Xanthippus felt a great shudder of nerves for them, his stomach twisting beneath his breastplate. Yet pride swelled there too, that he stood with his sons, boys he had once thrown high into the air. Before exile, before invasion, before war. Xanthippus had felt his life change, the very moment Agariste had first handed Ariphron to his arms. In that single beat of time, he had shifted, from being a son to being a father. It came with fear as well as joy. He knew in his heart he could not protect them from life’s perils – or that if he did, he would ruin them. Still, he felt fresh sweat trickle in his armpits.

Spartans would have understood, he thought. Xanthippus had once heard life described as a swallow coming in through a window, dipping through a sunlit room, then out once more into the dark. If that truly was existence, whatever lay beyond , nothing in the world could matter more than raising a son. Nothing. The Spartans were said to have a great ‘contempt for pleasure’, that they saw only what was important. He did not know about that. It seemed a bleak existence. Yet to see Ariphron standing strong and healthy in helmet and greaves, to see Pericles with a shield on his back and a spear in his hand, was a glory Xanthippus did not think he could have explained to another. Still, he felt one finger pick at the nail of his thumb, worrying the skin until it bled.

‘Please , father,’ Pericles murmured. Ariphron nodded too, giving permission.

Xanthippus breathed out, dipping his head.

‘Very well. Stay close behind Ariphron, Pericles. Watch his back in the phalanx.’

He saw tears glitter in his youngest son’s eyes as he spoke, hardly able to believe he had not been sent back to the ships. The boy grinned like the sun rising and Xanthippus saw Ariphron slap Pericles on the shield across his shoulders, making it ring. His boys laughed together and Xanthippus felt sick, already regretting it. The men of Athens nodded to him when he met their gaze, approving his choice. Pericles was a popular lad with the crew.

The phalanx formed on the beach, eight ranks deep and dense with men. Their expressions darkened as they formed up, sensing bloody work ahead and old memories mingling. Epikleos had gathered the hoplites of Athens and half a dozen small states. Xanthippus had not observed his friend establishing who was senior there. One of Cimon’s lochagoi officers seemed to have a swollen cheek and split lip, but Epikleos and Cimon were both inspecting the lines peaceably enough as Leotychides approached their position.