Like the legs of some strange insect, the oars reached the waves and the rocking motion eased. Xanthippus swallowed his nervousness, relieved he would not have to try and climb on board a ship rising and rolling as it had been before, smashing white spray into the air.

Above the oars, he could see men walking on the bare twin deck. A trench ran from one end to another, right down the centre, giving light and air to those labouring below. It was a machine, Xanthippus thought, like the wooden cranes on the docks or the children’s toys sold in the Agora. A wonderful, intricate machine made by men. Made to hunt. Made to drown.

His own pair of rowers worked tirelessly to bring him alongside the stern. They kept station then, as if they thought he knew exactly what to do. Xanthippus looked blankly at them until he saw the closest oars were being held almost flat, so that a man might step onto them. The ship still rolled back and forth as some ripple of great waters passed beneath them.

Before his fear could overwhelm him, Xanthippus swallowed and grabbed one oar while heaving himself onto another. With his heart in his mouth, he stepped onto the one above, feeling like a spider crawling from twig to twig. It was with huge relief that he reached a wooden ridge he could wrap a hand around. As he clambered onto the open deck, Themistocles leaned in and offered him a hand.

‘Did you not see the ladder?’ Themistocles said.

Xanthippus looked where he pointed and saw rope steps flapping about in the swell. While he stared, the bottom five or six plunged beneath the surface. It seemed, if anything, more perilous than the oars. It was tempting to claim he had chosen the oars out of some caprice, but he refused to lie to a man who thrived on weakness.

‘No. You have a great deal to teach me,’ he said.

He leaned over to see what had become of the two rowers. They were still there. One of them stood ready with a net bag of Xanthippus’ kit. Themistocles had warned him not to bring more than a cloak, a razor, a flask of oil and a waterskin. He had added only a cheese wrapped in cloth and a small statue of Athena in limestone, given to him by Agariste.

Xanthippus watched anxiously as one of the crew tossed down a rope, barely longer than himself. The trireme was so low on the water, it looked as if the sea would come in through the oar-holes at any moment. His two ferrymen knew their trade, however. They tied the bag on and then it was pulled on board and placed at his feet. Sailors moved quickly in all their tasks, he realised. There was life to the ship, a bustle on all sides. It was exhilarating, though he felt exposed on that wide deck, without even mast or spars.