By his estimate, it was four months since he had arrived on the Ionian coast. He had almost given up on ever seeing the Great King, as if he and the others had been doomed to wander the hills and deserts until they died, never hearing a friendly voice again. In the depths of his fever, Themistocles had begun to think he might have crossed to the plains of the afterlife. The presence of Persians made that unlikely, however.

He was smiling to himself about some memory when he realised the cart no longer rocked like a ship over rough ground. His senses began to sharpen. They had found a true road and it led … He peered into the distance, seeing houses, temples, a bridge over a river. A bridge! He felt tears come to his eyes at just that small sign of civilisation. He was caked in dust and his own filth. His hair was matted with it, his robe so dirty it was black. He was as thin as a tanner and about as noisome. There were people on the road, carrying goods and glancing at the caravan. He felt strange eyes on him for the first time in an age. Desperately, he tried to remember all the things he had told himself not to forget, all the words of conversations he had practised so many times.

His plans tore to wisps as the caravan halted in the road and Persian guards came to inspect the strange cargo. There was much conversation, with only a few words he could understand. His own name featured, repeated many times. One of the guards whistled for a horse and mounted up, digging in his heels and galloping off like a good scout. Themistocles watched him go, feeling like a ghost returned to the world.

‘Where is this?’ he called. ‘Where are we?’

A few of the guards actually dropped hands to their sword hilts when they heard his strange words. The caravan master patted the air around them, speaking sternly. He would not let his great prize be killed, Themistocles could understand that much. The brother-in-law had given too much time and wealth to bring him so far.

The street was growing busy, Themistocles saw. He realised there was no wall to this city, that the caravan had simply halted on an outer road, near what looked like a tariff house, or some official building. He supposed a city would not need an outer wall if it was part of an empire. As far as they were from the rest of the world, it was hard to imagine a hostile army ever reaching that place. From what he’d seen, they’d starve first, somewhere in the endless mountain forests.