‘Miltiades has gone. Of that we are sure. He does not lie in the weary flesh that bore him. In his last breath, his soul escaped – and in that breath, he found peace. You may be sure he looked down on his son then, on his wife, on us all. I know that he was proud of Cimon, so proud it choked him. I know too that he could be moved to tears when he spoke of Marathon.’

There was a murmur of approval from beyond the crowd. Themistocles looked out, past the closest and the youngest standing in their white chiton robes, some with a shoulder bare, some covered. Further back, he saw a glimpse of golden armour in the torchlight. Hoplites had come dressed for war. He could see them now.

‘Come closer if you stood with him on that day,’ Themistocles said, as if he had summoned them with his words. It felt as if he had! They came in like the ghosts of battle and he had to smother his own awe to go on. Hundreds and hundreds of them had decided to wear their greaves and breastplates, to take up their spear, sword and shield as they walked out of the city on that night. To his surprise, Themistocles felt himself moved by their simple gesture. He had to rub at his eyes for a moment.

‘I was there, in the centre that day,’ he said. ‘Miltiades sent us forward and I thought we would not survive. Not against so many. I knew I would die! I knew it was the end! But I stood with my brothers – my tribe, yes, but Athenians, Greeks! I could no more have left them to save my own life than I could fly. We stood as brothers and Miltiades knew we would not break.’

He paused, for a single beat.

‘Though it was close …’

His smile brought a chuckle from all those who remembered. In its way, it was like a shout of memory. They had been there, with him.

‘The Persian archers and slingers crept back like jackals to torment us. Miltiades held his wing ready, waiting for the right moment, the moment that would win the battle.’ He paused again, staring into the darkness, ringed in bronze and fire. ‘And then he came. We fought until they broke. I watched good men die around me and I knew each one was my brother, as Aristides is my brother, as Miltiades was, as Xanthippus …’

Themistocles broke off as a hissing began, looking confused, as if he had not played them like a set of pipes and drawn each note out.

‘No, brothers, give him honour! The world has known winter and summer again since then. Perhaps some who were there have lost that sense of brotherhood,’ he said. ‘But on that day, at Marathon, we were all men of Athens. We fought for the children and the women. We fought for our fathers and our temples and our gods. One city, one language, one culture! One democracy! I know the sacrifice of those who fell, because I was willing to make it myself. The gods took the ones they wanted. They left the rest of us to mourn them, as I do, every day.’