‘I can’t believe Miltiades’ son has so many willing to support him!’ Xanthippus hissed bitterly to his friend. ‘Did that family find a gold mine as well?’

Epikleos didn’t reply immediately. His expression twisted, as if he had bitten into an unripe fruit.

Ahead of them, on the Pnyx, a huge clay urn stood. Men Xanthippus had never met and would not have recognised in a crowd shuffled around it, each one bearing an ostracon, a piece of broken pottery. Each of those would have a single name scratched into the fired clay: Xanthippus. If a third of voting men put his name, if six thousand said he should be exiled, that was enough.

‘Should I stand by the pot – look each of them in the eye?’ Xanthippus whispered to his friend.

Epikleos considered and shook his head.

‘That could drive some of them to anger. Stay back, Xan – and pray. They may not have enough.’

‘There he is,’ Xanthippus said, tapping his friend on the arm.

Epikleos looked over to where Cimon climbed the steps to the great flat of the speaker’s stone. He approached the urn and dropped a piece of broken pot into it. He paused for a moment then to look down on Xanthippus. The expression was perfectly blank, the eyes hooded. Yet both Epikleos and Xanthippus felt his spite.

‘No one can hate like a young man,’ Epikleos murmured.

‘Too young, surely,’ Xanthippus replied under his breath. ‘Can he win six thousand to his side just to condemn me? I am Marathonomachos! My family are Eupatridae landowners! We feed Athenians! By all the gods, Agariste’s uncle wrote the law they are using!’

‘Be calm, Xan. There – do you see Aristides?’

‘What? He would not vote against me! He is a man of honour.’

Xanthippus felt his mouth hang open as Aristides climbed the steps and approached the urn. The man held out an empty palm, turning it back and forth until everyone understood there was no shard of clay in it. Then he shook his head and walked back to his seat. Xanthippus breathed out, his limbs feeling cold with relief. When Aristides looked across at him, he bowed, trembling.

‘That was clever of him,’ Epikleos whispered. ‘And … brave.’

The Scythian guards were looking thunderous. Cimon was gesturing angrily with two of them. No one was allowed to disrupt a vote. Aristides had risked being taken up and thrown in a cell, just to show his distaste.

‘He is a good man,’ Xanthippus said. ‘I have always known it.’

‘I pray it is enough …’

A stir announced Themistocles as he rose from the crowd like a rock breaking the surface of the sea. He was suddenly there, climbing the steps. Xanthippus felt his heart beating faster, not daring to hope.

‘If he does the same, I can still survive this. Bless Aristides. He has shown the way.’

He and Epikleos watched as Themistocles approached the urn and opened his hand. There was a piece of red pottery in it. He turned and met Xanthippus’ gaze as he dropped it in with the rest. A murmur of awe went around the Pnyx.