Heads nodded in support and Themistocles smiled. He’d worried Xanthippus had stolen the heat out of them with his dry style. Yet the Assembly met four full days a month. They might appreciate grand gestures and crescendos, but they disliked being pushed. At times, dry argument was more persuasive than the most impressive flourishes of rhetoric. The moment was upon them.

‘I call for a binding vote,’ Themistocles said.

‘I second it,’ Xanthippus added, though hundreds more answered at the same time. Still, Themistocles acknowledged his contribution, leaning in close to speak.

‘You are on the side of right today, Xanthippus. We truly need those ships. It is invigorating, is it not?’

The voting would not be the formal process of scribing a name onto a piece of pottery, but a simple movement to the edges of the Pnyx, the two sides counted and recorded. Xanthippus looked over the men of his city as they made their way to support or deny the motion. They had given up their entire day for this. Some of them would sit all the way through the afternoon and early evening to hear urgent cases in law. Others would bring points of complaint to be judged and settled by smaller groups of their peers. There was nothing like it in the world, and yet there were times when he wished simple deference played a greater part. The Assembly was like a powerful young bullock. It could be steered with a light touch, but it was young and confident and appallingly strong.

‘It is … impressive,’ Xanthippus said at last. ‘You think the ships are truly the wooden walls of the prophecy?’

‘Of course,’ Themistocles said.

Xanthippus wished he had not asked as Themistocles clapped him on the shoulder and headed down to be counted.

The vote was in their favour, with the entire wealth of the new mine going to build more ships than Athens had ever known before. Aristides closed that part of the meeting with a formal acceptance of defeat on the motion. He gave way with gentle good grace, though a faint flush showed along his neck and jaw.

13

Ships were sighted at anchor along the eastern coast of Attica as darkness fell. If Miltiades had hoped to return to the port of Piraeus unnoticed, he would be disappointed. Night came slowly enough in late summer, but even in home waters, the captains would not risk grounding on unseen rocks, instead seeking safe anchorage until the sun rose once more. In half a dozen places along the Attic coast, that first glimpse sent runners away into the long purple twilight. For villages in that region east of Athens, noble houses like the Alcmaeonidae had always paid well for such information. Boys were employed, in their youth and stamina, to bring news of heavy-laden ships or the return of expeditions. Or word of a Persian invasion. Fortunes could be made and lost on that knowledge. While the moon rose and fell, lonely tracks through the mountains echoed to the slap of running feet as those lads earned their pay, racing to be first to the gates of Athens.