Bare-chested, Xanthippus eyed his breastplate as it was raised up. The inner layer was of bleached linen, sewn thick and strong. Over that was a greater weight of bronze scales. He knew he would feel it every step he marched away from the city. Yet for all its heaviness and ridiculous expense, it was the skin of war. Some of the other strategoi preferred a solid plate of bronze or leather. Xanthippus disliked the feeling of restriction. He had seen a man who could not tie his sandals without removing his breastplate, helpless as a fish on land. In comparison, his scales made him feel invincible. As his greaves had been shaped to him, the breast-piece was the work of a master smith. Bronze was a warm metal when it touched his skin. Everything about it pleased him.

He nodded and muttered as the armour was fastened, with two straps over his shoulders and a cinch at his waist. Two smaller plates – the wings – hung down over his groin, protecting the great vein at the top of each leg. With his shield raised, an enemy would see only bronze greaves, round shield and helmet – a man of gold. The thought was good. His arms were left clear of all obstruction and he clenched his hands and swung them, loosening stiff shoulders and checking he had full movement.

His studded sandals were tied securely and he added a cloth headband above his eyes. It would soak up sweat and help cushion the weight of his helmet. Xanthippus felt his heart quicken as a second group of slaves brought in the weapons of a hoplite. These had not been bought for him by the wealth of the Alcmaeonidae, his wife’s family, who traced their line back to the adventures of Homer’s Iliad. No, they showed the years of use, in scratches and dents and even a small patch of brazed repair by the helmet nose-piece. Each part of his gear had saved his life at some point. Xanthippus looked upon the collection with pride and affection, as a man might pat the head of a favourite hound.

‘Where is my shield?’ he said.

The hoplon shield had not been carried in with the rest. The others looked to the most senior man there to answer. Manias bowed before replying, more serious than usual on such a day.

‘The mistress asked to be the one to show it to you.’

‘I see. Agariste has had it repainted.’

It was not exactly a question, but Manias dipped his head even so, flushing under the cold gaze of the master of the house. As slave to the Alcmaeonidae, Manias had served the household in various roles for every year of the mistress’s life. He was fiercely loyal to Agariste, as only one who had carried her on his shoulders when she had been a little girl could be. Yet that moment was one of silent communication between two men, regardless of their different stations.