He paused, and some of the younger men raised skins or amphorae to honour him. The hissing died away and, again, only the torches could be heard, while the city beyond the wall settled down to sleep.

‘Good fortune turns like the seasons,’ Themistocles went on, his voice so low they had to crane to hear him, as if he spoke a private thought only to himself. ‘The gods allow greatness, and then for some the wheel moves on. For Miltiades, it was not some failing of the sort that brings men down. It was not lust, or greed, or weakness of character. No … he wanted to keep Athens safe by destroying an enemy.’

He was speaking slower than before, teasing the words out as he went.

‘He landed ships on a shore where a fleet had been beached – and he knew he had them. He had tracked them on the trackless sea and he had brought them to ground. He had them. Those first ships landed hard in the surf, leaning over. The Persians watched them come, hidden in the treeline, unseen in their thousands. If Miltiades could have brought all his crews and soldiers to land, he would have wrenched victory from them even so. Yet he could not. He had to watch in agony as his first crews were overwhelmed. He sent in the rest, but there were more and more of the enemy. The sand soaked in the blood of good men, of hoplites who had stood at Marathon, of oarsmen who didn’t deserve to be slaughtered. Miltiades himself took a terrible wound in his thigh, a spear that gashed him and poisoned the wound. He was carried off that beach by those that loved him.’

Themistocles rubbed his eyes once more, seemed to emerge from a state almost of an oracle, where the truth and the words of the gods were drawn out, unstoppably. He gestured for a skin of wine from one of the young men. A chuckle went around the crowd again as he drank and smacked his lips.

‘You lads should try a little water mixed in,’ he said, to make them laugh. Even as they did, he went to end his oration.

‘Miltiades was a great father, strategos and Athenian. When he won, it was because his character was noble. When he failed, it was because he was but a man. All of us fail. All of us rise again. If you have wine, raise it up to Miltiades, as he waits for the ferryman tonight. Let him hear you honour him. To Miltiades!’

Themistocles raised the skin and drank again before tossing it back to its owner and wiping his mouth. The crowd roared their approval and more than a few called the name of the speaker as well.

As silence came again, Cimon stepped forward, red-eyed, with five others, lifting the wrapped corpse onto their shoulders and carrying it into the echoing tomb. Themistocles waited for them to finish the duties and for the priests of Hades, Apollo and Athena to give prayers and sacrifices to ensure his welcome. Miltiades would not tarry long by the river. He would go on, to the Fields of Elysium, to be honoured by all those who had gone before.