‘My father was Neocles,’ Themistocles went on, ‘a man of no great estate or achievement. His parents disowned him and he never told me why, though I think it was probably for violence. My mother feared him, I remember that. He died when I was eleven years old, leaving my mother to raise me with little help. She brought me into Athens and we lived near the Ceramicus. Abrotonon was her name, a little blonde woman of Thrace, alone in this city without sisters or friends. Can you imagine? She worked every hour of the sun to keep us. I remember once I broke a pot – just a simple little thing, kiln-fired in blue. To me it was nothing, but she wept as she cleared up the shards. She could not replace it, though better pots than that are thrown out every day!’

He fell quiet for a time and Xanthippus wondered if the rumours were true that his mother had turned to work in the brothels to earn a wage. She had kept herself out of debt and so avoided slavery, which spoke well for her character. Xanthippus could not imagine a childhood of the sort Themistocles was describing and swallowed uncomfortably.

‘We lived for a while in peace,’ Themistocles said. His voice had gentled in memory. ‘I loved to make her laugh. I might have ended my days as one of the boxers in a place like this. I trained in two of them for years, did you know that? In return for breaking my nose more times than I can remember, the tutors taught me a few things. I learned my letters, everything I could – anything I needed to raise myself up. From poverty, from … being commanded. I studied it all. When I had a little money, I hired tutors to teach me numbers and writing and argument and construction. Each step led to more and more. Do you see, Xanthippus? I listened to the orators in the Assembly. I watched and I learned – and I trained myself, body and mind. I became expert and I sold my advice and my crafts to others. I wrote speeches for strategoi and archons to give the Assembly – and we won our cases. We changed the laws. I think I hardly slept from the age of twelve to thirty, just about.’

‘Does she still live, your mother?’ Xanthippus asked. When there was no response, he opened his eyes to see Themistocles had his head raised on another shaped block, while a grizzled-looking fellow worked his legs back and forth, twisting the hips in their sockets until they moved as they should. It was as uncomfortable to watch as to have it done, Xanthippus knew.

‘She died a few years ago now. The following year, the Assembly made me eponymous archon. Can you believe that? She never saw it. She never knew there was a year named for her son, so that all Athens called it the year of Themistocles. There was no earthquake then, to steal the honour from me, no great flood or battle.’ His voice changed subtly as his throat closed in sudden grief. ‘I wish she had seen that.’