‘Before your mother’s uncle Cleisthenes was given the task of rewriting Athenian laws, the pillars of them came from a great man, Solon. He devoted his prime to writing laws for Athens. His friend Anacharsis mocked him for the years he had given to the task. This Anacharsis was a Scythian. He said laws were like spiderwebs, that they trapped the poor and weak and were torn apart by the strong. That is how it was everywhere else, do you see? Still, Solon laboured on. When he was finished, he presented his code of law to all men of Athens, rich or poor, landowner or not. He then left the city, travelling the world for ten years. He knew his people too well. He knew if he stayed, they would ask him to revise and revise, saying “Ah, but what about when a man marries for a second time?” and so on. He left so they could not change a word.’ Aristides shook his head in sadness. ‘It didn’t save his life’s work. In just a few years, men put aside his laws, acknowledging no authority but their own. Who can argue when a man has a hundred soldiers, loyal only to him? Who can stop him taking what he wants?’ Aristides sighed. ‘When Solon returned to Athens, when he was very old, he put on his hoplite armour and stood outside the house of a tyrant of the city, calling on him to go.’

‘And did he go, the tyrant?’ Pericles asked, interested despite himself.

‘No,’ Aristides said. ‘They never do. Solon died, aged eighty or so. He was a great thinker and he lived an extraordinary life.’

‘He failed, though!’ Pericles said, driven to astonishment. ‘Everything you just described was a life of failure.’

‘Was it?’ Aristides said, genuinely surprised. ‘I do not think it was. There have always been tyrants. Men like Solon are far rarer. Or your great-uncle Cleisthenes, who created ostracism as a final throw of the dice for his people. You should ask your father, Pericles, how he felt about it. If I know him, Xanthippus would say the same. There is no other authority, except for the gods – and us.’

He thought of Themistocles and smiled, though he did not explain why. He let the thought of Themistocles guide his words.

‘If a man tells you to bend the knee because he is a king, spit in his eye, just as we did with Persia. If he tells you he is a learned judge, say to him, “Does that make you noble? Are you beyond error? No, you are … not .” If a man tells you to count his gold and then bend your knee, just laugh at him. Where does authority lie in a piece of silver? On which face?’