Xanthippus hesitated, rather than refuse. He needed to be rubbed down and oiled if he was to walk at all the next day. His knee felt like it was on fire and he could see the muscles fluttering around it. Yet his preferred gym was either the Academy, to the north, or one to the east of the city. More, he didn’t want to feel indebted to Themistocles. Sweat dropped from the tip of his nose, making him rub his face with one hand. On impulse, Xanthippus nodded and Themistocles led the way, already breathing well.

‘Age is a cruel thing,’ Themistocles said. ‘It takes all we have, little by little.’

Xanthippus felt his irritation grow.

‘It is just an old wound,’ he said tightly.

‘It comes to us all,’ Themistocles murmured, almost to himself.

Xanthippus raised his eyes to the heavens, asking for patience.

The gymnasiarch greeted Themistocles like a long-lost brother, crying out his name as he passed the gate and the cool outer cloisters to enter the main field. The river that ran alongside had been guided in a stream through sheltered groves, while the running track was new and clean. It was hard not to compare it with the peeling paint and weeds of the Academy. Xanthippus was impressed too by the care they received. He and Themistocles were laid down and massaged in oil, then rubbed clean with dulled blades of bronze or ivory. Dirty oil was flicked into a cauldron at the foot of the tables, where dark spirals mingled with gold as they separated. The smell was a little rank and Themistocles asked a slave to move it away, where the odour would not disturb him.

‘You know, Aristides will not pay for new oil. Have you heard that?’ Themistocles said. ‘He uses the free drippings, no matter how foul they are.’

Xanthippus frowned as he lay on his back and watched his leg raised. The slave holding it was examining the knee with a critical eye. Xanthippus took a deep breath when the man began to work his thumbs into the surfaces of the joint, pressing fluid away where it had gathered. The pain was excruciating and it helped to talk rather than cry out. That he would not do, not in front of Themistocles.

‘He does not like waste, then. Perhaps that is wise,’ Xanthippus said through gritted teeth. His tone was strained enough to make Themistocles look up.

‘Is your knee troubling you?’ he asked.

Xanthippus waited a beat.

‘It will be fine. Thank you for this, Themistocles.’

The big man waved a hand.

‘I love this place. Whatever it costs me is worth it. Would you like wine? Half and half? Or one and three?’

Despite his reservations, Xanthippus agreed to the latter. He sat up to drink, so that the slaves working on his legs knelt before him. Further back, he watched pairs of wrestlers throw and hurt each other with fine ferocity. Themistocles observed them with a more expert eye, calling out congratulations when one move sent a man flying. The losing wrestler stood with his wrist held in the other hand, clearly broken. He beamed when he saw who praised him even so, before retiring to have it splinted and wrapped.