He thought of the treasury he had been shown on his first day. That was a pleasant memory and he smiled at it. The head of his guards had unlocked great iron doors. Themistocles had walked into a room of gold and silver, piled carelessly. It looked like a great fortune, more than he had ever seen before. In that moment, he had found himself wondering how he might get it all back to Athens.

His smile fell away at the memory and he emptied the cup, not noticing as it was filled again. There would be no return home, that much was clear. Every few days, the Great King summoned him to the royal palace, to be paraded before friends and lords and relatives like a curiosity, a bird in a golden cage. The young king’s pleasure in him was real enough, Themistocles believed. It was just that he had come to the final house of his life. There would be no more challenges, no triumphs or disasters, ever again. All the years ahead lay in the view and the wine he drank. He grimaced.

‘Is it not to your taste, master?’ the slave asked.

His translator repeated her words in the dull monotone Themistocles had learned to detest. He had started lessons in Persian, determined to be less helpless among them. Too many of the king’s noble friends assumed there was only one language in the world. They asked him questions in their own tongue and looked offended when he had to shrug or look for the scribe who knew Greek.

Themistocles sighed to himself. He had begun to learn their names, but this particular house slave was not one he knew. Themistocles squinted at her.

‘It is very good. No, I was just thinking of the past.’

She waited for the words to be repeated in Persian, then nodded politely, retreating. He cursed under his breath. Conversation was impossible in those circumstances. He felt about as alone as he had on the journey there, but without the desperate hope that had kept him going. No one else would have thought of going to Persia, to the very heart of their royal city! He had, though. He was a man who never gave up, no matter how things turned against him. That was his gift – and he had won, again and again, because of it.