Unfortunately, whatever spirit of cooperation had brought them to that place was fraying even as he watched. Perhaps the wine was part of it, or arguments that seemed nothing more than idle discussion. He’d heard better on any single day listening to the Assembly in Athens. Only the Spartans kept their eyes down, Themistocles noted, placing their hands over wine cups whenever the tavern slaves approached to refill them. They looked about as sour as he might have expected. At home, he’d heard each Spartiate warrior had seven helot slaves to tend him at all times, to treat him like a god. Themistocles wondered if arrogance was the result. They could not all be masters.

He watched as the Spartan Cleombrotus clapped another Greek on the shoulder, approving whatever he had muttered. There was something coiled in the Spartan group, though there were just four of them. They were powerful figures, but so were many of the men there, at least those who had known a life of hard physical labour. Themistocles had noted the Spartans all bore a lattice of pale scars on their arms, testament to thousands of hours on the training field or perhaps in earnest, in full battle against other men. Cleombrotus was in his forties or fifties at a guess, lean and powerful across the shoulders, younger brother to the battle king of Sparta. Themistocles had never met King Leonidas, a name that meant ‘son of the lion’. He thought it was a sign of trust that the man had sent one of his own family, or at least he hoped it was. The Spartans had two kings, each to act as a balance for the other. It was not quite the tyranny of so many states, but neither was it the free votes of the Assembly. Themistocles knew the Spartans saw Athens as ruled by the mob, a city of constant argument and chaos. That was fair enough. He thought of Sparta as a backward place, a joyless military camp where they let their women run with the men.

Cleombrotus sensed his scrutiny and looked up. The man raised his eyebrows in silent question, calm and unworried. Themistocles inclined his head, giving the man honour. Presumably, Cleombrotus could speak for his brother. He too bore scars on his bare arms, pale against the deep tan of a life spent outdoors. The Spartans were survivors, Themistocles could see, veterans who had faced enemies and survived. He needed them.

The plates were taken away and the tavern servants retired. Themistocles had ordered it so and brought his own house servants to tend anyone who needed more wine, grapes or figs. He rose from his place and silence came quickly enough. They had spent the day discussing what they would do, but he sensed he had not carried them all. Crucially, the Spartans had not yet committed to the work ahead. It was one thing to attend a meeting of Greek states called by Athens under truce, quite another to agree to follow them into war.