He had taken on a strange intensity that was almost uncomfortable to witness. Xanthippus watched the gleam of it fade from his eyes. Themistocles shook himself as if waking.

‘Either way, I would not want him at my dinner table. He kills laughter with that sour expression of his.’

Xanthippus nodded uncomfortably. In that moment, he was weary of Themistocles.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I am going back to the city. I promised myself I would put in a hard run today.’

Themistocles eyed him, seeing the long limbs and powerful muscles of a man who trained every day in the skills of war.

‘May I run alongside, or would you prefer to be alone?’

Xanthippus heard the challenge and he smiled.

‘I would be happy to have company, but I warn you, I set a hard pace.’

Themistocles shrugged out of his robe and sandals, pulling his tunic over his head so that he stood naked. Xanthippus was reminded this was a man who loved to wrestle and box. He gleamed with health and Xanthippus wondered if he had overreached. He was no longer young and his knee was already aching. He showed nothing of that.

Themistocles arranged his belongings in a small pile, then whistled down the hill. A slave came trotting up from the docks in answer.

Themistocles nodded.

‘Lead on, Xanthippus. I will do my best to keep up with you.’

They set off at an easy lope, each man aware of the other and determined not to lose, even if they died in the attempt.

11

It was the knee that let him down. Xanthippus and Themistocles had almost burst their hearts racing all the way back. With the city wall in sight, they’d both broken into a sprint, pounding the earth road and spattering drops of sweat as they went. Xanthippus had felt his knee give way as if an iron spike had been driven through it. He’d lost speed, reduced to a hobble. He’d forced himself on even then, though Themistocles had pulled ahead without looking back. Some of those taking ox-carts from the port to the city had even cheered the heroes of Marathon, no doubt recognising Themistocles.

The two men ended up panting wildly at the city gate, watched by Scythian archers on the wall. Those metics were employed by the Assembly to keep order on the streets, or sometimes when an argument broke into violence on the Pnyx hill itself. That single space could hold twenty thousand, so when currents of anger or discussion became too rough, bloodshed was not uncommon.

Themistocles chuckled as Xanthippus joined him. They were both red-faced, but recovered quickly, though it nearly strangled them to give that impression.

‘You are limping,’ Themistocles noted. ‘Though I give thanks for it. I was fading when you slowed down.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Xanthippus said. He did not want to give anything like an excuse. Themistocles had won their race. He would not complain about it.

‘I know the gymnasiarch by the Ilissus river – just a few stades from here. The new place. He’ll make us welcome. He ought to, he is Leontis tribe – and he stood with me at Marathon.’