Xanthippus murmured thanks to his groom for bringing his horse. He nodded to the two who would run alongside him out to the gathering ground. Both Xenias and Theos were free men, though they had earned that freedom in trade and skill. They too wore serious expressions and he had a sense of falseness, of wrongness. On the one hand, his wife and her slaves stood to see him off. The children had crept out, of course, clambering up to peer over the wall at him like little owls. Xanthippus nodded to Ariphron. It might almost have been a normal day.

On the other hand, a dark gulf yawned before him. Xanthippus could already sense the silence to come, just moments off. He and his two seconds would leave the estate behind and go to a place where the whole army was gathering, to destroy or be destroyed.

He had to go, to leave his family behind. The fear and seriousness of it lay heavier than armour. He passed his shield and spear to his seconds and mounted his horse, taking up the reins. Xenias and Theos fell in beside him, shining with oil and early sweat. As Xanthippus turned his back on all he loved, the high voices of his children called after him, dwindling with every step. He did not look back.

2

The Academy had been created as a gymnasium for the young warriors of the city. When it had first been laid out, around a sacred grove of twelve olive trees, it had been a place of great beauty, with statues and a running track alongside the river banks. Over a hundred years, it had been poorly maintained, with the track now more moss and crabgrass than ashes and fine stones. Without proper care, the groves and walkways had returned to clay and patches of weeds. It was a symbol of hopelessness and Xanthippus glowered as he rode through to the gathering ground. His two seconds loped along with him, taking their mood from his.

Beyond the Academy, Xanthippus took some heart from the massed ranks assembling. Only the gods or the Spartans could have moved faster to war than his people. Though it was barely noon, Xanthippus could see banners from all ten tribes of the city. He found his tribe of Acamantis easily enough. He could have named many of the thousand men he would command, certainly those from his home deme of Cholargos. There were just a hundred of those and each one knew Xanthippus well.

He greeted them with clasped arms as he passed along the line, stopping to exchange words with the smaller number he called friends. Each of them was similarly garbed in helmet, breastplate and greaves. With sword, spear and shield, the cost of the entire kit represented anything up to a year’s wage. Most had been inherited, or won on the field of battle.

‘There he is!’ said a voice Xanthippus knew.

The one who spoke had been present in Ionia for the Sardis campaign. Epikleos was a wealthy man in his own right, though his family had made most of their fortune trading oil and figs rather than from the spoils of war. One of four brothers, Epikleos had drawn the short straw, as he described it, forced to train as a soldier from a young age rather than something more worthwhile, like politics or writing poetry. In truth, Epikleos was as skilful at the Pyrrhic dance as any warrior Xanthippus had ever met. He had not been made for a merchant life, nor counting beats in a line of verse. Sparring with him had almost certainly saved Xanthippus’ life, more than once.