Xanthippus breathed in and out, forcing calm and putting weak thoughts aside. The votes had been counted and the tally was being checked by solemn officials and the magistrate. There was no going back. As the philosophers said, each choice led to another and another, but no one could ever see what might have been. Or all men would have been as wise as Homer.

The magistrate bowed to the officials of the Assembly and returned to his seat. The jury too became still, waiting for their own verdict, as they did not yet know what it would be.

‘By two hundred and sixty-four to one hundred and thirty-six, the judgment is against Miltiades. The accusation is proven. The verdict is guilty.’

There was noise then as four hundred jurors either swore under their breath or cheered and clapped one another on the back. There was no appeal against any sentence. Miltiades’ life hung in the balance.

‘You have him,’ Epikleos said, his voice cutting through their clamour. ‘So, will you show mercy?’

Xanthippus looked sharply at his friend. He shook his head.

‘For losing a battle, I would. For taking Persian silver, no. My wife and children would have been sold with all the rest, Epikleos. There can be only one result.’

The last part of a trial was a delicate game of fine judgement. After a guilty verdict, both the prosecution and the defence would decree a punishment. With a show of hands, the jury could select only one of them. Xanthippus bit his lip as he thought. Too harsh a sentence and there was a chance the jurors would choose whatever Miltiades offered. Of course, the defence had the same problem. If Miltiades chose too light a punishment, the jury could easily go for the harder ending. Men liked to see blood; the advantage lay with Xanthippus.

When the magistrate had finished conferring once more and turned to him, Xanthippus did not hesitate.

‘For hubris, for the death of thousands of men and the loss of a fleet for Athens, the punishment must be death. I would show mercy to this man in the manner of it, so I will ask that he be dispatched cleanly with a knife and his body returned to his family to be honoured.’

There was a murmur of appreciation in the jury and some of them nodded. Xanthippus had avoided the trap of asking for too violent an end – seeing Miltiades flogged to death, or pegged to a board on the city wall so that exposure and thirst drew out his agony over days.

Xanthippus took his seat as Miltiades struggled to rise. The man had grown paler, if anything, with dark patches on the ground where drops of sweat had fallen from his nose and chin. After a struggle, it seemed he would not make it to his feet. Miltiades pulled his son down and whispered furiously into his ear. Cimon hissed a question back, but then nodded, his mouth a thin line.