He opened his mouth to speak, but Eurybiades gave him no time, even to assess the wound. The Spartan had not come to duel for points, but to kill a man. Themistocles felt his senses fire as the blades clashed again. He managed to block two blows, though he took another gash on his forearm. Blood dripped in fat drops from his elbow as he held the arm up. It hurt, but his pride hurt worse. He longed for a shield, or some advantage over the vicious bastard cutting him to pieces. His eyes narrowed in thought as Eurybiades came in again. Athenian cunning was the only edge he had.

Quick as thought, Themistocles reached down and dragged fingers through the grass, then held the hand closed. The action had brought Eurybiades in again, so that he had to defend madly. Yet the Spartan had seen him grab whatever it was. When Themistocles opened his left hand at him, Eurybiades ducked away on instinct, expecting dust or a stone. There was nothing – there hadn’t been time to pick anything up. Instead, Themistocles stepped forward and hammered a massive left cross against the side of the Spartan’s head.

It wasn’t perfect. Even as he fell, Eurybiades managed to lash out with his sword, cutting Themistocles deeply in the calf muscle. Yet it landed, an impact with all his weight behind it. In a split second, the Spartan lay dazed and panting, blinking up at the sun. Themistocles lowered his sword to Eurybiades’ throat and paused there, looking him in the eye.

‘Spartans don’t box,’ Themistocles reminded him. ‘Your life is mine, Eurybiades. Give me your word you will not seek me out again and I will let you live. Surrender to me.’

The Spartan looked to one side, to where his sword had fallen. His eye was already swelling and a great bruise was forming on his face. He sighed.

‘No,’ he said.

Themistocles nodded once and shoved the blade down, working it back and forth until all noise and movement ceased. When he stood, the blade came up with him, bright red in the sun. He tossed it onto the grass alongside the other.

Xanthippus saw Themistocles was trembling, the reaction to coming so close to his own death.

‘We really did come to warn you,’ Epikleos said. ‘He’s been all over the city, dropping your name. Honestly, he’s lucky a few of your hoplites didn’t kill him.’

‘Yes,’ Themistocles replied, looking down at the body on his field. ‘He’s a lucky man.’