They were free men of Athens, but they accepted the authority of the Assembly for the highest stakes. No one let his neighbours take the burden, not with parents, wives and children left behind and depending on them. Xanthippus could see it in each of them – and found himself inspired by it. They strove together, against a common enemy.
In the late afternoon, Themistocles ordered the fleet to put oars out. To a drumbeat, the sails were dropped and tied into packs, taken down to the holds. With the decks clear, the masts were unstepped, great wedges hammered out so the lengths of pine could be lowered after them, into the arms of oarsmen. Some ships secured the mast with iron hoops and rope, so that it formed one edge of the deck, like a stub rail.
The transformation never failed to make Xanthippus’ heart pound. The oars were stored lengthways in the hold, like old bones. The three banks of men below were expert in their labours and could ease them up, across and out in moments, the result of endless hours of training. Each ship briefly became a clumsy thing without its sails, then suddenly soared back to life, as sun-bleached wings struck the waters. The first strokes made light of skills they had won over months or years. Oarsmen worked in perfect unison and if one fouled another through drunkenness or lack of care, he risked a beating that night, or even being cast overboard on a late watch, when all else was silent. Their task was to row at whatever speed was asked; to work one bank while the other reversed, so that a ship could turn inside its own length. They could not see more than the waves rushing past on either side and they had to trust the officers standing on the deck and roaring orders to the keleustes of each ship. Only that man, standing with his head and shoulders out on the deck, could see the action all around. Those below laboured on in trust and pain and perspiration flung from wet hair.
The flagship carried Themistocles, the city banner of an owl streaming from his ship’s high stern like a long tongue. Xanthippus saw his own captain keeping an eye on it. He too watched for a steer and orders as the sun began to ease down to the horizon.
When Themistocles swung off the main course, Xanthippus felt the trierarch’s gaze on him and nodded. The man had given him no trouble at all since their first clash of wills on that very deck. As one, the fleet slowed to half pace and used the tillers at the stern to begin long gentle turns closer to the coast.
They had passed the great headland, into waters where the motion of the deep sea was different, rolling the whole ship. The next great landing place was one Xanthippus had thought Themistocles would leave in their wake: Marathon, where the beach was sheltered by the great spit of land that had included Eretria. Themistocles was heading to a spring a little further along that part of the coast, a place the fleet knew well from a dozen previous landings. The casks were full that day, so Xanthippus thought they would just stop for the night, safe from a sudden squall.
It did not hurt to remind the men of a victory, hard won, nor that their officers had all been part of it. It mattered, too, that they were safe from storms. The danger was always there. Any crew of their number could tell tales of some close brush with drowning, as their ship dipped and took on water. The threat was constant, with only skill, balance and officers who could read the sea keeping them alive.
The counterpoint was their extraordinary speed, enough to smash another ship, with three rows of oars heaving them on, sending them like a racehorse across the waves. No mere sails could match their pace, not even for a moment. They were a fine breed, but too fragile for rough sea.
The Spartan ships responded with the quick neatness Xanthippus had come to expect from them. From the deck of the flagship with Themistocles, he knew Eurybiades would be watching, holding his people to a higher standard than the rest. The navarch had spent a day observing the new flag signals as Xanthippus and his trierarchs practised. Xanthippus was still not certain Eurybiades would respect them in the heat of battle. He hoped so – the Spartans were his vanguard, his breakers of walls. Behind them in formation came the Athenian triremes, with those of Corinth bringing up the rear and all the others of their alliance. In all, they had three hundred ships of Greece – Xanthippus could still shake his head in awe when he considered the sheer number of rowers and hoplites in them, never mind the labour and fortunes that had gone into their construction. They were the wealth of Greece, her wooden walls.
With the plain of Marathon in sight, the fleet anchored as soon as they were close to shore, safe from the waves pulling them further onto the beaches. It was strange to think that they chose that place for the same reasons the Persians had years before. Perhaps they could have gone further in a day, Xanthippus thought, but it would be good for the men.
