Xanthippus could not pursue them. He tapped his thigh and looked in confusion at the bright blood on his hand. He had taken a wound and it still ran. Yet there was no pain at all. It was oddly discomforting. The ranks around him pushed on, with all those who had not exchanged a blow trying to get a taste before they were told to stop. The sight of Persians in full retreat was like strong drink in their blood and they laughed as they picked up speed. Some of them looked over in awe to those who had fallen. Yet they were young men and their prey was running. It seemed like just moments before they were past and Xanthippus panted alone with his two sons.

Ariphron was pale as he sank to one knee. He seemed to bow to his father as he sat there, hunched over his wound. Xanthippus dropped down beside him. With sharp tugs and cuts, he tore a strip of cloth from his tunic. The rule had always been to tend your own wounds first, before others. Yet he could not watch Ariphron bleed and do nothing. He cursed as his fingers fumbled. The end would not come free and he picked up the sword once more.

Epikleos came across the field. Cimon had gone on, but when Xanthippus looked up, he was grateful his friend was there. The battle had moved on ahead, with the Persians in full flight. Only a few hundred Greeks remained around them, to cut throats. Some on both sides preferred a quick end. The Persians were not given a choice.

With a neat movement, Epikleos took the strip of cloth. Though Xanthippus tried to protest, he knotted it around the leg. Xanthippus looked blearily at it, blinking as the blood flow slowed.

‘It will need to be cleaned properly, in wine and honey, then stitched,’ Epikleos said, as if to a child. ‘It’s deep, but with a little luck and care, it will be just one more scar by next year.’

Xanthippus looked at him, but the world swam and he could not speak. He tried to turn Epikleos away from him towards his sons. He could see Pericles was wrapping another strip around Ariphron. His youngest son moved like a bird, with quick, shaking hands. He had no expertise, no knowledge. In his helplessness, all he could do was rip up his tunic, wrap and press. The boy sat with blood smeared across his face, where he had wiped sweat. Pericles’ eyes were huge with panic as darkness poured through the pad of cloth.