‘I was not called back for this!’ Aristides snapped. ‘Both of you! Sit down.’

It was nothing to do with obedience, they told themselves, only that the words gave them an excuse and broke the tension. Whatever salve they used on their dignity at being scolded like children, both Xanthippus and Themistocles took seats on the same side.

‘Thank you,’ Themistocles said to Xanthippus. He felt sweat break out and wondered how he would have reacted if the situation had been reversed. Not too well, he suspected.

‘In a moment, I will bring in Cimon,’ Themistocles went on, his voice quiet and certain. He saw Xanthippus look troubled. ‘As you forgive me, he can forgive you – for Athens.’

‘I have not said I forgive you,’ Xanthippus replied, though there was less heat in it than his first madness. ‘There will yet be a reckoning, Themistocles.’

‘There always is,’ Themistocles said, sighing.

He went to another door and rapped his knuckles on it. Cimon entered immediately, as if he had been standing with his ear against the wood.

Both Xanthippus and Aristides rose to their feet. Cimon walked like a leopard, or a warrior in his prime. Still in his twenties, there was a spring in his step that spoke of muscle and strength and training to kill. Cimon was intimidating, but there was only a cold sternness in his face.

Xanthippus saw the young man was armed and breathed out. He understood the point, or hoped he did. If he was safe, if any of them were safe, only when the others were unarmed, there could be no peace. If Cimon could stand with a sword on his belt and then leave it in the scabbard, perhaps there could be an accord between them. It was subtle, but Themistocles was a good judge of character.

Xanthippus hoped that was still true. If Themistocles was wrong and the son of Miltiades decided to avenge his father, Xanthippus was dead.

‘Aristides … Xanthippus,’ Cimon said.

He stopped before them, on a lower step. It was hard to remember the lad who had stood with his father at trial. Cimon’s hair was cropped short and his face had changed, losing any boyish planes. He radiated strength and will.

‘Cimon,’ they replied almost together, their voices overlapping.

The young man dipped his head, though he did not take his eyes from Xanthippus.

‘Themistocles has convinced me he needs you both. I accept his judgement. However …’ He held up an index finger as if interrupting, or listing points one by one. ‘Xanthippus. You were wrong to bring my father to trial. If you will admit that, I will put aside any enmity I feel. Can you do it?’

Xanthippus stared at him, his thoughts whirling. Themistocles cleared his throat as he began to speak. The young man changed his gesture sharply to a flat palm, warning him to be still.

‘Oh, sit down, boy,’ Aristides said. ‘He was not wrong.’

‘I have no quarrel with you,’ Cimon snapped, stung.