The wall on which he and Themistocles stood was still little more than a foundation running around Athens. Yet its creation had employed a thousand masons and their teams since the Persians had gone. Those men had been given silver taken from the earth at Laurium, ore refined to pure metal, then cut, shaped and stamped as coins, with images of Athena and Heracles. They spent them in the markets of the city, on whatever scraps came in. Stone by stone, they rebuilt.

Fishing boats went out each morning to feed the people, then again all night, with lamps hanging over the sides to attract curious squid. There were even six merchant ships by then, refitted from damaged galleys. Holds had been created where oarsmen once sat, ready to be filled. That vital little group ran as far south as Crete across the Aegean, bringing meat, wood, tools, vital oil and blessed wine back to the mother city. It gave men like Aristides hope they could eventually restore their fortunes, if they were just left alone. His people endured. If a great storm passed overhead, they came out into the damp new day and sharpened their tools. If there were bodies, they buried the dead and mourned, but they went on. They always had, with just a little more pride than most. In this year, named for Xanthippus as eponymous archon, all they had to do was turn back a Persian host the like of which they had never known.

‘They come,’ Themistocles said.

Aristides sighed.

‘Yes, I see.’

Themistocles glowered at him.

‘You would deny me even simple pleasures, Aristides? I am filled with joy. We did it – we brought them out.’

‘I hear “we” but I think you mean “I”,’ Aristides said with a twist of his mouth that was not quite humour. He was still watching the Spartans approach, a sight to inspire dread, fear and awe in roughly equal parts.

Themistocles snorted.

‘I do not deny my part in saving the city, Aristides. How could I? Nor do I deny yours. It’s just that … I did more. If you find a statue to me on your return, don’t look surprised. Somewhere on the Acropolis, perhaps. In bronze, or white marble. Perhaps you will find one to you as well. At my feet. Looking up in adoration.’

Aristides glanced over. They had never been friends. In fact, they had detested one another for more years than he could remember. He was beginning to realise, however, that he rather liked the man he disliked so much. Themistocles never missed a chance to needle and annoy him, but they stood on the same side and loved the same things. Perhaps that was all that mattered.

‘Are you sure you would not prefer to take our hoplites out?’ Aristides said. ‘I think I could run the city in your absence. If you wanted.’

Themistocles shook his head.