He got a better response from that. He tugged his finger, the pain increasing until it popped back into place, relief washing through him. It would be sore for days, but he had needed the edge. There was still so much to do. After years of reports, the Persians were truly marching. They no longer attempted to hide their presence in Thrace and Macedonia, with huge food stores guarded by encamped regiments. More, the imperial fleet was out under sail and oar. There were new reports every day, and suddenly, after so long, time was short.

‘I call for an extraordinary vote,’ Themistocles said. ‘As befits a time of war. I cannot do this alone, gentlemen. I need seasoned leaders, experienced strategoi. I need Aristides …’

The noise of the crowd trebled in an instant. Over that tumult, he saw Cimon glance sharply in his direction. Themistocles held his gaze, refusing to look away though the young man stood as if he had been struck, visibly stunned. Themistocles bellowed over the crowd.

‘And I need Xanthippus. I call an extraordinary vote – to overturn their exile. To bring them home.’

He watched Cimon approach him and did not pull away as the younger man took his arm. He could smell wine on Cimon’s breath, but he did not sway or blink. In fact, Themistocles had the sense he was controlling great emotion. It spoke rather well for the son of Miltiades.

‘You truly need them?’ Cimon said.

‘I do. In peace, I would go on without both men. Can you imagine what calling them home will cost me in pride? Yet to save Athens? In war? Both men fought at Marathon, Cimon, with your father. Against that, my pride is just a rag. My city matters more.’

Cimon nodded, moved enough by his words to clap him on the shoulder. It was a symbol of casual dominance, but Themistocles made no attempt to avoid it. The young man had surprised him yet again.

The noise of the crowd was a clamour around them, with violence in the air. Scythian guards were shifting at the edges, reminding all the young firebrands of their presence.

‘Aristides and Xanthippus,’ Cimon said softly. ‘They might not come. If they believe you were behind their exile.’

Themistocles smiled bitterly. He had wrestled with the idea for some time, but the same truth applied to them as to him.

‘If I know Aristides, he will have teased apart every whisper of memory until he is certain, at least to his own satisfaction. Still, they are Athenians, Cimon – and Athens is under threat. Nothing else matters. Not the law, not my pride, certainly not theirs. They will come. They have to – we need them. Now, help me win this vote.’

31

The sun was brutal in the valley. Months of hard labour had turned the men such a dark brown they looked like polished wood, especially when they shone with sweat. Many of them still had sections of flaking skin across their bare shoulders that came off in sheets. They had learned not to peel it away, revealing paler skin that would then blister. Instead, they worked and ate and slept, wearing just a cloth around their waists, or perhaps an old chiton tunic, black with dirt. They endured like soldiers, heaving posts upright and hammering them into the ground, drinking water and then sweating it out, stopping under a spreading plane tree to eat lunch when it was brought. It was a simple life and Xanthippus had thought it might have a sort of nobility to it. Felling an oak, sawing it into posts and then sinking those posts all the way around a huge cattle enclosure had seemed honourable work. He had watched the foreman, Pelias, as he explained the task to another, then joined the work crew for just two drachms a day.