Xanthippus bowed to him, giving him honour he did not deserve, then limped back down the slope to where his friends lay and snored. He did not think he would sleep, but he did.

9

The herald, Pheidippides, had carried the news of victory the night before, making the run back to Athens along the coast in record time. As he reached the Agora, he had cried, ‘Rejoice! Victory is ours!’ then sat on a bench as the cheering spread, rubbing the centre of his chest as if it pained him. When they thought at last to bring him wine, he was dead, his great heart still.

That small tragedy could not mar the celebrations of a city. When the hoplite column came into sight, it was met by children running along the road and what looked like all Athens turning out to greet them. There were women everywhere and they had draped themselves in flowers to kiss the returning soldiers. Slaves had been given a day free of labour on such an occasion and even the metic workers of foreign states turned out to witness men of bronze coming back from such an extraordinary victory.

Xanthippus wondered how many of the cheering crowds had slunk back in from the hills when they discovered their hoplites had won. He’d seen a stream of people and carts leaving the city as news spread of the Persian landing. Many would still be heading away, unaware the warriors of Athens had crushed the invasion and removed the threat.

He had woken early, so stiff he’d had trouble just sitting up. Despite the discomfort, he’d joined the younger men in runs along the beach and simple balances to stretch out his bruised limbs. It was astonishing how many times he’d been scraped or bashed without noticing it. His chest and right arm were mottled and there were odd welts on his thighs as if he’d been raked with claws. Half the bodies in the bay had vanished overnight, though there were others still bumping along in the shallows, held down by weight of armour. The smell was already growing stronger and Miltiades had declared burying the dead was not labour for hoplites. They had done their work the day before. Digging tombs, recording the weapons and valuables, could be handled by the seconds and slaves from the baggage carts. They had lazed their way through the battle, after all.

Though it was true the strategoi had lost the formal authority granted by the Assembly of Athens, the fiction of it was still in place, at least until they passed the walls of the city. Miltiades and Themistocles, in particular, seemed to expect complete obedience from the men. They were everywhere as the sun rose, giving orders, bringing structure to those who were still stunned, hardly able to believe they lived. In the process of counting the dead, Miltiades had chosen a dozen men to remain on the beach and complete the tally. No one who had seen the gold bands worn by the Immortals argued they should be left to rot. There were fortunes lying on the sand. It would be hard enough to stop boys from the city coming out and spending the next few days camping there, lost in fantasies and digging for rings and coins. Someone too had to be left to watch for ships returning, perhaps making a raid for slaves. They had lost children before in exactly that way – and there were still Persian vessels out there, somewhere. No one thought they would dare return, but who knew the minds of Persians? They were strange folk.