‘Now, smarten yourselves up, would you?’ he said, his tone suddenly brisk. ‘We are heading to Salamis, to collect our people. So try to look less like we lost! Get a bucket and sluice the deck clean. Run a hand through your hair. We’ll have strangers on this deck before nightfall.’

His words served to snap them back to bustling action, heading this way and that as they began to remember a life before constant danger. It was as if they were waking, slowly, in joyous disbelief. Themistocles grunted. In such times, it was good to keep men busy. He could see ships already heading towards Salamis. The sea was clear of the enemy and cheering rang out across the strait. He shook his head as exhaustion threatened once more, like a weight on his eyes. Athena alone knew where they would take the women and children. Smoke continued to rise over the city and the Persian army was still there, somewhere, untested, unbeaten.

One of his men came jogging past with a bucket of seawater. Themistocles stopped him and dipped both hands in, running them through his mane of hair and slapping both cheeks. The cold helped a little. The ship rolled in the swell … He blinked. The rowers! Stiffly, Themistocles climbed down into the trench, ducking his head into the gloom and stench of the hold.

They reeked of sweat and urine, those men, of bowels made loose by poor food and constant labour. The oarsmen had lost weight alarmingly. Wherever he looked, eyes seemed too large in their heads. Ribs showed on them all, but also pride. What had been asked of them had been brutal, but there they were, alive. The gaze of the rowers was a steady one, with humour already glimmering in it. Themistocles grinned, responding to what he saw in them.

‘Gentlemen,’ he began again, ‘it has been my privilege to serve with you …’