As darkness came, light and laughter bloomed in the taverns in the port and across the city. Forty or fifty thousand men all looking for wine and a meal made Athens raucous for a few hours. Little by little, peace returned as they fell into snoring sleep, in chairs, on benches, sometimes on the street itself, with street dogs curling alongside them for warmth.

Xanthippus could see some of the captains yawning as they took their seats, setting off others around them, so that the hands raised to open mouths spread in ripples. The council building was busy that night, but there was also impatience in the air. Themistocles and Eurybiades had summoned them there, while their men had the luxury of simple sleep and comfort, their labours forgotten for a night.

Xanthippus took a seat facing the benches, alongside the Spartan navarch and Themistocles. He felt the Spartan’s gaze crawl over him, whether in challenge or simple interest he could not be certain. Either way, Xanthippus had earned his right to be present in that room. His formations had worked themselves to complete collapse all day, but the results were being discussed in every tavern in Athens.

Cimon entered in a noisier group of captains at the back of the council hall, wearing his youth like a brand in comparison to all the older men hardly able to remain awake. Xanthippus watched as the young Athenian strolled down the central aisle and took one of the seats reserved for senior officers. Cimon seemed oblivious to the stir it caused, so that Xanthippus readied himself to speak in his defence. The young man had worked as hard as anyone that day. His authority had showed in the sharp responses of his twelve, darting across the waters like fierce predators. More than once, Cimon’s ships had caught and pinned those Xanthippus had made ‘enemy’ for an action. His dozen triremes were as fast and disciplined as any other group in the fleet.

The Spartan Eurybiades shifted in his seat and made a sour expression, but he chose to chew his own lip rather than speak in complaint. He had seen his Spartan ships ‘killed’ more than once, forced to turn onto rams they could not avoid. His own flagship had been hemmed in twice, unable to get free. It did not matter that he had not formally yielded; they knew. He had not enjoyed the experience of cheering Athenians. Still, he made no objection to Cimon’s presence alongside, though the young man had yet to see thirty summers. It did not hurt that Cimon was broad-shouldered and dark with black hair down his arms and chest. He was every inch his father’s son.

When they were all present, over three hundred trierarchs had been crammed into that meeting hall. Almost two hundred were from Athens, but for the rest, the Agora that ran alongside and the Acropolis that loomed above were places of legend, almost, like the sanctuary to Apollo at Delphi or the flanks of Mount Olympus. A full moon sailed above the city, bathing her in pale grey. Some of the men looked in awe through stone columns across a city they knew only by reputation – Athena’s own.