He had expected some aspect of a lion the moment he’d heard she had repainted his shield. The dream had tormented Agariste for years, coming again and again to disturb her sleep. He’d heard every detail a dozen times. Yet it did not have the feel of prophecy, at least to his ear. Though he indulged her to keep the peace, Xanthippus thought the gods would not have trusted his foolish young wife with a true vision. He thought instead that it sprang from her worry for him, or for the children. He could not banish a pang of dread at losing the simple old eye on his shield, however. It had glared out at every enemy he’d ever faced, but now it was gone, made blind by her.

‘It is very fine,’ he said.

‘You like it? Truly?’ she said, looking into his eyes. ‘No. You don’t like it.’

‘It is beautiful,’ he said in perfect honesty. In truth, the artist was very skilled. The lion roared out of the centre of the shield, all head and teeth and rage. It was a fine image, though he would still have preferred the old unblinking eye to watch over him.

‘In the dream where I gave birth to a lion,’ she said, choosing to fill the silence with a stream of words, ‘I thought at first it had to be the baby. As I was full of child, what else could it be? But then I saw your shield and I thought … what if you were the lion? What if I could help to make my Xan the lion of Athens?’

‘I cannot say which is right, not today,’ he replied.

The conversation demanded more of him than he wanted to give in that moment. He needed to be still and grim and silent, with the tools of war in his hand and battle ahead. Yet she continued to draw him out, breaking the cold hardness in him. It was not always welcome.

There were no slaves in sight as he looked around, though he knew they would be within call.

‘Agariste … what will happen today …’

‘Oh! The children! I must bring them out to see you off.’

‘No, Aggie …’ but she had gone, vanished in a few steps, so that he stood alone in the beam of sunlight under the blue sky. The sun was rising and he was suddenly eager to go. He almost strode from that place, but he heard the voices of his children, the sound catching him like a briar.

Ariphron was the eldest at seven, the boy’s six-year-old sister Eleni approaching in his wake. They came in like little geese, looking with awe at the sight of their father gleaming oil and gold, like a living god. Agariste held the hand of the youngest, stumbling at her side. At five years old, his youngest son seemed close to tears.

Xanthippus laid down his spear and knelt.

‘Come to me, little ones. You too, Pericles. It’s all right. Come.’