Slowly, Themistocles eased himself down to stand in the road. His movement drew the immediate attention of a guard. The man pointed at him and barked something, clearly ordering him to stay on the cart. Themistocles blinked at him and stood, yawning. He had come a long way and in that moment, he was more alone than he had ever been. Perhaps it was a strength, he was not sure. Certainly, he felt himself, though weary and thin. He was not the man his wife expected him to be in that place, or even … an archon of Athens. He was perhaps his mother’s son, still. Shorn of all authority and wealth, he had his wits and his endurance. He only hoped he had not been brought across half the world just to be executed as a gift for the king. The thought of his own appalled expression brought him to sudden laughter, a dry sound that went on and on, like a cough.

There were mountains in the distance, though he had seen so many snow-capped ranges by then that he hardly registered them. Yet he had been brought to a place where people wore good cloth and sandals in the heat of the sun, where just a little way along, a baker held up a loaf to passers-by. Themistocles found the oddest yearning in him, for the presence of others. He considered himself a lion, needing no one beyond his mate. The truth was subtler, after so long on the road. Themistocles needed to talk, to pour out good Greek in a torrent, without worrying he had gone mad. He needed to drink wine that was better than ancient vinegar, to eat fresh food instead of cheese rinds he could have used to patch a sandal. He needed the company of friends. That was simply the truth of it.

The man who came riding up to him was around his own age, though he dismounted without any great stiffness. Themistocles watched warily as the stranger came to stand before him, peering as if he had found a gem in the street.

‘You are Themistocles?’ the man asked. ‘Archon of Athens?’

Themistocles nodded in relief at hearing Greek on another’s lips.

The man shook his head in wonder.

‘The journey has been hard on you, I see. Forgive my poor Greek. It has been many years since I resided in the west.’

Themistocles held still as the man leaned over and kissed him on each cheek. He was not sure if his status as a stranger or the way he smelled prevented the man kissing his lips.

‘My name is Omid Saeed Karroubi. I am … now, how would you say it? The satrap? No, the governor of this city. You are my guest, from this moment. When you have bathed and eaten, when you have rested, I will take you to the Great King, the beloved.’