‘The people need someone to love, Aristides. To inspire them, you know. They see me as a father to them. More, I know all the mine crews and the coin setters. There is no time now to introduce you to those.’

Aristides looked at the man he had watched over thirty years or so, going from a young lion of Athens to one with streaks of silver in the mane. No, he still detested him.

As well as a mocking manner that seemed designed to infuriate a serious man, it was irritating that Themistocles had retained so much of his hair. He still looked strong and vital, while Aristides had gone bald and shaved close what little he had left. He had not thought it would matter, indeed felt a little ashamed of himself, but it did. No man was completely free of vanity, it seemed, not even him. Aristides felt the weight of years, especially when he woke up in the mornings and everything hurt for the first few steps. The prospect of marching to war alongside young Spartans was a cruel one. He set his jaw, feeling the sinews of his neck stand out against the skin. He would do what he had to, no matter the cost. He suspected Themistocles felt the same way, but spent at least as much energy making it look easy. Or perhaps some things truly were easy for him. Aristides saw life as a bitter struggle, and all the more valuable for it. Themistocles saw it … He shook his head. Athena alone knew how Themistocles saw it.

Both of them looked over as eight thousand Athenian hoplites marched out of the city, halting on the plain to the west. They gleamed gold in the sun, the light reflecting from wide shields, helmets, spears and greaves. Many were in the flower of their youth and strength. Others had stood at Marathon, eleven years before.

Aristides looked over them in pride. The Assembly had elected him their polemarch. On any other field, in any other year, his eight thousand would have been a fearsome enemy, the envy or terror of all who saw them. That day, though, the hoplites of Athens shaded their eyes to watch Spartans marching, red cloaks whipping back and forth, drawing closer with every step. The Spartans did not carry their shields before them, not while they marched to meet an ally. Those shone on the wings of their ranks, borne by their helot slaves. Aristides could hardly believe the numbers of those.

‘In truth, I do not envy you, Themistocles,’ Aristides said. ‘Run your mines and your coin shops. I’ll march with these.’

‘I think you do envy me, though,’ Themistocles said. ‘But who can blame you?’