Xanthippus smiled as he walked, lengthening his stride. Aristides had called every hoplite in the city to a training run the following dawn. The route would be to Marathon, there to camp and return the next day. Aristides would assess their readiness and if Xanthippus knew him at all, he would sharpen that knife until it could draw blood just by looking at it.

Xanthippus had been disappointed at first not to be given command of a thousand, as a strategos. He had assumed his role at Marathon was the reason Themistocles had called him back. Yet the man he had punched had other plans. Until he was thirty, Cimon was too young for a senior position in the fleet. Themistocles needed a second in command and it seemed he trusted Xanthippus.

That was the strangest part of coming home, perhaps. Xanthippus had spent years imagining his revenge on Themistocles, but he had never doubted the man’s skill, nor his love for Athens. It seemed Themistocles had understood that about Xanthippus as well. Whatever their personal history, they shared enough. It was a revelation. The following morning, while Aristides took his hoplites on the first training run, Xanthippus was expected at the docks, to take ship out to the fleet. He would have to learn a vast amount in a very short time, but he found himself excited by it. There were far too many triremes for Themistocles to command alone, especially with the factions coming in every day, and a Spartan trierarch who was already making a nuisance of himself.

Xanthippus shook his head in amusement, chuckling. There was no one else on the road and he could hardly contain the thrill of being dropped back into the politics of home. His exile had been a grim existence in comparison, he realised. He thought Alia would be interested to hear – and then he stopped in the road, suddenly, staring into the distance. He was missing her, though he did not think he would be sharing that thought with Agariste. If his exile had come to a natural end, Xanthippus knew he might easily be considering ways to bring Alia back to Athens and establish her in a quiet street. It was not so uncommon.

He began to run, stretching out his hips and tired muscles. His lower back ached and his knee started to complain after just a few steps, reminding him of his age. He would not bring Alia into the path of Persian soldiers, not that year. She would be far safer on the outskirts of Corinth than in Athens. The decision brought a pang of disappointment and he shelved the subject, to consider later on. The heart was a complex thing.

His mood lifted again as he reached the door to the estate and hammered on it. A slave he did not know climbed to the top of the steps to peer at him with a frown. It brought a flush of anger, just to be considered a stranger in that place.