That there would be no great celebration was clear from first light. The remnant of the fleet they had cheered on its way came limping around the coast, seeking the shelter of the Piraeus port. Seventy ships had launched, but barely twenty returned – and they wallowed as their oars dipped and tugged at the waves, dragging them home. By the time they eased up against the docks and were tied safe, the crowd that had run down from the city had fallen silent. There would be no Persian coins tossed to children, no great display of wealth and triumph to tell in years to come. They watched as the crews disembarked along trembling wooden runners. Their demeanour told the tale. Many of them bore wounds wrapped in cloth, or the marks of some great buffet that had spread in green and gold and blue.

Miltiades had to be helped down. He leaned on a staff wedged under his armpit, sweating and pale. He might even have fallen if his son Cimon had not rushed forward and taken his arm to steady him. The archon’s leg was wrapped from thigh to knee and it did not look clean. It was clear enough that Miltiades would not be striding along the road to the city, with the crowd throwing petals and cheering his name.

A cart was brought and his son lent his strength to help his father climb onto the back of it. Cimon walked alongside then, while Miltiades stared backwards as the sea dwindled from view. The crowd peeled away from the docks and gathered on the dusty road to the city. They had come for a celebration and instead found a funeral procession. Many of them dangled wine jugs stopped in wax. Others began to weep and hold children close as they counted ships and understood. Each lost vessel meant two hundred and thirty men would not return to Athens. Each would have been a husband and father. There were thousands of wives and children who had risked the open road to come to that place. When they understood their men would not be coming, it was like a blow. Some of them crumpled on the docks, or began to stagger. Children wailed at seeing their mothers cry so violently, tearing at their hair and pulling it in long strands as tears coursed from them. That was the sound that followed Miltiades as he was carried into Athens.

Over the noise of grief, Cimon looked at his father, seeing only glassy weariness. He was eighteen years old and already much fitter and stronger for the military training he endured every day. He had felt joy that morning when the news had reached him. His father was coming! Cimon had run out of the city in just a tunic and sandals, as if in a great race to be first to see the ships. Instead, he had witnessed terrible wounds and men drawn white as death by them. The ships were unmarked, but they were so few! The stench that came from them told of too many crammed in for too long a time, rowing, rowing home. Cimon shuddered, not at the thought of suffering, but at the thought of loss. He was ashamed for his father then. When Miltiades looked on him with eyes made sore by wind and salt, Cimon would not meet his gaze, choosing to remain silent.