Aristides had listened to a captain trying to sell his ship to the council, as the man discussed his last trade trip to the east. He had filled his ship with a cargo of ambergris, which could be burned as incense or made into perfumes. The man had been quite a character, a Roman, with peacock feathers cut short to fit his hat and a face so deeply seamed by sun and wind that it looked like stitched leather. Aristides had been drawn to the strange cargo of black lumps being heaved out of the hold. The captain had already found his purchaser and he was in a fine, ebullient mood when Aristides leaned on a rail next to him. From that man, he had heard rumours that the Persian king had grown too ill or too old to campaign. It was the second time Aristides had been told such a thing, but it was impossible to know for sure. Rumours fed on themselves, like a snake biting its own tail. Men who should have known better confirmed false reports simply by hearing them more than once, or in two cities along a coast. It was hard to know if a smear of truth lay at the centre of such things – or whether it was good or bad for Athens.

The crowds bustled in the Ceramicus, buying pots or hawking their wares to those who might. That part of the city was noisy and brash at the best of times. Each little workshop or house held pottery wheels, always squeaking, driven by pedals forcing them round and round. The potters there were always covered in dust and slip, on their skin and in their hair. They were said to pedal in their sleep, even. Those who did not make pots called out prices, competing for custom in constant chatter.

Aristides found the clamour wearing when he wanted to just walk and think, but the Agora lay ahead and he knew he would be able to find a quiet spot there. He thought he might walk to the Areopagus and see what arguments were being presented to the juries. That day was a trial day and the city was busy as always, with jurors from demes miles around swelling the crowds.

Ahead of him, a man stood in the centre of the road, peering at something in his hand and swearing to himself. Aristides began to edge to the side rather than intrude on the ramblings and madness of another, but the fellow noticed him and put up a hand.

‘Can you write, kurios? Can you help me with this?’

Aristides saw it was a piece of pottery in the man’s palm, a triangle broken from some failed or unloved bowl. The road through the Ceramicus was made of shards much smaller than the one he held, the result of centuries of firing clay and discarding the broken pieces.

‘What do you want to do?’ Aristides said.

The fellow’s change of expression was instant, like a child. The smile was reward enough and Aristides was glad he had stopped.