‘Take your hoplites, Aristides, all eight thousand. I will remain. If the Persians move against you, they’ll know I will hit them in the flank.’

Aristides dipped his head in acknowledgement. Every passing moment was one they might need.

‘They have so many men, they could send twenty thousand after me and still be ready for you as you come down.’

‘No one is ever ready for us,’ Pausanias said softly. ‘How many do you want?’

‘Your helots are the only ones close enough to go right now. Send, what, thirty thousand with me? The Persians would have to split their army to attack so many. If they do that, you can take them in the flank. If they fear trickery and stay in their camp, we will secure the caravan.’

Pausanias hesitated. Aristides could see a change in him, a sudden pressure. He lowered his head a touch and the gaze he turned on Aristides made the older man want to take a step back. Whatever caused the peculiar tension passed like a breeze.

‘Very well, Athenian,’ Pausanias said. It was an odd form of address. ‘But my helots are not soldiers. You will not make them so. They have some blades and spears … they’ll act the part if I order it. Just …’ His expression twisted as if he had eaten something sour, as if he didn’t want to speak the words. ‘They are like children, Aristides. Don’t … get them all killed.’

Aristides felt his eyes widen. He recalled an old tale of Ares and Aphrodite. Those gods had made a son together. The child, that joining of war and love, had been named Phobos – fear. Aristides wondered how many others had learned as much of Spartan society and then lost their life before they could tell anyone. The thought made him swallow, his throat dry.

‘We are agreed, then?’ Aristides said.

He needed the formal command. Pausanias dipped his head.

‘Secure the caravan – bring it back or burn it. Take your hoplites … and the helots. Apollo guard and bless you, Aristides.’

They clasped hands briefly and then Aristides changed his manner, raising his voice to snap orders as if the Spartan regent was already back with his men.

‘Helots! To me. By order of Pausanias. Follow me down to the plain.’

He was not surprised at how fast they rose and followed him, gathering weapons and tools. They had been born to slavery, over a hundred generations. It was all they knew.