Epikleos suddenly had tears in his eyes, though he said nothing and only shook his head when Xanthippus looked over in concern. It would have betrayed the moment to explain, but to be there, on that morning, with his people all around, was something Epikleos thought he would never forget. It reminded him of dawn before Marathon, ten years and a lifetime before.

Even the slopes of the Acropolis could be filled. The people perched or stood, crammed together like bees come to rest in one great swarm, tens of thousands of his people, lit gold in the morning sun. Xanthippus heard his name whispered as he was recognised, with blessings called that became a multitude of voices. They had voted for him to be summoned home from exile and they felt responsible for him. He had sensed it in the weeks since his return, that he was known in Athens as he had never been known before. Perhaps it was just that they didn’t want to be wrong, but he felt the weight of their hopes on his shoulders. He had confided as much to Themistocles and, for once, the big man had only nodded and gripped his shoulder. Themistocles understood.

A narrow path remained open and Xanthippus walked through the crowds to the very top, where the ancient temple to Athena Pallas stood, goddess of the city. Alongside it, a new temple was rising, still unfinished – dedicated to Athena Parthenos, the virgin. Fine new columns and reliefs had been carved into the walls there, with precious gold gleaming. Statues of tyrant-slayers had been raised on that high rock, even a marble figure named for Callimachus, who had fallen at Marathon. The whole history of the city was remembered there. The gods watched.

Lamps had been lit in the darkness, spilling light down to the city below. As Xanthippus brought his family to stand with the rest, they were extinguished, one by one, replaced by the sun.

Themistocles was there, with a group of young men and women Xanthippus realised were his daughters and sons. The man’s second wife stood with him and, more than anything else, her presence made the hairs on Xanthippus’ neck rise. In all the years he had known Themistocles, he had kept his political and home lives apart.

Xanthippus felt his grip tighten on Agariste’s hand as he looked across the Acropolis and saw everyone he knew, all gathered in one place, to burn incense and pray to Athena, with war ahead. Aristides was there in breastplate and greaves, oddly warlike and strange without his ragged robe. His solemn authority showed in the hoplites who gathered around him. Cimon too had come, with his friends in a crowd by the temple wall. The archons of the Areopagus council were present, all the Eupatridae landowners come to stand together. Everywhere Xanthippus looked, he saw faces from his past, though some had aged and grown white-haired in his years away.

He understood then why Epikleos had suddenly become red-eyed and stumbling on the path. It was all they were, all they had made from rocks and cloth and laws, as fragile as a child’s life or a gilded bowl thrown into the air.