Now we were closer yet, faces set in stonelike concentration, involuntarily leaning forward, all eyes fixed upon the enemy.  I could clearly make out the swarms of marines on the Persian decks, even down to the bows that stood ready to draw.  Then, just as the enemy abruptly picked up speed, charging forward, eagerly surging to contact, Miretus and a host of voices in our own fleet roared the command.

 

"Form station!" they yelled. "Hold water!  Back larboard side!"

 

At once the ship slowed to a halt, the oars on both sides flailing in the water.  Those on my right stopped, pushing against the momentum of the hull, while on my left three banks of rowers strained to back, rather than row.  In an instant, we were pointing at an angle to the enemy attack.  Those ships to either side of us had done the same.  In fact, the entire fleet had duplicated our maneuver, forming a circle in the middle of the bay with prows pointing outward, sterns inward towards the second row, which had done the same. It was an amazing feat in the face of a full-blown enemy attack, and we executed it with nary a nicked blade or battered hull.

 

The Persians stopped in confusion, sweeping around the edges of the circle, now certainly overlapping us and more.  We sat in place, gazing outward, surprised ourselves but watching eagerly as the Phoenicians, Ionians, and Egyptians swarmed around us like sharks, unable to crack the circle and seeing no exposed sides while they cruised by and exposed their own soft underbellies.  I could hear them shout over the surface of the sea, their frustrated insults falling, for the most part, on deaf ears.

 

"Cowards!" they said.  "Come out and fight!  What are you afraid of?"

 

I could understand their insults only because of Hippocrotes.  He had taught me the Persian tongue as we grew, roaming over the hills of Attica or spending long afternoons perched above the assembly that met on the Pnyx.  He had moved from the east when he was young, he said, and had learned the language from his parents.  He'd been amused by my interest in Persian but more than happy to be my "little pedagogue."

 

Close up, I could see that what everyone said about the barbarian ships were true.  They were slightly smaller than our own, but quicker.  They knifed through the water elegantly, not like our own solid but unspectacular hulls, and their decks held what seemed to be almost twice our number of marines and archers.  Occasionally, I was reminded of this as an arrow would thwack against the hull or slice menacingly into the water to the taunts of the enemy erupting in frustrated action, but for the most part, they held their fire.  On our side, I gazed upon the spectacle with awe, my stomach knotted as I waited for the next move.  What did the fleet commanders have in mind?  Were we to sit here until nightfall and let the invader parade past our bows?  I felt as if I were standing on the stone balbis, the starting blocks at the Panathenaic games, with my toes curled around the cool rock and my frame leaning forward expectantly for the starter's command, ready to explode off the line and race the 600 feet of the stadion.

 

As if in answer to my unspoken question, Miretus once more roared his commands. "Full speed!" he shouted.  "Crew to attack positions!"