‘They should match the tallies in the council building, of course,’ the man added.

Themistocles nodded. The epistates was probably right, but the two sets of accounts would never match. He cursed himself in silence for letting this get away from him.

Across the city, noon bells sounded. Themistocles swore aloud then, surprising the epistates.

‘I must go, Diophenas.’ He saw the hurt he had caused and realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, that was yesterday’s … Really, I must go. I am expected on the Areopagus.’

Themistocles hurried away, clutching scrolls under his arm and feeling rushed and worried. Where was the report on the fleet trials? He’d had it in his satchel, but then put it down on his seat while he’d gone to hear a discussion of leave and pay for the rowers. Left alone, they’d vote themselves six months of idleness and six drachms a day! He had to veto the wildest ideas put to a vote, using his authority as archon of the Areopagus. That won him no followers. In previous times, it was the sort of unpleasant job he’d have persuaded Xanthippus or Aristides to do. He’d never thought he would miss them, but he did. It turned out that leading a city, without that city being aware of it, was a little more complicated than Themistocles had imagined. If he’d actually become a tyrant, he could have passed off the work by order. Of course, they would have executed him.

Just a month before, Themistocles had attended plays in the public theatre by the Acropolis, comedies where his new political prominence was derided and mocked. He’d laughed along with the crowd to take the sting from it, but they were clearly wary of him. Athenians were many things, but not stupid. He would not have wanted to rule them if they had been. He’d seen off one attempt to ostracise him, though it had cost a fortune in silver and bargaining. He’d even had a hundred burly rowers ready to disrupt the process, but it had not come to that. When the bell rang out and the pot had been sealed, there had been just three thousand pieces of tile with his name on them. He grimaced at the memory. It had been a warning, but he had so much else he wanted to do.

He bustled to the Areopagus, the rock of Ares that rose from the ground alongside the Agora. That ancient seat had witnessed the rise and fall of many names. He had not expected to arrive harassed and sweating like any slave scribe!

All four of the city archons were present. Old men, long past their prime. They had not replaced Miltiades, Xanthippus or Aristides, as if their seats could not be filled by anyone else. Themistocles saw Aristides’ spot was still deliberately empty, between two ancients. Was that a criticism? Death had taken one and the Assembly had ostracised the others. No one could gainsay those decisions, not once they had been made. He found his frustration growing. He had other calls on his time. The archons were a remnant of another age, of power lost. What authority they had lay in deference and tradition – a fragile state of affairs that could be withdrawn at any time.