When the door opened, Cimon looked up blearily, wine running in his veins along with his delight. He had raised a cup to his father more times than he could remember, so that his words slurred and the room swam. Ah, but it felt right – and no one would have denied him wine enough for three men after such a victory! There were times, when he drank, that he remembered the voice of his mother. It seemed one of her uncles had been a violent drunk. Whenever her son raised a cup of wine, she would wag her finger at him and remind him of the dangers. It was sometimes hard to drink enough to drown that little voice, he thought.

The crowd enjoying themselves on his silver had grown raucous over the previous few hours. The owners of the tavern were on the verge of tears as the group became louder and wilder with every passing moment. Yet when they saw Aristides had come, silence fell, the joy draining out of the room, so that they stared at him like bleary owls.

Cimon felt anger surge and he stood up, then almost fell as the room swayed. Gripping the back of a chair, he steadied himself.

‘What do you want here, Aristides? Can I not drink in peace, with a few friends?’

Aristides began to answer, but another thought struck the young man and he went on.

‘Or have you come to congratulate me? Well? You should.’

‘I have not,’ Aristides said, ‘though I wonder if your father would be as pleased as you seem to be.’

‘He would. Don’t you worry about that,’ Cimon replied. He looked pugnacious, his lower lip sticking out. Yet he had not lost all sense. He knew he was far too drunk to start a fight with anyone. Aristides was not a weak man.

‘You and Themistocles have deprived Athens of a strategos, a leader in war. Perhaps you think such men can be found on any corner of the city.’

‘Perhaps they can!’ Cimon said. ‘Perhaps I will be a strategos, like my father before me!’

‘I’m sure you will, unless the wine destroys you. Yet on this day, you have weakened Athens. You, for your vengeance; Themistocles, for what? Ambition? To remove a threat?’

‘My vengeance? My justice! Go on, old man, keep talking,’ Cimon said, threateningly.

He was very obviously drunk and jabbed the air with a finger. One of his friends tried to grab his arm, but he shook them off as Aristides went on, infuriatingly calm and unafraid.

‘If the Persians land again, next summer, we will not have Xanthippus – and that is a great loss. I wanted to be sure you understood what you have done.’

Cimon glared at him, arguments swirling, but not quite lending him the words he needed to answer. After a moment, Aristides nodded to himself and left. The young men in the tavern began to jeer, though they waited until he was out of the door. Cimon slumped into the chair and called for more wine.