Alexander of Macedon glowered as he walked behind Aristides. On all sides, he saw destruction, the results of fire and men. He understood the bitterness in the one who led him to the Pnyx hill. In that place, walking through the ruins of a once proud city, ally to the king of Persia did not seem quite the boast it had before.

He looked up the hill, to where the Assembly had gathered. They were still coming in, striding past him, casting curious glances at the strangers walking with Aristides. Alexander firmed his jaw and gestured for Aristides to lead on. He had been given a task by Mardonius. Though he sensed pain and anger and humiliation on every side, he had given his word. They had chosen to stand against the hosts of Persia, not him! This was their reward, the proof of his own wisdom in making Macedonia a Persian ally. Alexander had taken gold and offered dust and water to a foreign king. The wisdom of that decision was all around him. Even so, he felt a weight in his stomach as he glanced back, looking over a city burned.

‘Why do you sigh, Macedonian?’ Aristides asked suddenly.

‘The death of a city is a sad thing to witness,’ Alexander replied.

‘The death …?’ Aristides repeated in astonishment. ‘We are the city, not wood and stone. We will rebuild. If it falls again, we will rebuild again! A thousand times over. This is sacred ground, Macedonian. Perhaps you do not understand that, knowing only your northern hills and forests. This is the very eye and heart of the world. Come back in a year, or two. You’ll see. We have plans for a temple to Athena on the Acropolis that will make the old one look like a stable. The death of a city!’ He shook his head and chuckled.

Alexander smiled tightly, but chose not to reply. He had watched corpses trundled along a street below. He had seen burned timbers and wailing children held by their mothers, with no man to protect them. More, he had seen the Persian army that had brought down Athens’ walls. There was no hope for these people, though perhaps they did not know it. There was no hope at all.

13

Xanthippus wondered if it had been a mistake after all to bring Cimon. The young man was visibly drunk once again, his eyes red and glassy as he rode. Xanthippus suspected the one named Relas had brought skins of wine in his pack. They muttered together in grinning conspiracy, then could be seen staggering whenever they dismounted to empty bladder or bowel. Xanthippus had seen the same kind of half-guilty bravado in his sons when they had been drinking and didn’t want him to know. He worried he had brought the wrong man to impress abstemious Spartans. He raised his voice and tried again.