There was no sign of Aristides in the watching crowd. The man he actually wanted to impress had gone to some other trial. That hurt, but it reminded him of duty over passion, with Aristides as his example. Xanthippus glanced into the water urn once more, biting his lip. There was so much he wanted to say, but the restraint of time forced him to be concise. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, so that those in the rear leaned forward to hear him over the breeze.

‘We understand hubris, we Greeks. It is a danger for all men, but especially for us in our achievements. It tempts us and seduces us – to do more, to risk more, to try one more time. Do the gods not love us? Are we not glorious? Is one victory ever enough? That is the voice that tempted Miltiades. We cheered him – and he drank it in and still felt thirst.’

With relief, Xanthippus had brought himself back to the text he had prepared. He almost unrolled it, but the fluency of working without had been intoxicating and he was reluctant. The very thing he described in Miltiades was seducing him at that instant, he realised wryly. Instead, he took a breath and unrolled his scroll to the right spot.

‘I will bring you Captain Arceus of the warship Dolphin and a hoplite from a ship well named Justice. You will hear an account of arrogance from Miltiades, of a landing made without proper scouting parties that turned into a slaughter. You will hear how one man’s desire for glory tore the heart out of our fleet. I will ask you then for the harshest punishment, as befits the fortunes sent to the bottom of the sea – and the lives lost.’

He paused once more to bow his head. As if in answer, water spilled from a hole in the lower urn, ending his time to speak. Xanthippus nodded to the magistrate, who sat, stunned at what he had heard. The man wiped sweat from his forehead and his hand darkened the cloth of his robe when he wiped it down himself.

Xanthippus resumed his seat and Epikleos leaned in.

‘Well done, Xan. That is a good start.’

‘We’ll see,’ Xanthippus said, though he felt his heart beating so hard it made him dizzy. Pride was truly a danger, he realised. It was like strong wine in the blood to have other men look at him in awe. He glanced to where he had seen Themistocles and found the man staring back in his direction. Xanthippus dipped his head once and Themistocles copied the action, acknowledging one another.

Slaves refilled the water urns and topped up the levels as Miltiades rose to his feet. He looked very pale, his flesh more like dead marble than anything alive. Even in the morning cool, he was already sweating. The tunic he wore ended at his thighs, so that the thick cloth bandages were visible to all. Xanthippus had not seen the wound, but the entire leg looked swollen and there was a darker hue above and below, as if rot was spreading there. Xanthippus found himself wincing at the thought. He had seen such things before, when a wound failed to bleed clean and took on some foul vapour, becoming so corrupt it had to be cut out. The result was usually death. It was why they poured wine into wounds and packed them with wet bread as a poultice, draining the pus as it arose.