The hand at his shoulder fell away and Jaavan turned slowly back to him, his mouth opening in astonishment. He was in the man’s power, Themistocles thought with a sinking sensation. He wondered if he would even survive the meeting. The strangest part was that he found he was enjoying himself. He had no friends around him, no wife, sons or daughters to protect and keep safe. Yet in that moment, he was the young man he had once been. Humorous, ruthless, quick-witted and trusting in himself to get the job done. It was a heady feeling, as if he’d drunk unwatered wine on an empty stomach. Either way, he could not take the words back. He’d walked right up to the cliff edge and stepped off.

Cimon sat on the stone dock and let his legs hang. He was weary and he wiped a smear of oil across his face, then cursed softly to himself. The ship that loomed over him was unnamed as yet, but he had rebuilt it – rebuilt her. There was no question she was female. A good ship could raise a man’s spirits on the breeze, but if he pushed too far, if he upset her, she could turn on him, snuffing out all happiness. He closed his eyes as he sat there, feeling the honest ache of a day’s hard work in his legs and shoulders. The sun was setting on the Piraeus and he had worked thick olive oil into every beam and joint and crevice on board, sealing the wood against sea and spray. The shine of the oil faded to dull as it sank in, but the wood would survive a generation of hard use, just as long as the ship was re-oiled every season. Some of the carpenters had suggested an Egyptian varnish, with strange substances like pine sap mixed in to give a harder shell. Oil worked best, though, drawn deep. After all, the people of Athens had chosen their patron for the tree the goddess had planted. Not Poseidon, for the salt sea.

Cimon looked up as Pericles flopped down beside him. Xanthippus’ son was just eighteen, but he had worked as hard as anyone to get those ships ready. One of them had been rebuilt right to the keel, with months of hard labour and great ribs lifted out on ropes and pulleys. The result had been all Cimon had hoped. His three captains already knew the way ships could sail and row. They were all veterans of Salamis, after all. Now they knew them to the last joint and nail. As they left Athens behind, Cimon knew he could spend a year or two at sea and not fear. They would draw maps where there were none, or redraw those that were so old they crumbled at the touch.

‘We have a dozen oars still to turn,’ Pericles said.