Persian flank with a roar. Even then, as Xanthippus and the rest crashed into the enemy and took the first lives with their spears, he was not certain. No. He was. In his heart, he knew Miltiades had been bought.