‘In part. He says you took personal items from him that you have kept for yourself.’ Cimon looked around him, as if expecting to see gold ornaments. He sighed. ‘I believe it is more that you used silver from the mines at Laurium to pay the slaves Xanthippus freed. They say that was an illegal act, that they were still slaves at that point.’

Cimon felt himself flush with embarrassment. It sounded more like the hounding of a man rather than justice. He could not return the gaze Themistocles cast on him.

‘It sounds like they just want to see me broken,’ Themistocles said.

Slowly, Cimon nodded.

‘Aristides said something like that. He found me as one he could trust and sent me out to warn you before they came. It will be Scythians – at least a dozen of them, sent to arrest you on behalf of the Assembly.’

‘If I go willingly, they will say I broke my own exile …’ Themistocles muttered, ‘which is punishable by death. ‘Yet if I fight, they will kill me …’

Cimon emptied his cup. There was still dust on his hands, he saw, flecks of it driven into his skin like a slave tattoo. He had ridden like a madman, risking his neck on broken ground to give Themistocles time, to bring news that made him ashamed to be an Athenian.

‘There might be hope, still,’ Cimon said. ‘You have allies. Aristides will certainly speak for you – and Xanthippus, though he has been ill for months now.’

‘No …’ Themistocles said softly. ‘No, I see it now. They owe me too much and so they will always hate me. I cannot even stay here and live at peace. Even that will never be enough for them.’

He seemed to come out of a trance then, his gaze sharpening. His voice lost the dreamlike quality. He reached across and gripped Cimon by the wrist.

‘You have my thanks, Cimon. I know your father Miltiades would be proud of the man you have become.’

‘You spoke at his funeral,’ Cimon said, ‘when the world had turned against him. I will always be in your debt for that.’

‘And now all the world has turned against me,’ Themistocles said grimly.

He rose to his feet and accepted the man’s weapons from his son, passing them over.

‘How fares Athens?’ Themistocles asked suddenly, as if the words had been dragged from him.

‘Growing, busy … full of life. Aeschylus has written a new play about Marathon. You are in it, of course.’

Themistocles groaned.

‘I would have loved to see that. I wonder if I can get a copyist to send me the lines.’

Cimon bowed his head.

‘I know him quite well. He’ll do it for me, I think, as a favour.’ He held up his hand as Themistocles began to protest. ‘Please, it would be my honour.’

Themistocles took his hand in real pleasure.