As the translator repeated the words, Xerxes nodded blearily, his wild enthusiasm flickering as he felt the effects of the wine swell his stomach. It roiled and groaned as he pressed a hand against the bare flesh. He began to climb the steps again, looking for somewhere to vomit.

‘Return in … three days, Themistocles. I will assemble the most senior men of the army to hear all you have to say. Go with God, Athenian. You are blessed and honoured.’

Themistocles prostrated himself for a third time, then left the long hall, his footsteps echoing behind him.

He arrived back at his palace on a hill later the following day. By the time the sun rose again, Themistocles had been up all night, writing furiously. The results were in a pile on his desk, each one bearing the name of one he loved. Aristides was in that pile, as well as Xanthippus and Cimon. Themistocles had written to his wife and children too, one by one. A little brazier burned by the desk, proof against the night’s chill. He had used it to mark each letter with candle wax. Silver coins had been pressed into it, enough to carry each one home.

The night had been blessedly cool, for which he was grateful. He had poured himself a little wine at some point, but melancholy had threatened once again. The cup sat, still full, before him. As the dawn strengthened, he stared out across the valley where his city nestled. There were wisps of cooking fires already rising there, families coming awake and setting about their day. It truly was beautiful. He wished his wife could have seen it, just once.

Themistocles collected the letters and pressed them to his lips, then dropped them, coins and all, into the brazier. They curled and browned as he took up the knife he had laid close by. He drained the cup of wine and placed the blade across his wrist. The sun was rising. It would be a good day. He pulled back hard, cutting deep.

When the house slaves found him, they began to scream, rousing the guards. The seneschal checked the body and shook his head, pale and frightened that he would be held responsible.

The Athenian was dead. The sun had risen and the air was growing warm.

Historical Note

The philosopher John Stuart Mill once described Plataea as more important to history than the battle of Hastings. Though often overlooked in favour of Thermopylae, or the extraordinary sea battle at Salamis, Plataea was the event that saved Greece – and with it, the idea of democracy. Perhaps it would have arisen somewhere else; perhaps not. It is true that if the alliance of Greek city states had failed there, the Persians would have secured a western empire. If they had done that, there would have been no Rome, a city of barely forty thousand people at the time of the Persian invasion.