‘And Miltiades?’ Themistocles asked suddenly.

Xanthippus felt himself freeze. By the gods, the man was as sharp as a razor! He needed to guard himself at all times with Themistocles. He inclined his head, speaking as one who knew there were other ears listening.

‘He and I have settled our differences, Themistocles. The Assembly love him.’

‘Yes,’ Themistocles said, looking dissatisfied. ‘Yes, they do. Will you come to watch the new ships blessed, when they are ready to sail?’

‘Of course,’ Xanthippus said. ‘I will watch the sacrifices and drink water and wine and cheer with all the rest. Athens is my city. All that is good for her is good for me.’

‘A fine thought,’ Themistocles said softly. ‘Come, then. Dine with me and take your ease. Perhaps I can persuade you to support me over Aristides when it matters. There is more to debate than just our styles and choice of oil. Come on. You are amongst friends here.’

Xanthippus thought that was not so. He could not say exactly why he didn’t trust Themistocles, but there it was. Perhaps it was just that the man liked to win, and that to win, someone always had to lose. Still, he would learn all he could, even if that meant an evening guarding his tongue, in the company of whores and vipers.

Agariste woke as knocking sounded. She stared at the ceiling for a few blurry moments. Had one of the children cried out? The thumping sounded again and she saw light bloom as one of the slaves lit lamps from the fire’s embers. The gleam came bobbing down the corridor towards her room. She sat up, letting the cover spill away from her breasts. No light where Xanthippus slept, so he had not returned.

One of the children began to cry, though she could not tell whether it was little Pericles or his sister. She firmed her mouth and rose from the bed. The staff would answer any call at the door and decide whether the mistress of the house should be woken. As if anyone could sleep through such knocking! Her mind filled with threats: Xanthippus dead, an invasion by the Persians, the city aflame with riots and insurrection. With a curse, she wrapped a robe around her and padded out into the main house.

The slave quarters had been dug into the foundations below the family rooms, so that she glimpsed frightened faces in the doorways. They had not dared to light their own lamps before the mistress allowed it. They waited as shadows, helpless to fate as their station demanded. Agariste clenched her jaw as she walked, wishing one of them had the sense to soothe the crying child. She had recognised the voice of Pericles by then. It was hard not to feel anger for whichever fool had chosen to wake the entire house, at Hera knew what hour of the night.

Of the fifty-four slaves in her household, just six had been trained with weapons to defend the women and children. Those men worked as cooks and masons and carpenters, but when the mistress was threatened, they took up swords and leather armour and stood before her. Others of the staff brought lamps to throw light upon the scene. They gathered between the main house and the wall by the road, falling in around Agariste as she came striding out. She showed no fear to them when the light washed across her. She was Athena, who wore a warrior’s helmet. She drew herself up and hid the terror that made her tremble and her knees want to fold.