Xanthippus looked at Cimon, then Relas, who seemed to have retreated into a sullen anger. All four of them tried to ignore the attention of red-cloaked men in the camp before them. Perhaps two or three hundred Spartans slept on their cloaks in that place, ready to defend the wall. Those men were curious enough to stop their labours and exercise, coming instead to stand close to the road. In the distance, a plume of dust rose behind a runner, naked but for a pair of sandals, carrying news. Xanthippus thought of poor Pheidippides, who had run from Athens to Sparta and back, bringing word of a previous invasion. Four days on the road, with no more than a few hours’ sleep. It had been that run, surely, rather than the one from Marathon to Athens, that had cost him his life.

‘You showed great restraint, Relas,’ Xanthippus said suddenly. He had raised two sons. He knew the importance of a few words in the right place. He waited a few beats before going on. ‘Your discipline did you credit. I will not forget.’

Relas nodded without replying, a faint flush spreading.

They mounted up and began to trot, with the setting sun on their shoulder. Xanthippus said nothing when Cimon fished out a wineskin from his pack and passed it around. He refused it himself, however. There were times when Xanthippus understood young men about as well as he did the Spartans – or the Persians. They were all strange breeds.

Alexander of Macedon was an impressive figure as he stood before the Assembly of Athens. His cloak and armoured tunic did little to hide the breadth of his shoulders or his height. His hair was a paler blond than that of Themistocles, so that it looked like polished bronze or gold in the sunlight.

Some twenty thousand had come to the Pnyx that day, earning the name that meant ‘packed in’. Beyond those, the entire city was aware of the presence of Macedonians in their city, all waiting to hear what it might mean. Even building work had ceased, so that silence and a breeze spread across the hill.

‘Speak then, Alexander, king of Macedon,’ Themistocles said. He sat with Aristides, one knee raised above the seat, his hands casually curled around his shin.

The man looked up to the sky for a moment, choosing his words.

‘You’ll know by now that I come as an envoy, protected by truce, in peace. Athens and Macedon are not at war.’

Themistocles might have replied, but Aristides reached out and tapped him on the foot that rested on the stone. Themistocles subsided reluctantly. The Macedonian observed the exchange and inclined his head in gratitude.