Xanthippus stifled a yawn as he entered the hall, seeing every seat was already packed. Themistocles stood on the dais, leaning on a rostrum to address the council. It had been his voice they’d heard, growing louder with every step.

‘I welcome Pausanias, regent of Sparta,’ Themistocles said immediately, his eyes alive with interest. ‘Son to Cleombrotus, nephew to Leonidas, honoured in death. Come, Majesty, address us.’

The one seated on his right had sprung to his feet at the tramp of armed men entering. Alexander of Macedon looked dismayed at the sight of Spartans. The Macedonian king said nothing as he dropped slowly back once more. He swallowed nervously, his throat moving in a spasm.

Pausanias showed no discomfort at entering a room packed with Athenians. They were arrayed before him in half-circles, rising to the rear of the hall like a theatre. When he stood at the central point, his voice carried to all parts of the boule with extraordinary power, a masterpiece of construction. Tisamenus stood at his side, his eyes passing over every face, judging them, seeing who glared or looked away.

The Spartan regent nodded thanks to Themistocles. His eyes rested briefly on the Macedonian, though without particular recognition. Themistocles saw the man’s gaze linger on the lion brooch Alexander wore at his shoulder. Pausanias turned from it almost in reluctance to face the council of Athens. He placed his hands on the rostrum and breathed slowly. He had heard of their strange political structures, back in Sparta. The Assembly had seemed a chaotic thing, as it had been described to him. Power without a single ruler, with laws they made up themselves, judgements by common men over noble families? It was a kind of madness. He had seen the burned city all around them. More, he could see new beams overhead and smell pine sap in the air. It was hard not to think of it as a divine judgement on their hubris. Yet they retained some sense of order, even in time of war or famine. The council ruled the city and some like Themistocles had authority over them, even if they were not called king.

That was it, Pausanias was certain. Men were made to be led. Kings were born, then hammered free of imperfections on a forge. Weak lines fell away, so that each generation grew stronger. Pausanias could not help imagining the five ephors at home, men who devoted themselves to the stability of Sparta. They counted their long lives a success if nothing changed at all. The people before him suffered badly in comparison. He smiled at them, but it was the smile of a wolf looking over a pen of lambs on a sunny day.