‘I wonder if you appreciate this place as I do,’ Themistocles said.

Xanthippus looked up as he finished his wine and lay on his stomach. Two men still worked on his legs while another huge fellow leaned onto the muscles of his back. With his elbows, by the feel of it. Xanthippus grunted, prepared to endure.

‘I believe I do,’ he replied.

‘I don’t know,’ Themistocles said. ‘You were born to the Eupatridae. Your people had land, and land … well, it is freedom, of a sort. With land, a man knows he will never starve. He has a refuge when the world turns against him. Gates he can shut, slaves to guard his walls. He has peace. Your father was a wealthy man, was he not?’

‘He was,’ Xanthippus admitted warily.

‘And your wife’s family – by Athena, they have been rich since the Iliad! You know Aristides worked with your wife’s uncle, Cleisthenes? Did you know that? He admired him greatly, Xanthippus. Who can blame him? Cleisthenes – the man who named the ten tribes, who set up the Assembly and the council! What a mark he left, of greatness, on the world.’

‘And is that what you want?’ Xanthippus said.

He wished Aristides were there to hear the arguments and respond. He never seemed at a loss for words the way Xanthippus sometimes felt. Themistocles lay on the table with his hair unbound and his limbs massive, like a lion enjoying the sun. His skin was still reddened after the exertion of the run. Yet he lolled, supremely at ease.

‘I want the best for Athens,’ Themistocles said after a time.

The truth lay somewhere beneath the words, Xanthippus could sense, or perhaps it was simply that Themistocles saw the best of the city in himself.

‘I was born just outside the city, in the village of Phrearrhioi. Do you know it?’

Xanthippus nodded, though he kept his eyes closed. The village was not wealthy, if that was the point. He recalled it as clean enough, with fields of barley and wheat all around. There were places in Athens so tightly packed the sun never reached the ground. It was strange to think of Themistocles as a man of open fields, when he seemed to fit city streets so well. Xanthippus wondered how such a beginning had produced the one who lay at ease alongside him. Perhaps, like the ridged muscles of his chest and stomach, Themistocles had taken what the gods had given and crafted something from it.

With a ‘fwit’ sound, old oil was flicked into a new wooden tub, leaving spatters of muck on the dusty ground. Fresh oil of clear gold was brought, with the massaging slaves dipping their hands into it. Out on the wrestling rings, dust stuck to the athletes as they panted. They would not strike true blows, even when their temper frayed. A boxing match would result and those were darker and more brutal than the wrestling ring. When he heard steps growing louder, Xanthippus considered sitting up once again to watch rival teams of runners lap the track. He decided against it. The day was too fine, the air too sweet. He raised his cup for more wine and leaned back against a leather and wood block placed to support his head. He murmured thanks to the man who worked on his knee. The pain was easing and he was grateful.