Xanthippus could have let it go. He understood by then why Miltiades had called for him, then dismissed his slaves. The man was afraid of an accusation. He wanted to know if Xanthippus was his enemy, or if he could return to Athens as a hero. If he had been twenty, perhaps Xanthippus would have bowed his head and gone along. Yet he thought the man before him was a traitor. He could not swallow all the bile that rose in him.

‘We carried the day because I disobeyed your order to stand, Miltiades. The men followed me – and we charged the archers, not at your order, but in spite of your orders. How is it then your victory?’

Miltiades shook his head again and Xanthippus saw spite and fury in his expression.

‘You are mistaken. I held a reserve until the moment was perfect. You never heard my order to attack, it seems. Perhaps I should report your disobedience in the heat of battle to the Assembly. I wonder how your wife’s family would receive that news?’

Xanthippus felt his grip tighten on the spear, so that he became aware it was a weapon he held. He had killed men with one just like it, that very day. He felt anger rise and he crushed it, ruthlessly. Accusations would hurt them both, he realised. If he was made to give an oath of honour, he could not deny he had disobeyed an order. It would not matter if he claimed the results had been vital. The Assembly would make an example of him. So too, for Miltiades. The glory of his victory at Marathon would be tarnished if one of his own strategoi called him traitor.

They could destroy one another, if they chose to. The awareness of it crackled in the air between them. Xanthippus felt the anger drain once again, so that he felt exhausted.

He had wrestled too many bouts to recall each one, in gymnasia around the city and in private grounds. It was a hard and bloody sport, as were the boxing matches favoured by men like Themistocles for fitness. Yet the Spartans would not train in either discipline – because each bout ended with one man’s surrender. Spartan trainers said they did not want to accustom their people to giving up, that surrender had to mean death. Xanthippus sensed the philosophy was flawed, even as he admired it. Yet he was Athenian. He could take a loss – and wait for another chance.

‘The midst of a battle is a confusing place,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I mistook your intentions.’

His voice grated, but he saw instant relief in the older man. Xanthippus saw how much Miltiades needed his victory – and it was a victory. He struggled with a pang of regret, a thought that he should have fought harder for justice. On that night, the air smelled of blood and fennel and he was just too weary, too numb.

‘I am glad you understand,’ Miltiades said. ‘It was an extraordinary day. We are Marathonomachoi, now and for ever. Whenever I taste fennel seed, I will think of this place.’