Themistocles embraced his wife and children one by one. Some of those present had cheered the epistates when he announced the vote was carried. Others stood aghast, refusing to believe it. Themistocles inclined his head. He was not meant to speak, even then. The Scythians knew the law well, but even their officer looked stunned.

‘The gods bless you all,’ Themistocles called to them. ‘Thank you. I am free.’

Without another word, even as the Scythians began to growl, he turned with his family and made his way down the hill.

35

The house and garden were on the very edge of a wild coast, a day south of the city of Argos on the Peloponnese and outside the influence or power of Athens. It was quiet there, with only the sound of the sea and a few birds calling. Cicadas creaked contentedly in the olive trees, enjoying the noon sun.

There was no road to speak of. At the edge of the property, Cimon dismounted on scrub grass, dropping his reins over an ancient gatepost. He looked around in appreciation, breathing in the smell of the sea. He understood that appeal well enough.

A little way off, the ground sloped away down to a stretch of shingle and blue water, carved out from cliffs and always in shadow. A boat had been dragged up on the shore there, a fisherman’s hull with one small mast and a sail folded across a sun-whitened seat. The boat was tied to an iron stake against the chance of some storm carrying it off. Cimon saw nets there too, pegged out to dry in the sun. He could hear chickens somewhere nearer the house. The smallholding had the look of a happy place, well tended, perhaps even loved. He nodded, approvingly.

No one seemed to have noticed his arrival.

‘Hello, the house!’ Cimon called, then waited, standing at the wall of the property.

It was just a little thing. He could easily have stepped over it, but it marked the world on one side – and the property of Themistocles on the other. Row upon row of vines stretched along one side of the house, the leaves dark green. Cimon was admiring those when the man who watered and pruned them stepped out onto the path. Themistocles wiped his forehead with the back of one hand, putting down a basket already filled with grapes. He did not look pleased to see Cimon standing at his gate. Like a statue, Themistocles stood across his path, sickle in hand.