Epikleos watched the first jurors come up the steps, passing through the Scythian guards with solemn stares and then bounding to the top to find a good spot near the front.

‘The loss of life has been admitted,’ Epikleos said quietly. ‘That is hardly a matter of dispute. Your only focus must be to prove he was reckless with those lives, that he should have scouted the island and discovered the ambush – and is therefore responsible, at least in part.’

Xanthippus nodded. He wished the point of accusation was how Miltiades had acted at Marathon. He was more certain of that, though proof was just as elusive. He eyed the jury, seeing serious expressions. They had called Miltiades a hero once, but that was before he had lost so many men and ships.

Xanthippus could feel sweat trickling down from his armpits, cold against his skin though the sun was barely above the eastern horizon. There was no sign yet of the accused. Miltiades had been under guard since his accusation, in preparation for the trial. He had not been allowed to return to his loyal crews or even his house in the city, not while such serious charges hung over him. Instead, he would have languished with his wound in the small prison close by the Scythian barracks. Xanthippus imagined the man was being dressed and bathed at that moment, ready to argue his fate.

‘I have one of his captains as witness,’ he murmured, looking through the written argument he intended to make. There were many words crossed through and he felt sweat prickle on his brow. He was no Themistocles to pour words like honey over a jury until they drowned in them! Nor could he express the truth that lay at the heart of his accusation. Miltiades was a traitor, bought by a Persian king. The rest was merely a chain to bind him.

Miltiades arrived in a bustle of supporters, all glaring at Xanthippus. The man himself struggled visibly with his crutch, his son Cimon at his side to help him. Men well versed in argument walked alongside, holding rolls of papers. They looked calm and well prepared, which of course was for the benefit of jurors still taking their seats. Volunteers over the age of thirty were not always easy to find on a trial day. The pay was less than a working wage, so in more normal times, it tended to be the elderly and the poorest who filled the seats. It was said to be their chief entertainment and the white-hairs were much mocked in plays about the law.

On this day, the interest around Miltiades had persuaded much younger men to volunteer for selection. Some of them were even those who had returned with the fleet, with as much right as anyone to put their names forward. Xanthippus saw a few with bound wounds and swallowed nervously.

‘Do you see the sailors?’ he whispered to Epikleos.

His friend peered at a group still coming up, noting how their gaits differed from men used to solid land.