Pausanias stood on the acropolis of Sparta, shining with health and sweat. Though he and Tisamenus stood panting at the highest point of the hill, they were surrounded by a great bowl of mountains, peak upon peak, stretching back to infinity, with the spires of Taygetos and Parnon standing above all.

In that early-morning silence, they might have been the only ones alive in the world. The two men had run up the hill, racing one another in that strange lightness of spirit that came with exertion, that could banish all other darknesses. It did not last, but seeped away as they breathed deeply. Though the dawn air was cold, the days were lengthening once more, the darkest months behind. At that height above the city of Sparta, Tisamenus thought he could smell cooking fires, but also green growth, phrygana shrubs and sage, the first hints of spring in the air. The mountains looked bare at such a distance. Yet he knew they teemed with life – with hares, wolves, bears, boars and even lions. There would be frosts to come still, of course – and rains to batter the dust down and stain every wall in Sparta with spattered mud. Yet spring would come. Of all things, that was certain. Darkness ended; the sun always rose again.

‘I saw your nephew talking to the ephors and King Leotychides,’ Tisamenus said. ‘He looked well, a fine young man.’

Pausanias nodded, though his mouth quirked in a way Tisamenus knew well, as if he recalled a bitter taste.

He knew Pausanias was troubled, that he feared the decision he had been called on to make. Yet he knew too that his friend had all the courage he needed. His uncle had been the battle king of Sparta before he’d marched out to stop the Persian host with just his personal guard and a few thousand lesser men. That act still resonated through the city and its people. A single Spartan had survived his wounds, along with all the rest Leonidas had sent away before the end. The account of the king’s stand in the pass at Thermopylae was already a legend, his death a demonstration of Spartan will. Tisamenus shook his head in awe as a memory drifted to him. When the Persian king had demanded the Spartans surrender their weapons, Leonidas had sent only two words in reply: ‘Molon labe’ – ‘come and take them’.

Tisamenus looked at Pausanias, seeing his worry in the shadowed gaze across the distant mountains. His friend bore a weight of responsibility great enough to crush a weaker man. The regent’s father had died just a week before, slipping away with one great shout of pain in his sleep, his work done. The wall across the isthmus was long finished, of course, testament to him. Pausanias’ father had been the living embodiment of Spartan obedience and quiet strength. He had cast a long shadow over his son.