As they walked down the hill, the young regent frowned, gazing out to sea, shading his eyes to catch a glimpse of the fleets. Salamis was a blur of hills at that distance, but the detritus of fighting was already washing up along the shore. Like kohl painted on a woman’s eye, it thickened – a line of dead men and broken timbers. The sight cried out for an answer, but Aristides could not shake the Spartan from his complacency. He could not take Pausanias by the shoulder and force him to really look, to understand! Once again, Aristides sensed the lowered glance from the soothsayer, Tisamenus. The man went unarmed, though with Pausanias bristling with weapons and half a dozen Spartan guards in their wake, perhaps that was not important.

Another day was being lost, allowed to slip away. Aristides strangled desperation as it swelled in him. One thing was certain – he could not beg the Spartan for help. He had sensed that from the first moments. Pausanias was one of those who would take smirking delight in turning his face from the needs of Athens. No, he had to be persuaded, managed , if Aristides could summon the patience. He breathed out. For his people, he could.

The festival of the goddesses had come to an end just a day before, after a full month of services and sacrifices for Demeter and her daughter Persephone. Aristides had actually taken part in some of the processions, while he waited for the delegation from Sparta. Eleusis had become very familiar in the weeks since setting out from Athens with eight thousand hoplites. He and his men had doubled the local population overnight, at least until the festival of autumn had begun. The Eleusinian Mysteries had not changed, though years had flown since he’d last graced those streets and simple temples. Aristides had whispered the sacred words given only to those who had been admitted to the inner sanctum of the temple. Other worshippers had looked on with envy as he’d been waved through.

The small city still carried odours of narcissus and pomegranate on the sea air. Flower petals had been carried by the wind into drifts, browning as life fled. The crowds too were thinning as men and women made their way home, leaving behind the experiences of converts and whatever secrets they had gleaned. They hurried along, casting worried glances at Spartans marching along their streets. War was in the air, along with rumours and fear. Mendicants stood on street corners and warned of the world’s ending, calling out to the gods with eyes closed and hands outstretched, emaciated and unwashed.