Cimon pressed his hand over his father’s mouth, holding it shut, for all the world as if he tried to smother him. He found himself sobbing silently as he did it, struggling to breathe as if he choked on a bone. When he took his hand away, the jaw had stiffened into place once more. He stood back then, breathing hard until he had mastered himself. The women would wail and shriek; that was their role. His was to be calm and stern, though the wine was strong in his blood and he knew he might vomit again. Still, his swimming senses were a comfort.

He thought of seeing pity in every face for the next days, until his father was in the family tomb. Surely his father’s accuser would not be present. Xanthippus would not dare to join the procession. Cimon firmed his jaw at the thought. If he did, there would be blood. Honour would demand it of …

He heard the presence of Themistocles in the flurry of greetings and thanks from the outer rooms. His mother’s voice, speaking in hushed tones of delighted awe. Cimon pushed out his lower lip as he stood there, his hand resting on his father’s once again. He did not want another man to witness his private grief. He eyed the other door and considered just walking out into the gardens. He longed for it, but he would not abandon his father.

‘I will not leave you alone, kurios,’ he said. ‘I will stand with you.’

For some reason, the words brought a surge of grief. He had to struggle not to break down and bawl like a child. He wiped his eyes as Themistocles entered the room, bringing with him a scent of summer and the warmer air outside.

‘Thank you for honouring my father,’ Cimon said as a greeting. He knew he was slurring, while the room swam before him. Even so, Themistocles looked full of his own sorrow. He came forward and stood alongside as they looked down on Miltiades.

‘He was a great man,’ Themistocles said. ‘He saved us all, every one of us.’

Cimon felt a rush of gratitude as he nodded. On impulse, he handed over the wineskin and watched as Themistocles directed the stream, swallowing over and over until Cimon found his eyebrows raising.

Themistocles gasped as he handed it back.

‘Dark times call for a drink,’ he said. ‘Perhaps when the funeral is over, you will come to my gymnasium on the Ilissus, or a brothel I bought recently. I can promise you discretion – a private place to grieve.’

Cimon waved his hand, blearily.

‘I have private places. I am my father’s heir. All he owned is mine today, all of it.’

‘And … will you still have it all when the fine is paid?’ Themistocles asked.

Cimon eyed him suspiciously, but then deflated like his own wineskin, blowing air from his lips. The young man nodded and shrugged.

‘We prepared the full amount. Fifty talents in silver. Have you ever seen so much? It will have to come in to the council building in a caravan of carts! Three hundred thousand drachms? And for what? A day of life? Perhaps I won’t pay it.’