The Persian’s eyes were very wide as he spoke, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. Themistocles bowed his head. He remembered too late that he should probably have dropped to the ground in obeisance. He had promised himself he would do it for Xerxes, but it was not a pleasant prospect, not for a free Greek. He saw the governor’s gaze searching him as if he was something very strange. He supposed he was.

By early evening, Themistocles had been bathed and given new robes and sandals. The governor’s slaves worked on him like sculptors, seeking out every scrap of dirt and then cleaning it away with brushes, oils, even tiny ivory picks for the folds of his ears. He was astonished at the muck that had clung to him, turning a huge bath black so that it had to be drained and refilled. His hair was unbound by three young women working in silence, their fingers teasing out each knot and braid. They had drawn combs through the worst of it, making his eyes water until he began to laugh at the silliness of his position. They had smiled with him, but still finished their work with seriousness and purpose.

A barber had come then to cut his hair, dropping thick locks of silver and gold onto a marble floor. Themistocles noted how those were collected up and rolled in cloth, no doubt a rarity in those parts. He refused to have his hair retied in the Persian style, though the barber grew red-faced as he tried to insist, pointing again and again at something beyond the room where they stood. Themistocles had to slap his hands away in the end, so that the man retreated with wounded dignity.

Left alone, Themistocles was about ready to sleep when the governor arrived, looking flustered. The man was actually trembling, Themistocles saw. He felt his exhaustion vanish in a flash of fear. Was he to be dragged out, executed? He clenched his fists as the man babbled in Greek.

‘You are clean! Much better, much better. You must come with me, this moment. Please, this way. The king has asked to see you. I thought it would not be until tomorrow, but His Majesty knows your name! He has sent his seneschal to bring you to him this hour. Quickly!’

Themistocles let himself be swept out of the room. He had a hollow feeling, but at least he was clean once more. If he could find a skin of good wine, he might even enjoy whatever followed. He knew the Persians cultivated vines. Some of their best reds found their way to Athens each year, or at least they had before the war. He smacked his lips, longing for just a taste to dull his fear.