Themistocles remembered being a happy drunk when he had lived in Athens. Wine had released his love of pranks and song, so that he was more likely to injure himself falling off a table than anyone else. For some reason, the Persian reds brought out melancholy, stealing through him as he rode.

When he reached the king’s hall, Themistocles was relieved at first to find no new group of Persians waiting to be entertained by him. The long room was darker than before and empty of the usual crowds, even of the servants who usually waited around the king like ghosts. Only the translator stood at the king’s side, like a statue in oiled wood.

Xerxes sat his throne with one bare leg hooked over the arm. When he rose from it, he wobbled. Themistocles bit the inside of his lip rather than risk a smile. The king was at least as drunk as Themistocles had been. The long ride had sobered Themistocles up and he felt more his old self than before. In fact, he was starving. He lowered himself to the floor and pressed his forehead against cool polished stone. He waited a beat, then rose to look up at Xerxes.

The young king wore a kilt of gold strips, with some sort of armoured piece of gold across his shoulders, held by wire or threads. His eyes were glassy as he looked on Themistocles.

‘I knew you would come, Themistocles. If I asked you. You are a loyal man,’ he said. There was a slight slurring to his words, though not when they were repeated in Greek by his man.

Themistocles bowed in response. He had not seen Xerxes like this before. He suspected the young king was at least as dangerous drunk as he was sober – and Themistocles knew they would not truly be alone. Somewhere in the vast darkness along the edges of that hall, where the torches did not reach, armed men would surely stand. He breathed slowly, trying to be calm.

‘I came to see my father in this place,’ Xerxes said. Wine spattered as he waved a cup of it. He saw the drops bead like blood on the polished stone and shrugged, waving his other hand. ‘I came here, when he was dying, when he asked me to finish the work he had begun.’ His face creased in sudden grief, like a child. ‘I could not do it. I let him down. I lost Mardonius and his sons. I lost Hydarnes and the Immortals … Masistius, master of horse. Hundreds of ships. All gone.’

Themistocles felt cold sweat trickle between his shoulder blades. He could not help glancing at the goblet the king was waving. There was no slave to refill it, he noticed. Could he ask for a cup?