Xanthippus did not step over. With grey at his temples and a character steadied by bitter experience, he would not take a wild risk just for the joy of youth. Themistocles saw the man’s arm had been wrapped. Worse, a great swollen knot showed on his forehead, where something had struck him. Arrows too had been snapped off on his deck, standing up like stems of some strange weed. Still, he returned Xanthippus’ gaze without shame or apology. They had all been in the fighting that day, killing other men, boarding or butchering Persians intent on the same.

There was no patience in Xanthippus. He had come in answer to the signal flag. He jerked his head up in question, wanting to be away and back to the battle.

‘Well, father, I came,’ Cimon said, standing at his side.

Themistocles eyed the younger man, irritated at the term. He was not that old! Though he had known Cimon’s father. In reply, Themistocles took a breath to carry his voice to Xanthippus, all while the waves lifted and dropped him down, a beat later than the deck under Themistocles.

Themistocles swallowed, hesitating. The words were harder to say than he had thought.

‘I sent a message to the Persian king, to Xerxes,’ he called out.

Xanthippus had been looking stern before. His brows tightened in thunderous astonishment at that.

‘You did what ? Without asking me?’

‘What was the message, old man?’ Cimon said.

There was a sort of bleakness in his tone and Themistocles saw his hand was on the hilt of a short sword worn at his waist. Themistocles rolled his shoulders and took a subtly different stance, his feet planted firmly on the deck. He had boxed and wrestled from his earliest youth. No matter how young Cimon was, or how valuable as a commander, if he drew that blade, Themistocles knew he would pitch him into the sea.

More ropes slapped against the deck at his feet. His own hoplites drew the galley that carried Xanthippus closer, decks rubbing strips of lighter wood alongside, until the man could take a single long step across. Themistocles felt himself bristling at being crowded on his own ship.

‘Well, Themistocles?’ Xanthippus demanded. ‘What have you done?’

He and Cimon stood almost on either side of him, as if they confronted an enemy. Themistocles wondered if his crew would defend him if he came under attack.

‘I sent a boy to him, there – on the beach where Xerxes came to watch us fight, as if we are all athletes at the Olympics. I told him we would surrender …’