Xanthippus caught the Spartan’s attention with that. The man looked Cimon over in turn, his mouth twisting as he chewed idly at one lip. The young strategos stared back with red-rimmed eyes. At least Cimon looked like the grandson of an Olympian, Xanthippus thought. The games were held on the Peloponnese every fourth summer, in a truce between all the warring cities and states of Greece. Sparta always sent a team and had a fine history at the games. As Xanthippus had hoped, the man’s interest was kindled by the news.

‘Cimon … the charioteer? The one known as Cimon Coalemos, the fool?’ he asked. Despite the name, the sardonic tone had gone from his voice.

‘He was not a fool,’ Cimon said, looking to Xanthippus. He had clearly been asked a question and he would answer it. ‘My father said he was called that because he showed no fear, even when fear was … correct.’

‘That is what I heard,’ the Spartan replied. ‘It is an honour to meet his grandson.’

To Xanthippus’ surprise, he put out a scarred hand and Cimon took it. For a moment of breathless silence, they both attempted to crush the other’s bones to dust, then let go. Xanthippus could see white marks on them both.

‘And these two?’ the Spartan said. He showed no sign that he had tested his strength against that of Cimon, nor that it had not gone well. ‘I need the names of all of you.’

‘These men are here as colleagues and servants,’ Xanthippus said. He did not look at Relas or Onesimos, who had the good sense to keep his gaze on the ground.

‘Are they mutes?’ the Spartan asked, stepping close enough for them to smell sweat and oil, like heat off his skin. He showed his teeth as Relas shook his head.

‘I am Relas of the Hippothontis. I was keleustes at the battle of Salamis. Were you there?’

The Spartan slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand, a gesture of contempt that put a smear of blood on his lip and knocked his head to one side. Relas staggered a step and looked back in astonishment. Xanthippus spoke quickly, his voice a growl.

‘We are allies, protected by custom and the oaths of your own king …’

He could hardly believe the sheer physical arrogance of the Spartan. The man stood on the balls of his feet, hands ready to lash out again, facing four men.

‘Kurios?’ Relas said to Xanthippus. ‘I am willing, if you will allow me to answer. My mother hit me like that once, when I was just talking.’

As he spoke, the burly man rolled his shoulders and cracked his head back and forth. To Xanthippus’ surprise, he saw Cimon dip his head, just enough to be a clear signal of permission. Xanthippus looked again at Relas, seeing his physique and the battered hands. Still, he wondered if the Athenian truly understood the risk.