Eleven years before, Marathon had been a victory for Athens alone, one Sparta had not even reached before the battle was won. The year before, Thermopylae had cost Sparta a great king. The fleet battles of Artemisium and Salamis had been fought by an alliance of Greek states. Yet Plataea had come down to Spartan strength of arms and Spartan will, when they were surrounded and outnumbered. And they had proved their worth.

The war was at an end. That was the news that had brought Eurybiades out, with his cloak and sandals, with his sword and kopis knife. Thebes had been ransacked and punished for their part in betraying the rest, survivors exiled without armour, lash marks across their back and ashes in their hair. Every one of their officers had been left in the dust with the slaughtered Persians. There was little mercy in the victors, not then. Persia had learned a hard lesson in reaching beyond her grasp. So had her allies in Greece.

As he’d walked the road to Athens, Eurybiades had wondered if the Persian empire would even survive. With the loss of both army and fleet, surely there would be other eyes on them, looking for a chance to steal wealth and land, to tear them into forty kingdoms once again? He hoped so.

On arrival, Eurybiades took rooms in the city. A widow seemed pleased to have him there, saying she always slept better with a man in the house than she ever did alone. She washed his travel-stained clothes and cooked for him that night. He wore little and ate less, so there was not much need. She seemed to take pleasure in looking after him even so.

When he ventured out the following dawn, he found prices had risen sharply in Athens, to his disgust. The small store of silver coins he carried had been a gift from his brother. Even an hour in a bathhouse cost him half a day’s wage! He had needed to empty his bowels and wash away the dirt and grime of the road, but it was still too much. Paying for food too was unpleasant, so that he glowered at street sellers hawking their wares. No Spartan ever ate at a street kitchen at home. Warriors took their meals in communal halls, with simple bowls and spoons provided for them. It had certainly not improved his mood to buy a skewer of cooked meat, then find it was so delicately spiced it made him want to weep.

The widow had lingered near the door to his room the night before, he’d noticed. They were all whores, in Athens. He’d had to throw the cushions off the bed, then roll his cloak and sleep on the wooden floor. He prayed to Apollo to keep him safe from all their foul temptations.