The caravan trundled around the edge of a great desert and the days fled as his beard and hair grew long. On the fortieth day, when he could no longer stand looking like a wild man, he asked the barber to oil and curl his beard, plaiting his hair in the Persian style. After that, it sat as a weight on his neck, but itched less.

He lost some days to fever and three to loose bowels, so that he had to halt by the side of the road and groan. Most of that time had passed in a blessed blur, though he lost weight and strength alarmingly. His driver kept offering him fruit from hands as filthy as any Themistocles had ever seen, clearly worried about his precious charge.

By the sixtieth day, Themistocles knew he could no longer find his way back on his own, even if they set him free. A man could have spent a lifetime wandering through the forests and mountains they had crossed. They had passed through an empty world, with just a few herdsmen living lonely lives far away from their fellows. As they’d crossed a shallow river ford, his guards had chased off a young male lion watching them, crashing their swords onto shields and making a great clamour until the beast spooked and ran. Some of them wanted to hunt it down for the pelt, but the caravan master only pointed to Themistocles. There were sullen looks for days after, but he could do nothing about that.

He spent each day in a state of stupor, almost, with nothing to amuse him but looking back over the past. He ate with the others, from bowls he wiped out and handed back. He felt his mind dull over time, like a knife unused, so that he struggled to recall particular words, or the faces of his children. Each time, ten thousand times, he told himself there was no going back. If he had judged wrong, the choice was still made. He found himself muttering entire conversations he wished he’d had, or speaking to his wife as if she stood next to him. The driver of his cart spoke no Greek, nor was he a good teacher of his own tongue. Whenever Themistocles pointed to something and asked the name, the man would just stare at him. He was a miserable old fellow, perhaps overawed at meeting a Greek. Or perhaps he had been kicked in the head by one of the mules and camels, Themistocles did not know.