It might have been easier if he had been able to confide in his wife. Yet his relationship with Agariste had become a cold thing, a strain that smothered some part of him, so that he spent whole days clenched and miserable, as if he swam underwater and could not think. He did his duty by her when it came to the income of the estate, though the bills were settled by his servants and rarely needed his personal attention. He had taken the time to ride with each of his children, teaching them how to sit and grip with their knees. Agariste had come to watch the instruction and he’d been very aware of her there, leaning on a fence. There had even been a smile when Pericles came tumbling off and staggered bawling to his mother for comfort. Yet it had not stretched to her husband when he looked over. There was no warmth for him. He no longer knew how to close the distance between them.

The council building was an impressive construction, a statement of intent of a new administration, the edges still sharp. The old Areopagus council had their ancient stone, but this was for the people, built in limestone and brick, with polished columns. Each year, a new five hundred would enter the council building and run Athens. With all the checks and balances they had created, it worked; that was the wonder of it. Xanthippus felt mingled pride and exasperation as he was challenged and then recognised at the entrance. They were all so proud of what they had achieved! They took their responsibilities seriously and they gave part of each month to make it run. There was no written constitution. The laws depended on goodwill and tradition – and common sense. It meant the Assembly members felt part of the city, even the poorest, Xanthippus realised. Families like his own had given away part of their authority for a dream of something more. He had lost deference, in return for that common spirit.

He sighed. It did not seem such a fine bargain when market sellers hissed insults under their breath at him. Alongside the Agora, the Ceramicus was one of the poorest areas, where all the city’s pots and urns were made. The roads themselves were made from tiny pottery shards, embedded in clay and dust. The city wall was not far off and beyond that, the cemetery where Miltiades had been interred. Xanthippus stopped suddenly before shaking his head. Someone else cursed him for blocking the road, though he thought there was no special malice in it. Xanthippus had not visited the tomb of Miltiades, to say his last words to the man’s shade. It was owed, but then it might cause a riot if he went, even a week later. It would not hurt to wait for the blossoms to fade.

At the entrance to the council building, Xanthippus found himself looking back, imagining the procession. How could he have become the villain of the tale? He had won fifty talents for Athens by his accusation! Twenty-five galleys could be built for such a sum, he reminded himself, or a man’s working wage paid for a thousand years! If that wasn’t a form of ‘trierarchia’ – the duty to pay for war galleys – he didn’t know what was. Would Miltiades have paid such a sum voluntarily? Of course not.