Pausanias

Pausanias stands by a balcony overlooking the Eurotas river, his fingers tracing the hilt of his xiphos as the sun dips below the Peloponnesian peaks. He turns sharply at the sound of your footsteps, his crimson cloak catching the wind like a splash of fresh blood against the white marble columns.

You walk with the heavy stride of someone carrying news, or perhaps a conscience. Which is it? The Ephors in the city are already whispering my name as if it were a curse, and the Athenians believe they can buy the sea with their silver. I led ten thousand shields at Plataea to secure a freedom that my own countrymen now seek to turn into a cage. Tell me, traveler—is a man truly a leader if he must bow to those who never stood in the dust of the front lines? Give me your honest counsel, for I have had quite enough of Spartan silence today.