‘Are we going ashore?’ Epikleos said.
He had climbed up from his tiny berth in the hold, in response to the sound of anchor ropes whirring out. Xanthippus shook his head. It was not something he wanted to discuss, with so many in earshot. The truth was that Themistocles had given the order in private the night before. Men lost their nerve, sometimes, no matter how well they had prepared or how firmly they swore loyalty. The crews had said their farewells to those they loved. The enterprise had begun. If they were allowed to spend a long first night in reach of the city, Xanthippus agreed with Themistocles that some of them would surely vanish by the morning.
‘Not tonight,’ Xanthippus said. ‘Themistocles… wants us to get used to being on board. No shore leave from now on.’
He looked sharply at his friend, and if Epikleos suspected there was more, he did not press it.
‘Will there be more training drills?’ he asked.
Xanthippus shook his head.
‘I don’t think so. Perhaps Themistocles or Eurybiades… no. Any ships manoeuvring now would fall behind.’
He became aware of faces turned to hear. The men were desperate for any scrap of information. Little boats rowed between the triremes, carrying officers and stores while they sat at anchor. Whatever he said there would spread from ship to ship with extraordinary speed.
‘Unless the plan changes, we’ll go north until we cross the Persian fleet. We’ll stop them in our waters. Our trierarchs know their ships and crews. They know the flag signals and the formations. We have honed them to a fearsome sharpness. The enemy have no idea we have so many ships out to send them to the bottom. Take heart from that, Epikleos. May the gods keep them blind a little longer!’
Epikleos looked a little pale around the mouth as he nodded. The reality was rushing down upon them and somehow clashed with the normal routines of their lives. Around them, three hundred ships prepared a cold and glutinous stew. Some seventy thousand men rested there, scattered along the coast of Attica. Xanthippus and Epikleos felt their ship tug on her lines and settle, like a horse brought to a halt on a long rein.
They were close enough to see crews and ships they knew on all sides. There were few strangers in that fleet, not after their close association. Men raised arms in salute or greeting, but there was none of the usual laughter or cheerful insults that marked their lives. They knew what lay ahead and yet they did not feel ready for it, not then. They had trained together, sweated and sworn together. The reality was still unfolding before them. They would bleed, they would die together as well. They would drown and kill and win, or lose everything that mattered, when the time came. It was a strange brotherhood. As he stood there, Xanthippus wished once again for a railing, so he could have gripped it and stopped his hands trembling.
41
The flagship was by far the largest vessel in all the forces Xerxes had brought to Greek waters. He had not appreciated how slow it would be, so that each day’s end found him towards the rear, though some oar-slaves had died in their labours to keep up with the main group.
Even so, there were comforts. He walked the deck with Immortals standing as sentinels, facing the sea. The flagship sat higher on the waves than most of the Phoenician triremes. It rolled as a result, but took on less water and seemed so heavy that it was hard to imagine being thrown ove
r by a wave. He set his jaw at that thought. He still struggled to sleep on board. Wooden ships seemed alive in the noises they made, never mind the constant motion. There were horses in the hold, as well as the live animals kept for food. They all whinnied and shrieked in the night, dragging him awake in cold sweat. He had sprung up from nightmares dozens of times, so that dawn found him on deck, sipping a hot tisane with a cloak wrapped around him. Only opium worked, though of late it had brought nightmares that left him ill and retching. He had taken to sleeping on shore whenever there was no threat. He still remembered one perfectly sheltered cove in Macedonia, with no route down to it from the land. He had slept a full night then, like a child in his slumbers.
He shook his head. This was the reality of a campaign: salt spray drying on the skin; the scented oils that failed to hide the smell of sweat and bowels; the beard he had grown, then shaved off when it drove him mad with itching. There was little luxury on board ship, which forced him to focus on more serious matters. Half a dozen small boats were winging out to him. They spent their days empty, on ropes behind the main triremes, hissing along until they were needed to carry men or messages.
