Themistocles shook his head. He doubted he would declare his friendship with Xanthippus in that place. The man had run mad for a while, yet still returned as a hero in Athens. He still had a statue raised on the Acropolis! Themistocles felt his shoulders sag. He would not judge another man for the foolishness of crowds.

He found his nervousness increasing as they eased closer to the docks. Merchant ships could not anchor in the bay, not when there was cargo to unload. They had to make their way in under a scrap of sail, with no more than the helmsman at the stern and the captain at the prow to guide them in. Some of the crew had climbed the mast to hang across the yard there, feet resting on just a slender rope. It seemed to be more for fun than to call down warnings.

Themistocles saw another merchant being towed in by a six-oared port boat, but his captain waved off the offer of another. With the breeze barely a breath, he brought his ship in. Two of his lads threw heavy ropes to shore crew. Themistocles listened to them creak as they were wound around stanchions and grew taut. The ship steadied and the crew were briefly busy as a hive, then still. They had a day of hard labour ahead of them, unloading the amphorae in the hold. Themistocles would not see it. He swallowed, nervously. There were Persians in the crowd, officials even. Two of them approached the ship, ready to tally the contents and take a bribe, or whatever they called the local tax.

Themistocles had stood in a battle line and fought the sort of men who wore oiled beards and panelled coats to their knees. There were not many of them in the crowd there, but the few he saw were all armed. The hand of Persia clearly still reached as far as the city of Smyrna on their western coast. Themistocles felt his jaw clench as he straightened his shoulders and stood behind another passenger waiting to disembark. A bridge of planking had been attached to the side, so that they could walk down. It creaked against the port with the small movements of the ship, still defiantly alive, though they had bound her.

‘Thank you, kurios,’ Themistocles called to the captain.

The man barely nodded, already involved in dickering over port fees. Themistocles walked down and felt the world sway for a few paces. He eyed the Persians in conversation with the captain and shook his head. He needed someone more senior if his plan was to have any hope at all. He had only a little money left for bribes, or even food. In that place, with the sun beating hard upon his neck and his throat dry, he felt like a desperate man.

He turned back to the captain, interrupting the negotiations so that all three turned on him with a scowl.