The enemy was closer now, moving toward us directly and picking up speed.  Suddenly, I could hear Miretus, tetrarch of Winds, call out to the oar master, "Cruise speed!  Prepare to form in station!"

The order was relayed to the three levels of rowers who made up the powerful thrust of the swift trireme, sitting one above the other in the sweetly efficient arrangement first perfected by the Corinthians in the days of our fathers.  I had rowed amongst their number for a time, holding down an amidships seat as a Thalamian on the lowest, or least skilled level.  It had been part of my military training as an Ephebe, part of the necessary experience every Athenian male citizen went through from the ages of 18 to 20 years.

 

Naturally, I had seen the big triremes many times before.  As a child I had walked amongst the ship sheds of the Piraeus and counted out the paces with Hippocrotes as we measured the awesome length and the tapering, narrowed beam of the vessels that lay quiescent under the peaked roofs.  Almost 140-feet long, my uncle had once said, and every foot a work of art.  We had often watched as the big ships surged from the harbor, oarsmen swinging in sharp unison, or as dusk settled on the land and the trierarchs brought their charges in with echoing commands bidding the rowers, "Up, oars!" 

 

The rowing itself I remembered too well, having just completed my training only a few months before.  I could still feel the raw and bleeding blisters that hours on the end of an oar brought to even the toughest fingers.  Eventually, of course, that torn skin turned to the hard and calloused hands of an old veteran, but I had, fortunately, been spared that path. 

 

For me, rather the armor of the hoplite marine than the sweating confines of the Thalamian bench, hemmed in and blind, a slave to the cocky thranite who led each triad, moistened by the the sweat of those above and the seawater that leaked through the dubious seal of the leather Askrota.

 

Miretus, a weathered veteran of many long years at sea, seemed pleased as the ship picked up speed, oars crisply snapping to the water, cadence increasing to the rythym of the pipes.  His deeply tanned and windblown mien sat like a ragged cliff face beneath the riot of graying hair that blew free in the breeze above his eyes, a study in concentration.  From him I turned back to the fore, watching the approach of the enemy with greater confidence, feeling the strength of our ship and the courage and competence of our leadership.

 

The Persian fleet -a formidable collection of Phoenicians, Egyptians, Cyprians, Ionians and it appeared, hundreds of others- spread out before us seemingly much longer than our line and rowed down upon us with the utmost confidence.  Once more, despite the reassuring presence of my shipmates and fellow marines, I felt myself tense.  I looked to left and right.  We were in a long line abreast, leading another long line in a column behind us.  It looked to me that if we rowed straight on, we would be first to engage.  But I supposed everyone must have felt that way. 

 

From the curving sternposts of our ships, brightly colored pennons flew, snapping sharply above each of the tetrarch's chairs.  The bows of our vessels were painted brilliant reds, blues and greens, with the eye of Athena under the forepeak gazing sternly upon the enemy.  The oars' blades were also painted to match the ships, together a moving rainbow that enlivened the visual splendor of our force.  I had witnessed this scheme many times in peaceful maneuvers, but never before in the presence of the foe.  We were at once breathtaking and terrifying.