He watched ropes flung and the passengers clamber up the side of his flagship, choosing the best moment of the roll to climb. In normal times, he knew he would not have greeted them himself. A king had servants whose role it was to protect him, to act as his shield. It gave Xerxes a little satisfaction to see the aghast expression on the face of his seneschal as the king waved him back. He had left ceremony behind. This was a war fleet and he would not stand on his dignity.
The first to reach the deck was Mardonius, with others close on his heels. The flagship rail was lined with shields in the Phoenician war style, giving a safe place to duck behind in a battle. Only two breaches allowed them on board. They converged on the young king, prostrating themselves.
The only one who hesitated was the one who most intrigued him. Artemisia of Halicarnassus was Greek, though her little region had been a satrapy of Persia since at least his father’s time. Still, her mother was from Crete and she had known Greece in her childhood travels. She was one of the guides Mardonius most relied upon, but the only woman. She had brought five ships to his fleet, with crews of free men. Yet even a queen would bend.
Xerxes made a downward gesture with his right hand. She knelt rather than lay flat. He frowned at that, but let it pass rather than look petty in front of all the rest. Would his father have done the same? He did not know. He thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as she rose with all the others. Xerxes stared at her until she looked aside. He was less at ease with women, especially those who claimed royal blood and the loyalty of trireme crews. There was no one else quite like Artemisia in his fleet and he wondered what would happen if he took her to his bed that evening. It would surely cost him five ships, but he had lost many more than that in squalls and on unseen rocks.
He watched her in silence and, of course, none of the others dared speak. She looked up at him again after a time, raising one eyebrow. A handsome woman, he thought. But too much trouble. He preferred a more pliant sort, who would be less likely to stab him in the eye, as she had reportedly done to an unfaithful lover. He blinked hard at the thought, as if a piece of dust had become trapped. Amusement appeared once more in her expression and Xerxes looked away. It was a trivial irritation. Perhaps because of her titles, she misjudged the relationship between them, of master and slave. If she continued to concern him, he knew he could give her to his guards to be chastised.
Xerxes led the way to the main chamber below. Its existence gave his flagship a broader beam than all the others and separated his banks of rowers. The partitions of his cabin had been knocked down and cleared for the meeting of captains, but the long room retained a faint scent of damp as well as rose, musk and narcissus.
The table had been bolted to the floor so as not to shift in rough seas. The captains and senior officers had to edge along the sides to take their places and then sit at his order on the chairs made ready for them. Forty of them had come at his command. They smelled of salt and sweat and seaweed, Xerxes realised, though Artemisia bore some floral scent in addition that he could not recognise. She watched him closely, he noticed, judging him. It might have been infuriating in his court, but there, he felt his jaw jut and his determination grow.
‘Gentlemen… Your Majesty,’ he said. The words felt odd in his mouth. At least Artemisia spoke the language of his fathers. Some of the Greeks who had come to offer dust and water needed translators to stand by them and whisper. They were always a step behind, which irritated Xerxes. No one else would dare speak over him.
‘You may examine my maps before you leave, those of you who do not know this coast. We have anchored within the shelter of the island of Sciathos. To the west, there is a strait of calm water that leads inland, then turns all the way south, past Marathon, around the headland and there, to Athens. Mardonius? Report on the progress of our army.’
The general rose to his feet, so that all the rest turned to him, Greek and Persian alike.
‘Gentlemen… my lady. There is a range of mountains ahead of us that we should reach by tomorrow afternoon. One more march will put us there – as you come west along the strait. By the time you turn south, we should be through. We are looking for local scouts now, who know the area.’
‘May we see the map?’ one of the other captains asked.
