The three of them ran to him, thumping their father in the chest and running their hands over the bronze with wide eyes.

‘Are you going to kill Persians?’ Ariphron asked.

Xanthippus looked over to his eldest son and nodded.

‘Many Persians, yes. Hundreds.’

‘Will they come here to kill us?’

‘Never. Every man in Athens is arming himself to face them. They will regret ever coming here.’

To his irritation, his daughter Eleni suddenly started to weep, a process that began with her face crumpling and continued with the issuing-forth of wails and sobbing of extraordinary volume. Xanthippus winced and regretted that he had allowed the moment at all.

‘Perhaps you could take your sister and brother to the kitchens, Ariphron. Find them some fruit, or whatever the cook has on the spit. Would you like that?’

His oldest son nodded solemnly, understanding that he was being trusted with a task of responsibility. Xanthippus could not prevent another embrace, but then the children were gone, Ariphron leading the others.

Agariste reached down to pick up the spear. It looked strange in her hand and Xanthippus took it quickly. There had been too many strange omens that day already – weeping children being the last of them. He had lost the eye on his shield and he did not want her to drop his weapon, for fear of what that might mean. His hand closed over hers and he could feel the warmth of her and smell the perfume she used, a paste of rose and lavender and musk. It filled his nostrils and he wondered if he smelled the sweet oils of his own funeral pyre.

‘Agariste, if we lose …’

‘Don’t say it, Xan. You will invite the disaster. Please.’

‘It has to be said. I have to know you understand.’

‘Please …’

He thought she might turn and run from him. In reply, he felt anger surge. In some ways, she was still an innocent. He gripped her wrist, hard enough to make her cry out.

‘If we lose and they come here, you must kill the children.’

‘I can’t do that,’ she whispered.

She would not look at him and twisted almost unthinkingly, trying to remove his grip. He held her even tighter and he did not relent, though tears ran down her cheek.

‘You are the mistress of the house, Agariste. You will do that. If you cannot wield the blade yourself, give it to Manias. Do I need to tell you what Persians do to children they capture? Will you force me to describe the horror of it? They are a plague in the world, Agariste. I have seen the results of their … attentions. I have seen the corpses. If we lose, they will make an example of Athens. The city will die and there will be no safe place. It is not like the battles of before, when an army of Sparta came to stand beneath the Acropolis, or the horsemen of Thessaly fought against us. We are Greeks and we know the limits of war – and when there are none. The Persians … they are too cruel, my love. And they are many, like grains of sand. If they win, you must save the children and yourself from what will come.’