Xanthippus said nothing more, though anger radiated from him, making the other slaves clumsy as he checked his spear for cracks along its length. There were none. On impulse, he waved them back and whirled the great weapon around his head and body, making it sing through the air. As long and half again as he was tall, the weight of the iron-leaf point was perfectly balanced by the bronze spike at the other end – the lizard killer, as young epheboi hoplites called it. The length of Macedonian ash felt good as he twisted it in his palms. He could feel the marks of tools in its planes, the memory and sweat of older craftsmen as they worked on it. He had killed men with that dory spear. It felt right to hold it.

Xanthippus ran a hand through the horsehair plume that formed the crest of his helmet. There was no dust and the massed bristles were neatly trimmed and new. Satisfied, he placed it at his feet and unsheathed his sword, checking the iron blade for imperfections. Some things could not be left to slaves, no matter how experienced. The sword had been well cared for since the last time he had drawn it on behalf of the city. It too shone with olive oil, unmarked by stubborn black spots of rust. Sheath and belt were buckled to his waist and he began to feel heavier, armoured.

Agariste came out of the shadowy cloister beyond the sunlit room. Slender as she was, she bore the weight of his shield, the heaviest part of his kit – and the most important. The bronze circle was covered in a white cloth. He thought he knew what image would be there even so.

‘Leave us,’ she said softly.

The slaves vanished into the gloom around them, skilled in their ability to follow her orders. This was her house, after all, her father’s before her. Her uncle Cleisthenes would have stood where Xanthippus did now, the man who had redesigned democracy in Athens, who had chosen the names of the ten tribes. Hers was a famous line. Xanthippus felt the weight of it at times. Yet he knew she loved him in all her unmarked youth, the green spring of her life. They had married when she was sixteen and he thirty, just embarking on his political life. Eight years had passed and if he had risen, it was in part due to the support of her family. Yet she had come to a grown man in her first bloom, and still feared his disapproval. A single angry word could bring tears to her eyes, he knew. It was written in every line of her as she approached, terrified Xanthippus would not like what she had done.

‘Show me, then,’ he said. He still held his spear in his right hand and reached out with the left, his fingers splayed.

Mute, with her lower lip held under her teeth, she pulled away the cloth, letting it flutter to the tiles.