To Xerxes’ irritation, the man spoke in Greek, but his cabin servants still moved, accepting his authority. The king forced himself to remember his father. Whatever hatred he felt towards the Greeks had to be smothered when it came to those who had asked to be allies. Most of them still hid from him, quaking in their cities and just hoping to survive the great invasion. At least these men – and one queen – had come to serve alongside! Xerxes had accepted dust and water from the hand of Artemisia herself, though her ships were better proof of her oath. He glanced at her again, wondering if she was younger than him. Her skin was as delicately flushed as any young woman, but she painted her eyes in kohl, so that it was hard to tell. Xerxes found himself looking away as the group leaned over the map, in awe of something that had cost more gold than they would see in a lifetime. It was the labour of years by expert cartographers and sailors, roaming that coast and taking note of every island and fresh spring. Only the land was blank, or marked with a few vague lines. His father had commissioned the thing at huge expense, before Marathon.
‘There is the strait – and the route we will take,’ Xerxes confirmed. He ran his finger along the map as far as he could reach. The papyrus stretched the length of the table, held at the corners with lead weights taken from a box by his servants. For a time, it was as if they stood above the world as gods. He enjoyed the sensation, as well as the murmurs of fascination in the assembled captains.
He nodded to Mardonius.
‘As soon as you are through the mountains, we will turn south and keep pace with you. You’ll reach Athens while I take the fleet around the southern tip.’
‘What of their fleet?’ Artemisia asked. ‘Athens will not let us pass without challenge. They will have warships, Majesty. No man knows how many.’
Xerxes smiled in turn.
‘We have more, Artemisia. I do not fear their ships.’
The answer did not seem to reassure her, he noticed. Instead, she pointed at the range of hills Mardonius would have to cross to keep up with the fleet.
‘And these,’ she said. ‘They do not look as high as they are, not on this map. I have seen these, in my childhood, travelling with my father.’
‘You know them, truly?’ Mardonius replied before Xerxes could.
Artemisia shrugged as all the men at that table turned to her.
‘Only once, when I was a little girl. I remember them as crags… too high to climb.’ She frowned in memory. ‘I saw steam issuing from the ground in places. My father told me the name of a pass along the coast…’
‘The
re is a pass, then?’ Mardonius pressed. ‘One an army can go through?’ He looked pleased, even relieved.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The mountains are sheer, but they end just before the sea. There is a narrow beach there… rockfall and sand…’ She looked up as a word flashed into her mind. ‘Thermopylae. That was its name.’
‘I will walk it,’ Xerxes said, suddenly. ‘I will stand on Greek soil, in honour of my father.’
He saw Mardonius blink in surprise, the older man silent as he considered his response. Before any objection could be voiced, Xerxes went on.
‘The fleet has good officers in command. I have no vital role here. Mardonius tells me these mountains are the last great obstacle before the plain that leads to Plataea and Athens – the two cities that sent men to Marathon. I would rather watch them burned than remain with the fleet.’
He did not add that the thought of sleeping once more on firm ground filled him with a sort of longing that was almost pain.
Mardonius bowed his head, constrained by the cramped quarters from doing more.
‘It would be a great honour, Majesty,’ he said.
Xerxes glanced at the queen of Halicarnassus once more. Artemisia was chewing her lip as she stared at the map, lost in memory rather than her usual acid humour.
Xerxes dipped his head, pleased with a decision made.
‘Pass the word,’ he said to his most senior captains and officers. ‘Be ready. We are on a war footing from this moment.’
42
Xanthippus leaned out from the prow, looking left and right as his trireme hissed through the waves. He had asked Themistocles for permission to scout ahead with two other ships, the three of them skimming over dark blue waters. Epikleos stood with him on the other side, his arm wrapped around the high carved beam. A figurehead of Athena stared out with them, arms back, as if she too had to hold on. Below, a bronze ram crashed through waves, dripping white froth. Though neither man spoke a word, their faces showed exhilaration.
The Gates of Athens Page 33