‘I used to be paid to spar, Cimon. Six or eight bouts a morning. Believe me, you have not known exhaustion until you step into the sand ring with some young pup, fresh and hungry, while you have fought half a dozen before him. Yet it paid for my studies and it kept food on my table.’

He pressed a finger to his nose and moved it back and forth ruefully.

‘This has been broken so many times, I have lost count, but it was worth it.’

‘Surely, though, you don’t need to be paid now?’ Cimon asked.

‘I need to train and be fit. If it pleases some householder to try his luck for a few drachms, I am willing. You were born to wealth, Cimon. I was not. Perhaps that’s why I value the coins I earn.’

‘I value the wealth of my family,’ Cimon said, suddenly serious.

They had crossed the field and reached the banks of the stream that ran through the gymnasium, the source of cool water for them all. It was flowing well that year and Themistocles stepped onto a ledge of good marble and down into the waters.

Cimon watched the big man duck his head and come up blowing and spitting. For once, the eighteen-year-old seemed unsure how to go on. He looked around at the slaves waiting with clean robes and towels for Themistocles to finish. Cimon glanced over his shoulder and saw the boxer had regained his feet. He was standing, groggily, pointing angrily in Themistocles’ direction, clearly unhappy about his treatment. Cimon grinned. The day was perfect, with blue skies and swallows wheeling high above the field. On impulse, he removed his robe and sandals and stepped down into the river pool.

‘Ah! Very good,’ Themistocles said. ‘It cleans the blood, this cold. It is excellent for health. I spent most of a day once, seeing how long I could stand it. My legs went numb and my hands wrinkled like an old man, but afterwards, when the blood flowed thick and hard again? I performed wonders – and I was less stiff the day after, though you will not care about that, not yet.’

‘I wanted to ask you … something important,’ Cimon said. He leaned back, so that the water reached his collarbone. His feet stretched over marble onto silken mud, so that he could feel it between his toes. The sun was hot and yet his teeth began to chatter.

Themistocles gestured without looking away. The slaves packed up their equipment and vanished, so that they were alone.

‘I am too old to mentor you,’ Themistocles said. ‘And I am attached to women as lovers. So if it is that …’

‘It is not that,’ Cimon said, his voice low.

Themistocles dropped the smile and rested one arm on the marble ledge, smoothing the surface of the water with his outstretched hand.

‘What then? If you don’t ask, I can hardly …’

‘You said I should not kill the man who brought my father down,’ Cimon said. He held up his hand as Themistocles began to speak. ‘I have agreed. I have mastered myself, as you told me to.’