A thought struck him, making Aristides stumble. Had Themistocles been part of the downfall of Miltiades? Had he whispered in the ear of Xanthippus, perhaps? After that, a pact with Cimon? Aristides stopped walking for a moment, feeling suddenly cold. Had Themistocles put him forward as archon for the year? That honour had raised him up – and then his people had cut him down. Perhaps none of it was simple chance. Perhaps it was all a campaign. It left Themistocles almost alone in the city – and popular enough that he would not have to fear the broken pots himself. Still, the man had chosen to leap onto a wild horse. Sooner or later, he would be thrown.

The rejection by the people hurt deeply. Aristides did not weep or rage, however, not even when he was in his private rooms and there was no one to hear. He sat for a time in silence. There was no wine in his town-house, so he drank three cups of water and washed away the red dust that still clung to him. After that, he began to order his affairs, so that he could be ready. He was forty-eight years old. The thought of ten years away from Athens was like a hot forge-iron laid across his heart. Themistocles had taken almost everything from him. Yet his dignity and his honour were intact.

Part Two

482 BC

26

Xerxes stood with his eyes closed after his climb, letting the sea breeze cool his skin. Abydos was a town built of ancient villages on the north-west coast, the very edge of empire. He wondered if it would ever amount to more unless they could build stone bridges across the deep water. His engineers said it was impossible to throw arches across so great a span, not with open sea running in between. Yet he had faith, in the ingenuity of his people, in the favour of angels. His father had once placed a bridge over the strait at Byzantium, only to see it smashed in storms. Xerxes had vowed to go further. To the west of Byzantium, he would span the Hellespont. His army would walk over the sea.

From the top of the hill, he could see another coast of brown and green across the water. Xerxes recalled his maps, produced for the eyes of kings and no one of lesser estate. Once the armies of his father …

He paused, caught up in old patterns. Xerxes breathed out, emptying himself. He had mourned. Forty kingdoms had grieved with him. It was four years since his father had died. There had been times since when all life had seemed unbearably petty, when the empire had gone so long without a shepherd that they had fallen into rioting and insurrection. Slowly, Xerxes had rebuilt his faith, both in life and himself. He had shaken off the vast perspective, the feeling that his entire life was merely marking time until he saw his father once again. No. Xerxes was now the Great King of the empire. He would live first.