Some of the crowd came forward to try and touch him, to embrace the man who had saved them at Salamis, then taken the fight to the Persians. In the months he had been away, word had come of his exploits, his sacking of the coast. They lived in a city that had been twice burned, that still smelled of ash when it rained. There were few who had not prayed for him and blessed his name.

Xanthippus turned from those beating his back in joy. A woman tried to press his hand to her cheek and he snatched it away, making her stumble. Epikleos stepped off then beside him, whistling to the hoplites. They surrounded the archon, giving him room to breathe. That year had been named for Xanthippus. It did not mean the crowd owned him.

Pericles gathered his brother’s shield and armour in a sack, heaving it onto his shoulder. It was a huge weight and he did not relish the idea of carrying it all the way through the city to the estate. He would do it, however. Though he saw Xanthippus looking across the faces, searching, his mother was not there in the crowd. Pericles knew she had been told. As a privilege of the navarch of Athens, a ship had been dispatched weeks before with the news. Pericles did not know what her absence meant.

With the honour guard tight around his father, Pericles fell into their wake, barely protected from the cheering crowd. After so long on board a silent ship, with nothing but the sound of the waves, it was confusing, even frightening, to be among people once more, people who did not understand orders and discipline. They kept pressing in and Pericles worried his father would order the hoplites to draw their swords. Xanthippus’ face was thunderous as women or men kept slipping through, reaching for him as though his touch could heal. They wept, some of them, or shrieked, oblivious to his discomfort.

Rowers poured out behind Pericles, taking the opportunity. On land, they too became the cheering crowd, raising their hands and shouting. They began to sing the march of Athena in a thousand voices, the tune barely surviving. A dozen triremes emptied in a great throng, crews simply abandoning their ships. On the water, other officers shouted in anger, seeking out any other spot where they could throw a rope.

Striding ahead of that rising chaos, Xanthippus was the dark heart of the procession. Cold and furious, he was nonetheless their focus, the delight of all those who saw him. Miltiades had come back years before, too wounded to walk. Xanthippus was war-thin and fit. He needed no help. The road to his family estate was to the north-west of the city. The best route there was through the Agora, but that meant he led crowds like on a feast day to the centre of the city, their numbers swelling with every moment.