Epikleos knelt by the archon and strategos of Athens.

‘Your son was … grieving for a time. I told him you would heal and be his father once again.’

‘I am,’ Xanthippus said.

Silence slipped between them like a knife and remained. After a long time, Xanthippus murmured on the edge of sleep.

‘I killed that man’s son.’ He began to sob softly. ‘I left the father alive to feel the way I feel.’

‘I am … sorry to hear that,’ Epikleos said, with a sigh.

He had held out hope that Xanthippus might have turned from his rage at the last moment. It was one thing to kill men in battle, when it had to be done. Executing a child in spite and rage was a wound that cried out to the gods. Xanthippus knew it.

‘If I could have the day again, if I could go back and change it …’

‘I know, Xan. I know,’ Epikleos said. It was the cry of all weak men and he had not expected it from his oldest friend. Rather than reply, he rose, leaving Xanthippus to choke out his grief into the folds of the cloak, the sounds muffled and terrible. The storm would pass, he knew. Or at least, it would lose its edge, the terrible sharpness of the first cut. Wounds scarred in time, but the skin was never stronger than before.

Epikleos stood at the prow for a time. He could smell smoke on the air, but the ships had turned at anchor and faced west. Athens lay over the horizon. For all he knew, it was in ruins once again, with a Persian army victorious. He prayed for Aristides and their allies, that they had come through.

Aristides felt old, with every cut and wrenched limb making itself known. He had marched and fought since the first hours of the day. He had seen helots slaughtered like lambs. His own Athenians had been surrounded, battered back and back in a great sea of the enemy. Yet at the very heart, Pausanias and the Spartans had stood. They had been a golden stone in the flood – and the Persians had broken against them. Aristides thought he would not forget that, not if he lived for another fifty years.

There had been no respite when the Persians tried to retreat to their camp. Pausanias had given orders to pursue, close on their heels. No rallying point would be allowed for them that year, no refuge. They had come to Greece with trumpets sounding; they would not be allowed to go home on their own terms. Aristides had dipped his head with the rest, putting aside all mercy.