He frowned at the thought. It had not escaped his notice how many had been gasping like birds after that long charge in armour. Their fitness was not what it could be – what it should have been. Above all else, his old trainer had told him. If a man could remain fresh for longer, while an enemy bent to vomit, or clutched his knees and grew red, he would win. Fitness meant speed and speed meant victory.

Xanthippus remembered the old words with a smile and felt something ease in him. He would train Acamantis. With a little luck and perhaps the support of Aristides or even Themistocles, he would institute a new training regime. Many more races in armour for a certainty, over long and short distances. That wild sprint to hit the archers had nearly ruined half the men.

Lost in his thoughts, Xanthippus did not hear footsteps approaching. The first he knew of it was Epikleos stepping out of the shadows and bringing a knife to the throat of the stranger, making him grunt and freeze in place.

‘Why, I’ve caught myself a Persian,’ Epikleos said.

The messenger swore. ‘No you haven’t, as you know very well. Strategos Xanthippus?’

Epikleos jerked his head to Xanthippus, putting his knife away. The messenger regarded him sourly as he rubbed his neck.

‘Archon Miltiades waits upon you. If you’ll follow me, I will lead you to him.’

‘Shall I go with you?’ Epikleos said. He tapped his belt, his fingers resting against the hilt of his knife.

Xanthippus understood the signal, but shook his head.

‘I imagine the archon wishes to congratulate me on our victory,’ he said. ‘I will be perfectly safe, Epikleos.’

‘Are you sure?’ Epikleos said. ‘I could call up an honour guard, quick as thought.’

His jaw was tense, though he forced a smile. The messenger was already angry at him for the scare. The man spoke with acid in his tone.

‘The enemy are in the sea, sir, I believe you’ll find. The strategos needs no guards, not tonight.’

‘Is that a rebuke?’ Epikleos snapped. ‘I know very well where the enemy are. I should, I killed enough of them.’

The messenger decided against provoking the man further and merely waited, his eyes bulging slightly. Xanthippus took a deep breath. His leg was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, which was odd. He eyed his spear and Epikleos understood and brought it to his hand.

‘Take me to Miltiades, then,’ Xanthippus said.

He tried not to limp at first, making the sort of young man’s vow that he would not show weakness, no matter what it cost him. Yet the knee was so swollen, it thumped against the other and made him stumble, so that he had to lean on the spear.

‘Are you all right?’ the messenger said, looking back. The man was hurrying through the camp, passing light and shadow where the fires had burned down to embers.

‘I’m fine, thank you. Take me to your master,’ Xanthippus said, nettled by the man’s tone, or perhaps just his concern. He was weary himself. After being certain he could not possibly sleep, it was suddenly stealing over him and making his eyes heavy.