Little by little, the column of returning soldiers drifted into the mass of people. They were greeted by tribe and deme as well as loved ones. There was weeping then for those who had not returned. Sobbing women and children were led away from that place, given space by those who understood their loss, taken home by sisters and parents. Around those small islands of crushing sorrow, the other citizens of Athens rejoiced, pounding the victors’ arms and shoulders in jubilation.

In the Agora, Xanthippus saw Miltiades raised up on the shoulders of his tribe, so that he sat above them all and lifted his hands further, acknowledging their shouts and cheers. Xanthippus saw too that Themistocles had noticed the man’s rise in status and adulation. He did not seem delighted about it. Xanthippus watched the victor of Marathon – and Miltiades seemed to sense his gaze, looking across the crowd. The noise had lessened and Xanthippus knew if there was a time to speak, it was then.

He saw Miltiades embrace a youth lifted up alongside. His son, Cimon. The young man was no more than sixteen or seventeen and gazed on his father with reverence. It was not too hard to imagine one of Xanthippus’ sons looking at him with such pride when they were older.

Xanthippus made a final decision. Nothing was certain in a battle, nor in the hearts of men. He had no proof. He nodded to Miltiades. If the man noticed, he gave no sign of it.

It was Themistocles who spoke first to the crowd, of course. Xanthippus raised his eyes to the heavens as the man’s voice boomed across the Agora. The sky was clear and dark blue and the sun beat down on a summer afternoon. Xanthippus felt tension vanish as he breathed out and out at last. There was a moment of perfect peace. He closed his eyes and drew in air and life and sound once more.

‘We give thanks to the gods for a great victory,’ Themistocles was saying, ‘for without their aid and their strength, we could not have triumphed.’

He paused and Xanthippus wondered how much of the credit Themistocles would reserve for himself. It was an unworthy thought.

‘You will hear a thousand stories in the days and months and years to come – of all we did. We drove the army of the Great King into the sea and made it run red as wine.’

The silence was absolute then. Xanthippus heard an intake of breath at the image. The crowd who had not been there hung on his words. Themistocles was witness.

‘I give thanks to the men who stood with me, as brothers, as Athenians. As Hellenes. We are Greeks – and we are victors.’

Themistocles spoke almost sadly, Xanthippus realised, though whether it was artifice or exhaustion, he could not tell. The man looked across at him, as if he had heard the thought.

‘I give thanks for the strategoi who ordered the battle: for Aristides, who held the centre with me; for Xanthippus on the left wing, who raised the hearts of the men. For Miltiades, who kept us steady – and sent in the reserve at exactly the right moment, so that they smashed the Persian lines, all while their king watched.’