The column that came back to Athens was smaller by almost a thousand hoplites. Some four hundred of those still lived, but were too wounded to march with the rest. Their greaves, shields and spears were piled on carts, along with the equipment of the fallen. For the six hundred Athenian dead, those things would have been the most valuable items they possessed. Each was marked with a family stamp. They would be returned to the tribe, deme and individual heirs – to be sold, or perhaps worn with pride by another generation.

All those things were behind, as Xanthippus walked in the sun with Epikleos at his side. On such a day, it was simply good to feel it on the back of his neck, to know he was alive. He wondered if he would ever smell fennel again without thinking of the battle in that place.

The sound of cheering could be heard some way off. It raised his spirits as the crowds caught sight of them. He had not returned from many campaigns – and never before from a battlefield almost in sight of the city. Truly they were Marathonomachoi, as Miltiades had said. Men of Marathon. He wondered if it would be the defining day of his life and whether he would always be satisfied with his part in it. Memory was a difficult path at times. Already, he knew the previous night’s conversation with Miltiades would weigh on him. His time in the front line was there in bright flashes. Xanthippus recalled his throat had been dry the whole day. Parts of it had lost their connection to the whole, so he could not remember the exact order of events. Yet his suspicion of Miltiades was as fresh and certain as ever.

The crowds adorned Miltiades with wreaths of crocus and amaranth, the eternal flower that never lost its deep red, even when dried. The archon was even persuaded to carry a branch of it, thick with blossom. With green vines woven around his right arm, he walked proudly at the head of the column. The men with him smiled and waved, their shields worn on their shoulders so they could embrace anyone who dared to dart out and kiss them. Xanthippus tried not to frown, though he saw Epikleos glancing aside, amused at his expression.

‘You have never liked this …’ Epikleos shouted over the noise of cheering. ‘The crowds of Athens, the people. See Themistocles there! He adores the attention.’

It was true, of course. Themistocles was strolling alongside Miltiades, beckoning for more blooms and allowing one young woman to take as long as she liked winding a green vine from his shoulder to his wrist. He was laughing with her and let his hand drop casually to her waist, pulling her closer as he bent his head and said something that made her blush.

Themistocles at least claimed the adulation of the city with no embarrassment. Xanthippus could only shrug at that. The man had led his tribe and the centre with cool bravery, rallying them under pressure and breaking the heart of the Persian Immortals. Themistocles deserved the acclaim.