Eurybiades reached out and took Themistocles’ hand, grinding the knuckles together in his grip. He thought the Athenian let him do it, which stole any sense of satisfaction.

‘Very well,’ the Spartan said. ‘We’ll save Athens.’

50

Agariste saw the horseman coming as a plume of dust on the road from the city. She stood on the wall to the estate, looking east and south, her shadow long as the sun began to set behind her. Her slave Manias had called her to the wall, his instincts prickling. Other horsemen had gone barrelling past, heads down and dust choking their lungs. There was something happening. Manias could read the flight of birds in the air. He could scent war on the breeze, and when he looked up and began to worry, she did as well.

When she saw it was Epikleos, she gasped, then let air out like a sigh or a last breath. He was not meant to be there. He was meant to be with Xanthippus, out on the deep waters. She felt her hands flutter against her dress, beyond her control. He could not be dead; she would have felt it. She would have dreamed it and seen him for the last time. The gods would not be so cruel as to simply take him and never let her know. She had spent part of that morning picking flowers in the meadow. The thought that she might have breathed in petals and known peace as Xanthippus fell was a wrench of pain. In that moment, as Epikleos dismounted, she almost wished he would just go on and not speak to her, that whatever he knew could be held in his lips and not spoken.

‘Agariste,’ he said, looking up to where she stood, frozen in fear.

His tone was dull, his face and hair thick with dirt – and there was some bloody scrape along his temple, at the hairline. His left arm was mottled with bruising, she saw. Epikleos had been battered and wore the marks of war under the dust.

‘Is he dead?’ she asked, her voice choked and high, so that she sounded like a little girl.

‘Xanthippus is alive, but we cannot save the city. Gather the children, Agariste. Summon your household. There are ships waiting to take you away – if you come now.’

‘Open the gate!’ Agariste said.

She ran down the steps and embraced the man who came past Manias and the armed slaves set to guard. Epikleos staggered and she sensed how tired and filthy he was.

‘Agariste, there is no time. The Persians are coming. Please call your children. Have your slaves gather up food and tools, weapons. Is there a cart? Horses?’

‘Yes, all those,’ she said.

Some of the slaves were already moving, though the mistress of the house stood in a daze of confusion. Epikleos seemed to understand she was not taking it in. He took her hands in his.

‘Listen to me. The Persian army is coming here, to Athens. Xanthippus has ships down at the port, ready to take you and the children. You must come now, as fast as you can.’