21

Xanthippus walked to the council building, through streets busy with the trade that was the lifeblood of his city. Fifty men from each tribe formed the administration of Athens. They took charge of the cells and the treasury and acted quickly when the Assembly could not. More, they organised carpenters and smelters and labourers and shipwrights to build a fleet and dig silver from the earth. From just five hundred volunteers, all officials were chosen, including the epistates himself. Yet the life of the city was in the colourful glazes on pots held out to him as he passed by, in leather belts and fine-woven robes, in iron nails and clay bricks, in figs, wine and oil. There would always be shouts and debate and juries and war. The true heartbeat of Athens was the sound of coins dropped into a cupped hand. Xanthippus chewed his lower lip at that thought, hoping it was not a blasphemy.

He had been there to witness the entry of the Miltiades silver the week before. It had been hard to miss, Themistocles riding a cart with a pale blue cloak wrapped around him and an expression of solemnity on his noble brow. He had made such a show of bringing it in, Athenians had come to stand three-deep along the roads to watch the procession of carts and marching hoplite guards. They had begun to cheer and wave as word went round of the fortune, as if Themistocles had brought home the treasury of another city.

It had seemed almost the first act of the play that had been the Miltiades funeral. After the silver had been brought to the council coffers and counted again, a more solemn event had wound its way through the city districts that night, lit by thousands of torches. Men who had fought at Marathon had joined in, some of them in full armour to honour the man who had brought them that victory.

Xanthippus had stayed in his town-house and retired early. He’d heard from Epikleos how well Themistocles had spoken of Miltiades’ honour and successes. There was no reason to speak ill of the dead, and by all accounts it had been a fine performance. It seemed there had been a sort of hiss when Xanthippus’ name came up as part of the recitation of strategoi at Marathon.

He frowned as he walked along. In the days since, it had been hard not to sense a new hostility as he completed his business in Athens. Whether it was in the Assembly or the courts on trial mornings, in council meetings, at the port or simply overseeing the produce of his estate and holdings brought to market, hard stares and whispers seemed to follow him. Miltiades had been a popular man.

Xanthippus thought it would fade. It had to, with time passing. He had not killed Miltiades! Somehow, the story seemed to have taken hold that a great Athenian hero had been brought down by treachery and low accusation. Xanthippus stiffened as someone muttered a foul insult behind his back. A woman! He looked at her in fury. It had not been open enough for him to challenge, even if he could have found a way to do so without looking a fool. No, he had to ignore them in their pettiness and spite. It would settle down in time, or when the mob found some other target. In the meantime, he had to endure.