‘I’ll let our noble captain show you the pride of the fleet. I’ll make sure the cook has something good for lunch, Xan. We’ll catch up then.’

They gripped hands again and Epikleos swung down into the nether regions of the ship, whistling as he went. Xanthippus felt the trierarch watching him.

‘You truly do not mind that he visited your wife for years? You must be very good friends.’

Xanthippus gave a snort.

‘His interests do not lie in the same direction as mine, trierarch. I have no fears on that score.’

‘Ah,’ Ereius said. ‘I did wonder. From the way he speaks … He loves you, you know.’

‘Yes. But I cannot give him what he wants.’

The trierarch looked to where Epikleos had climbed down to the hold.

‘If he prefers older men, I wonder …’

Xanthippus waved a hand.

‘You do not need my permission. He is his own man. He is, however, my greatest friend and a Marathonomachos. He should be treated with the utmost courtesy.’

‘Of course!’ Ereius said.

Xanthippus glanced at him and thought it was no accident Themistocles had placed him in the hands of such an experienced trierarch. Before the sun had moved on the horizon, he had seen every part of the ship and even hung off the prow to look down on the green ram cresting through foam below. The officers were then lined up to greet him, Epikleos grinning at one end. It seemed he was in charge of the hoplites on board, a small group of veterans, some of whom greeted Xanthippus almost in awe. They all knew Themistocles. If that man felt he needed Xanthippus so much he had to break an exile to bring him home, Xanthippus had to be extraordinary. As he was introduced to officers and hoplites, Xanthippus glanced back the way he had come. The ship of Themistocles was already lost to view in all the rest. He was alone, to learn.

The rowing crews were brought up one by one onto the narrow deck: the thranitai, who rowed on the highest level, the zygioi of the middle seats and the thalamioi, who rowed in the deepest part of the hold and were said to suffer most in rough seas. Xanthippus took their hands with a quick grin and a dry grip. They were all free men of Athens. Many would have stood on the Pnyx to hear discussions. Perhaps some had even voted for his return, he told himself. He tried not to think that some of the older ones could just as easily have voted for him to be ostracised. They were a burly-looking group, with powerful shoulders and grips of iron, so that even his soldier’s hand felt mangled and sore before the last of them had gone past. Still, their strength pleased him. His life depended on their endurance.

When the formal greetings were over, the crew resumed their duties. Ereius was chuckling as he took Xanthippus by the hand and crushed it once more, a clasp hardly less strong than the Spartan the day before. Though his fingers were pale and bruised, Xanthippus took an odd pride in that. Epikleos had lingered and the trierarch had not sent him away to his duties.