‘If it is your command, husband, I will do as you say.’

She bowed her head, though when she met his gaze, he realised he was not certain she told the truth. Her family had been wealthy and powerful for centuries. It gave them a sense of confidence, not least in their ability to survive. He could see that in her. He could only pray – to Ares, to Zeus, to Hera the goddess of marriage – that Agariste would be spared, that she would never have to discover how fragile the world truly was.

He kissed her then, without passion, but as a farewell and a promise.

‘If I can, I will come home,’ he said.

He did not tell her how small a chance he judged it to be. Those Greeks who thought they could win the battle had never seen the armies of Persia. They had been like black locusts in Ionia – and that was said to be just one small part of the whole. Xanthippus had fought then against their garrisons, supporting Greeks who merely wished to live free. He had witnessed Persian vengeance, carried out on innocents. It was rare for him to sleep without some picture from that time coming back to throw him out of slumber. His wife’s doctor had told him the dreams would fade in a few more years, but it seemed he would not be given the time he needed. He had to go to war on Greek soil, a man who had watched Sardis burn.

Xanthippus took up his helmet and pushed it hard onto his head. His hair had been drawn into a knot that served to cushion him from a blow. The lining was old enough for him to recognise the smell of sweat and rancid oil the moment he shoved it down. His view was a crosspiece, like a sword hilt. It brought back memories of all the other times he had worn it and he felt his mood darken. Reverently, he took up his spear and shield, testing the grips for strength. There would be blood sacrifices made on the gathering field by the Academy. As a senior man of the Assembly, he could easily be chosen to slaughter a ram to the gods for their good fortune. He would certainly be called upon to kill men.

‘You will come home,’ Agariste said, suddenly. ‘In glory, with your lion shield. I see it, Xan. I see it now.’

He could not kiss her while he wore the helmet, but she embraced him once more, clinging to his armour. He saw the slaves and staff had gathered. Some fifty of them had abandoned their work to see the master leave for war. Cooks and elderly gardeners knelt as he passed. Horse boys stared at the man in golden bronze who would fight for them and for the city.

Out beyond the walls, in the sun, the road was surprisingly quiet. Xanthippus had expected crowds of refugees trying to get out. It seemed the people of the city understood what his wife would not. There was nowhere to run. The Persians had landed. If they were not thrown back into the sea, it was the end.