‘I know as well as Aristides what is valuable – and what is not. But I am of the people of Athens, Xanthippus. In all my labours, when I wrote legal arguments for others, I never refused my service to a man who had nothing. I demanded fortunes from archons of the Areopagus, when they wanted a will or to dispute a ruling of the Assembly or the courts. But if a man came to me in fear of his landlord, or because he would be made a slave by dawn for his debts, I worked through the night and I asked nothing for it. I have never forgotten what poverty feels like, Xanthippus. Aristides plays at my youth, yet sneers at my love of wine and food and good things in the same breath.’

He made a snorting sound, like a dog with water up its nose.

‘I raised myself up from nothing!’ he said. ‘Which is a grand tale, is it not? They know it, the people of the city. When they see me, they see themselves. When the Assembly discusses building a new temple, they call for master builders and they listen to them speak – of costs, of the calculations and materials of their trade. Yet when they discuss how best to run the city, any man may speak. The same master builder might stand alongside the archons – and he will be heard. They listen to me then, Xanthippus, because they have learned to value the advice I give. Is that not wonderful? Without the right family, could I have risen so far in Sparta, in Thebes or Corinth? You know the answer. Yet here, I am known. It is why I was made eponymous archon over my peers, over men even like Aristides, who had to wait another three years for an honour I had first.’

There was bitterness in Themistocles. Xanthippus could see it, could hear it in his voice. Bitterness and pain and insecurity. Xanthippus wondered at the depth of it, even as he saw humour and amusement return to eclipse all the rest. The man knew himself and so he could laugh at his own weaknesses and never be surprised by them. It made him dangerous perhaps. Xanthippus was not sure.

‘You see these men around us?’ Themistocles said idly. ‘Two metics from Thrace, foreigners brought to this gymnasium at great cost for their skill. Three more who are slaves, owned by the establishment. Two of them were born not a street from where I lived with my mother. Deneos here worked in the markets selling figs – and himself on occasion, before he came here. Now, I own a share of this place and I got him the job, so if I ask him to cut your throat, would you survive?’

Xanthippus froze. It seemed in that moment as if all those around him were watching him closely, waiting for him to respond. Themistocles laughed.

‘You should see your face!’ he said. ‘These are your people too. They know you fought for them at Marathon. You are a hero, Xanthippus, just as I am. We are great men – achievers. Aristides does not stand over me in the esteem of this city, nor Miltiades.’