Pausanias turned to him with the same raised eyebrow, as if his face had frozen on one side. After a pause long enough for everyone there to know he had not been forced into the decision, he nodded.

‘Very well. Fetch your horses. Do your best to keep up. We will not wait for unfit men.’

Pausanias had not been exaggerating, Xanthippus had realised. As kings went, he did not stand on ceremony, or send envoys in his stead. The Spartan regent rode like a man in a race for his life, speaking hardly a word whenever Xanthippus tried to engage him. Pausanias had set out with the sun barely clear of the mountains and then ridden north with a dozen of his personal guard, back up the road to the isthmus. In the small city of Argos, they had been allowed to exchange mounts around noon. Tisamenus had shared twists of dried meat he kept under his saddle, warm from the horse’s flesh. The four Athenians ate theirs with relish, though by then starvation made even ancient meat taste glorious.

Back on the road north, Xanthippus settled a piece into his cheek to suck and make last. He noted Pausanias did the same, the Spartan regent looking coldly on as Cimon drew on a wineskin, holding it above his head to get the last drops. They rode hard and for once Xanthippus did not begrudge the young man his comfort.

The night was spent on the side of the road, their horses hobbled. Tisamenus produced another handful of the brown sticks to chew. No fire was lit and it seemed that was all the food or comfort that would be provided before sleep. The animals dozed lightly enough to warn them of wolves or lions. Xanthippus actually found the dusty earth slightly more comfortable than the pitifully thin mattress of the night before. He noted how Pausanias and the Spartans slept wrapped in their cloaks. He knew they were buried in them, in simple plots that bore only a name carved in stone. Their helots were buried without even that, in graves unmarked. The riding party had passed some on the road outside Sparta, simple mounds of earth stretching in rows. Xanthippus had seen a posy of amaranth flowers left on one, dried by the wind.

The riding party reached the wall on the isthmus as the sun was rising again. The Athenians were stiff and ruffled by then, their hair wild. In comparison, the Spartans looked as they always did. They moved well enough as they dismounted and handed over the horses to be checked.

The camp on the Spartan side had turned out when their scouts warned of an armed party approaching. There was no sleepy surprise there, though the sun rose behind them. Pausanias inspected the men and headed into the largest tent.

‘Where is he going?’ Xanthippus asked Tisamenus.