‘I am sorry, but I have news the port master must hear,’ he said.

‘Tell me and I will pass it to him,’ one of the Persians said immediately.

‘It is a personal matter … I was told to speak to the most senior Persian officer in this city.’

‘How can it be personal, then?’ one asked, smiling at his own cleverness.

‘In the sense that if he does not help me, it will eventually mean his neck.’

The smile vanished and both officials looked him up and down in suspicion. Themistocles was used to dealing with petty authority. He waited in silence until one of them shrugged, happy to pass on whatever problem he was to someone else.

‘If you waste his time, you will regret it. His name is Jaavan and at this time …’ he glanced at the sun, ‘you will find him in warehouses at the far end of this dock. Be polite, Greek. He will have your hand if you displease him.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Themistocles said with a smile. ‘Better men have tried.’

The officials blinked at that response.

‘I hope your stomach is better,’ the captain said. With a jerk of his head, he indicated Themistocles should leave.

Themistocles nodded.

‘Much better, thank you.’

He bowed his head and left them staring after him.

Themistocles had imagined a quiet place, stacked high with sacks of grain. The reality was the sort of chaos he associated with the Agora of Athens. Piles of goods were held clear of their neighbours by stalls made of wood or just painted lines on the floor. A thousand voices seemed to be calling at the same time, a noise which had grown as he walked the length of the docks and then past a dozen buildings that were no more than a roof and beams at the corners. He heard Persian as well as Greek, but the main tongue seemed to be trade, with prices and offers called at the top of their voices. In fifty paces, he asked directions twice and had to refuse a coat draped across his shoulders. He kept one hand on his sword and the other gripping sandals and a pouch of coins.