‘I like the shield,’ Epikleos said. ‘A lion is better than that old dead eye of yours. Agariste, was it?’

Xanthippus found himself flushing.

‘Yes. She dreamed of a lion.’ He preferred to change the subject. ‘What news here?’

His friend was still oiling himself and stretching muscles. Epikleos wore a bronze breastplate, accepting the penalty in weight for the gleam of a thing that made him look like a young Heracles. Or because it made the younger warriors look at him, Xanthippus thought. Epikleos could be astonishingly vain. He had once carried Xanthippus’ spear, a boy following his hero in bronze. It was a strange thing to see fine lines around his eyes.

‘They’re buzzing like wild bees over there,’ Epikleos said, inclining his head.

Xanthippus looked over the field to the massive stone altar, surrounded by men in armour. Plumed helmets rested on the ground, with shields and spears much like his own. Xanthippus recognised the laughing figure of Themistocles instantly. He was a man who seemed to stand out in any group, perhaps aided by the mass of dark blond hair, tied into a club at his neck. No doubt Agariste would have seen the resemblance to her lion in Themistocles when he left his hair unbound, Xanthippus thought.

To one side of Themistocles, the man Xanthippus respected above all others was, strangely, far easier to overlook. Aristides was as much one of the leaders in Athens as Themistocles, yet his manner was quieter and more thoughtful. Men leaned close to hear when Aristides spoke in the Assembly. It was said that Themistocles would be the first to call for a glorious charge, but Aristides would send it in the right direction. The Athenians valued both men, though the rumour was that they detested one another.

Slaves and runners sprinted to and from that great altar, so that Xanthippus nodded at the image of angry bees. He could see the tribes still forming in squares and ranks, ready to march. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

‘Water here,’ he called.

One of the passing boys skidded to a stop and a skin was pressed into his hands. His bladder squeezed as he drank, making him feel the blood-warm liquid was going straight through. Ten thousand bronze-clad men of Athens was the entire army. It seemed both an extraordinary number – men who had to be equipped and watered and fed – and yet nowhere near as many as they needed.

‘What of Sparta?’ he said as he tossed the skin back. ‘Are they coming?’

Epikleos shook his head, his expression sour.

‘I heard they have one of their festivals. The rumour is they cannot march while it goes on.’

‘Perhaps we should wait, then,’ Xanthippus said.

Epikleos gave a short laugh, though it was a bitter sound.

‘Yes, they would love that, to have Athens wait for them. Can we not go to war without their permission, without them holding our hand? By Athena, no!’ He saw Xanthippus was still sceptical and shook his head. ‘A thousand men of Plataea have come – see them there, with their general, Arimnestos. Why not? We saved them once, when they were threatened. Good men remember what they owe – and pay it back when they can. Good men of Plataea!’ His smile skewed into bitterness then. ‘Yet there are other debts ignored today. No one else stands with us. Still, we know what we face. Our scouts have come back and they are not dismayed.’ He spoke with laughter in his voice, for anyone who overheard him. It did not reach his eyes.