‘Will you accompany the Athenian hoplites?’ his friend the Megaran asked.

Themistocles scratched his chin. He had built the fleet himself, from the silver of Laurium, to training captains and rowers to their labours. The thought of leaving it to another was like a physical pain. He needed good men. He needed strategoi. His heart sank as he understood what he had to do. It was against the law, but in his heart of hearts, he knew laws were for lesser men. He would make them anew, if he had to persuade the entire Assembly to do it.

30

Themistocles stood on the Pnyx, facing Athens. In response to news of his return from Larissa, the centre of the city was packed. There had to be twenty thousand on the Pnyx hill alone, with at least as many around that rock, in every street. Most could not hear a word, but with talk of war on the wind, they had come even so, to be there.

The archons of the Areopagus had taken positions close to the speaker’s stone, with the epistates of the day. For once, it was a man Themistocles knew, from his own tribe. There was no sign of fellow feeling, however. Themistocles was losing the crowd, he could feel it.

‘If I had not given command of the fleet to Sparta, we would have lost their ships – and perhaps their army as well. Can you deny it?’

‘The motion under discussion is whether you should have returned here first to seek the approval of the Assembly,’ the epistates said.

Themistocles glared at him.

‘No man here has supported this Assembly with more energy than I. I sought the support of all Hellas as your representative.’

‘As a tyrant, then!’ someone shouted from the back.

Themistocles forced a smile, raising his voice to carry as far as he could, though it strained his throat and stole subtlety.

‘Never! I have honoured Athens and this Assembly with my every breath. Yet in war – and war is what we face – we appoint strategoi, do we not? In that moment, faced with losing Sparta from our alliance, I chose to accept on behalf of us all.’

He gave way to Cimon, as Cimon expected all men to do. The Assembly member did not yet have his father’s powerful presence, but it was coming, Themistocles thought. As a shepherd can feel the first heat of summer, he could sense it. Though all the senior roles of the city were denied to Cimon until his thirtieth birthday, he had established himself as a name. He would certainly be an archon and a strategos like Miltiades. Yet he had been raised without his father’s hand on his shoulder. There was a roughness, a simmering violence in Cimon. He had learned to harness other men to his service, though with little subtlety. Cimon wrenched savagely at whatever reins fell to his hand. With war coming, Themistocles thought there was a chance the young man would break free of all restraint.