Xanthippus felt blood drain from his face and hands.

‘Oh no …’ he whispered.

Epikleos was wide-eyed.

‘Why would he do such a thing? I thought you and he were … friends, supporters! Damn him to hell for his betrayal, Xan!’

He had raised his voice and the Scythian archers were bustling closer to enforce silence. They bore clubs, Xanthippus noticed in a daze. The threat of violence was in the air and he dropped his hand to his waist, looking for the sword that should have been there. Instead, there was just the cloth of his chiton tunic and bare legs.

On the stone, Themistocles stepped out of the voting line and returned to the seats. He did not look at Xanthippus again. The sun reached noon and some of those who had voted went into the Agora to fetch food or a cup of wine and water. The life and trade of the city went on as the epistates called for the last votes and then sealed the urn with a strip of cloth dipped in wax. A bell rang out across the Pnyx. Xanthippus didn’t move. Though his knee and lower back ached, he stood like a soldier and endured. His expression had grown stern and he did not speak again.

The wax seal had barely begun to stiffen before it was broken. The count would be immediate and final. In theory, Xanthippus could have stepped up to check and witness each piece, but he could not move from that spot. He was rooted in humiliation. When he did not respond, Epikleos put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’ll keep them honest, Xan, don’t worry.’

He went over and watched as tables were set up, with white cloth coverings. The tribe in control of the council that month were responsible, but Xanthippus’ own Acamantis were there as observers, checking the count on behalf of one of their most senior sons. Epikleos moved among them as the pieces were poured out and the tally began, with each inscribed shard recorded and returned to the urn. The next day, they would be tipped into some hole for household waste, back to mere pottery and not the balance of a man’s fate.

The count rose and rose, each mark like a wound as Xanthippus saw his life being undone, unwoven back to the original thread. The afternoon wore on as the officials checked the totals and compared their tally boards. When the vote passed six thousand, Xanthippus staggered a step, as if he had been struck. His knee was in pain from standing for so long, but after that, he tried to show nothing more to those who had brought him down. Cimon was staring, of course, desperate for Xanthippus to meet his eye and see the young man’s triumph. Xanthippus did not know if Themistocles remained on the seats. He did not turn to face the one who had helped to destroy him. His life was in rags.

The final count was almost seven thousand votes. It was enough. The total was announced and repeated over the rise of angry noise in the crowds. Scuffles began between those who cheered it and more who were appalled at the result.