‘Would you do it again?’ Cimon said softly, almost in wonder. He too seemed to have been drained of his rage, the reality an intense disappointment compared with the scene he had imagined. Xanthippus was not a monster, but an ordinary Athenian, lean and thoughtful, tanned and strong.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Xanthippus said. ‘We can’t go back. I have more regrets than you can imagine, Cimon. But I cannot undo a single stitch, do you understand? The great moments of your life are still ahead. Yet if you only take a step when you are certain you are right, you will never move at all. I will say this … I am sorry your father died.’

‘Thank you,’ Cimon said.

Themistocles looked from one to the other.

‘I can see I was right …’ he began.

Xanthippus swung from where he stood, in a surge of anger so complete he saw only white light and felt no pain, even when he spun the big man round and sent him crashing and sliding across the benches.

Themistocles groaned and Xanthippus felt a twinge of fear as his anger vanished and he remembered how Themistocles had liked to box and wrestle. His fists closed, though one ached from the blow. He would not retreat, not that day. With a calm expression, Xanthippus watched Themistocles lever himself upright. A red mark showed where he had been hit as he came back to stand by the other three. His gaze, however, was all for Xanthippus.

‘That was not an honourable blow,’ Themistocles said. Xanthippus waited as the man considered. ‘But we have more important work before us. If we are all finished with old grudges? Yes?’ One by one, they nodded. ‘Good. The past is past, gentlemen. The future, however, is all to play for. Persia is coming, by sea, by land. And I can’t stop them, not alone.’

Despite the pain in his jaw, Themistocles realised he felt lighter than he had before. Aristides was a fine strategos on the battlefield. Just the thought of being able to pass the Athenian hoplites into his command was a huge weight that lifted away. Xanthippus demanded respect and won it with sheer will and ability. He could be trusted, no matter what the stakes were. Cimon was a firebrand, yes, aggressive, brash and disrespectful of authority, but he had become a charismatic leader. Such men strained the seams and bonds of peacetime, but in war, they came into their own. Themistocles had not been wrong, he thought with relief. He needed them all.

33

Xanthippus walked out of the city. It had been a long day and he was weary, but also filled with a satisfaction he had not known for too long. It was not that Aristides had been given command of the city’s hoplites. Any tyrant could have given the command with a wave of a jewelled hand. No, it was that the council had called an emergency meeting of the Assembly – and the voters of Athens had formally confirmed Aristides in the role, setting aside his exile. The record of that decision had been cut in stone and mounted in the Agora for any man or woman of the city to read.