The cold reached through the fog in both of them. Xanthippus had not asked for help, not once. He recalled people laughing at him when he’d fallen, twisting his damned knee. Yet there was a lake of sorrow in him still, deep enough to drown a man. Epikleos had stayed with the archon and navarch, with his friend, trying to keep him safe, never letting him go off on his own. There had been both threats and offers the night before, of course. Xanthippus was the hero of Salamis, returned. He was loved by many, though for some he was also the one who had freed their slaves without compensating them.

Epikleos had remained at his side for other reasons too, knowing his friend’s mood could turn darker and darker if he left him alone. Some men never thought of the death of friends and loved ones, or the men they had killed. Xanthippus was not one of those. His dreams were always terrible. Death haunted him, the loss of his son most of all.

The stranger from the room came weaving out then, practically falling into the river, so that he hit the water with a dull smack. Xanthippus could hear a woman’s voice calling inside the building. He squinted over the field.

‘Is Themistocles around?’ he asked. ‘This is his place, isn’t it? I came here once.’ He winced in memory of another evening, so many years before. It was someone else’s life.

‘I hope so. I don’t have any money,’ Epikleos said, without opening his eyes.

The stranger was drowning, that was clear. Epikleos seriously considered letting the fool continue to thrash about, then relented, stepping back in and heaving him onto the grass. The man took a huge breath and spluttered. Epikleos pushed at him in disgust and he wandered off.

Xanthippus nodded. Memories of the night before bubbled to the surface. He remembered wanting to see the one who had arranged his exile, who had taken seven years of his life from him. Had he been going to fight Themistocles? Was that it? Wisps came and went, teasing him. He blamed Themistocles for a great deal. Of course, the war with Persia was over. It was an interesting thought. Whatever truce had existed between them was over as well. There was something else, though, he could sense it.

‘I owe him,’ Xanthippus said.

Epikleos nodded and shrugged.

‘So you said last night, a hundred times. So you told Aristides. Do you not remember? He said you should wait until the Spartan had finished. That there might not be much left for you.’

Xanthippus stared for a long time. His lip stuck out as he searched his recollection in vain.

‘What Spartan?’ he said at last.