Mountains sat around them as if they stood at the centre of a vast bowl. Soldiers in red cloaks were on guard there, while temples opened their doors to reveal lighted lamps within. That golden glow battled the dawn, illuminating the horsemen Xanthippus had seen before. They had dismounted and stood on the highest point, a flat stone, much worn by time. The horses had been led away and they waited as a group.

Xanthippus stood still, his companions settling around him. He found himself in a sea of heads as the crowd thickened and came to rest. He thought he recognised the men on the stone from descriptions by Aristides. The regent Pausanias had to be the one in the centre, deferred to whenever he murmured something and clearly in command. The fellow at his side wore a simple robe and kept his hair unbraided, as wide in the shoulder as the regent. They laughed at something together and Xanthippus nodded. It had to be the soothsayer, Tisamenus. Xanthippus recalled the pentathlon at the Olympics. He had been in the crowd that day, protected by truce. He shook his head. The young Spartans would make their own path in the world. They made him feel old, but the truth was, he had won his battles! He had fought at Marathon on land, Salamis at sea. No man could remain in the bloom of youth for ever. He glanced at Cimon and sighed. Still, it hurt to creak in the mornings. Youth was the great glory of men. He had not wasted his, but it still hurt to know it had gone.

When the acropolis was as packed as the Pnyx, Pausanias raised his hands. Xanthippus half-expected him to call for a speaker, as in the Assembly. He had forgotten the man was regent for the son of Leonidas. In that moment, Pausanias was the battle king of Sparta, with authority to send them to war, or keep them from it. The ephors may have ruled in peacetime, but with a Persian army roaming the land, Pausanias had no limit on his powers at all. It made him a danger and Xanthippus craned to hear every word.

‘… one of our listeners reached me last night, from Athens. The news is … disturbing.’

Xanthippus exchanged a sharp glance with Cimon. The light was growing stronger with every moment. The thought of actually standing on the Spartan acropolis while they discussed news of Athens – and being recognised – was an unpleasant prospect. Xanthippus wondered if he should call out his presence before someone thought they’d caught themselves a spy or a traitor. He felt sweat, or perhaps a trickle of shaving oil, run down his neck as Pausanias went on.

‘The Persians have enlisted the support of a small king, out of the north. Alexander of Macedon has gone into Athens to broker a peace with the harlots of their Assembly. He will …’