Xanthippus regarded the man before him, trying to discern his intent. Miltiades was sweating, he saw. Many men did sweat more after a battle, sometimes for hours. Or it could have been evidence of a weak heart. He had seen men fall the day after, sometimes recorded in the rolls as the last to die, though they clutched their chests and dropped under a different sun. In Miltiades, though, he thought it was both guilt and fear that drew wet lines from scalp to chin.

‘What do you want, Miltiades?’ he asked. ‘Is it just my congratulations on the victory? I am glad we won. I thought …’

He hesitated, unwilling to share an intimacy with a man he thought had betrayed them. Xanthippus had still not decided what to do about that. Battle was chaotic – orders could be misunderstood. Yet if there had been treachery, it was a crime so vile that it made his stomach clench.

‘What is it …? What did you think?’

By Athena, the man was like a lover Xanthippus had known, a woman who wanted to know what thought lurked behind every change of expression.

‘I thought we would not win,’ he said with a sigh. ‘They were so many – and the Immortals wouldn’t break with their king watching.’

He saw the tension go out of Miltiades in a great sigh, and it was suddenly too much. Xanthippus knew the dangers of the time after great exertion. He knew not to make a purchase, or get too drunk, or draw his knife in anger. His blood was still too rich with rage, as the old officer trainers used to say. For some men, the best thing to do was sit with trusted friends and say nothing until they had slept and woken again. Yet instead, he had been dragged across the camp with a sore knee and questioned by Miltiades, who thought he was a lot subtler than he actually was.

‘I thought, too, that you had been bought by the Persian king,’ Xanthippus added.

He could have cursed himself the moment the words were out, but it was too late. Miltiades watched him from under dark brows, his wrestler’s hands flexing. Xanthippus felt a thrill of fear and pressed on, preferring not to be made a coward on that night. Let the truth be heard, he thought.

‘I recalled you had lost your family fortune on silver mines – in Thrace, was it? And there we were, held back while Themistocles and Aristides were being battered by the Persians. You sent orders to hold, just when we were needed.’

Somehow, he stopped himself from going on. It all sounded so weak now that he had said the words aloud. Miltiades seemed to agree, as he smiled and shook his head.

‘I sent those orders when we needed a reserve, Xanthippus. I held the wing back to lure in their archers and slingers. Was I wrong? Did we not carry the day?’