The route they took would lead through the city to the Agora, with the hill of the Pnyx and the Areopagus to the south and west of it. Those outcroppings of bare stone were where the Assembly and the council met to discuss and vote. Such places were made sacred by their purpose. No doubt there would be speeches and sacrifices offered to Athena for their deliverance. Xanthippus would have to endure some of it, but he had a house nearby, where there would be cool water and silence. Agariste and the children would find him there, but perhaps not until he had let stillness and quiet seep back into him. He needed it, after so much clamour and noise, beating at him like wings. He needed to be alone, at least for a time. Men like Themistocles seemed to grow larger and brighter with the touch of hands, the weeping of grateful women. Epikleos too seemed delighted by it. Perhaps Theseus and Heracles had been the same, Xanthippus thought.

He could see Aristides ahead, wearing a simple robe. He at least looked like an archivist or a scholar, out strolling through the markets. Aristides had played as vital a part in the victory as Themistocles, but there was no vainglory in him. It made Xanthippus proud to see the man’s dignity. Themistocles was touching every outstretched hand, his teeth showing as he laughed and cheered with the rest.

It was all lead, all tin, Xanthippus realised. They had offered their lives on the field of battle, something only those who had been there would ever truly understand. It actually made Miltiades his brother, he realised. Perhaps that was part of the reason he had not spoken out. The man could make his counter-accusation of disobedience, of course, but he thought it was more than that. Xanthippus told himself it was – and suddenly he was choked and tears stung his eyes. He could not understand where the emotion had arisen and he longed more than ever for a place away from the noise and the heaving mob.

He felt Epikleos pat him twice on the shoulder, returning him to the world.

‘Come on, Xan,’ the younger man said, his concern clear. ‘I’ve seen you like this before, after a battle. You need to rest, with a little wine and some simple food. Or a lot of wine.’

Xanthippus smiled and nodded. He endured the crowds all the way to the Agora, where they were greeted by still more. Every road had filled with them, every open space crammed. More men and women than he could possibly count had come out, showing how much they appreciated what had been done. It should have been a glorious occasion, though Xanthippus felt the sun beating on his neck and arms and he felt dry-mouthed and grubby. Themistocles was somehow untouched by filth, though he had fought and sweated as hard as anyone. Or had the man changed his clothes? He had certainly found a cloak of pale blue from somewhere, Xanthippus noted. With flowers wound around his neck and arms, it made him look like a king, or the god of some sacred grove.