14

High above the city, dawn on the Acropolis brought forth the priests of Apollo to greet the sun and give thanks for the god’s patronage. The ancient temple faced east and they bowed to the source of light and life, chanting prayers and burning fragrant incense or bound branches.

From down on the Pnyx, Xanthippus saw thin trails of smoke rising from the temples on the cliff. Epikleos followed his gaze and nodded to himself.

‘They will sacrifice a few fine lambs for the safe return of blessed Miltiades,’ he said.

Xanthippus frowned. He did not like his friend’s tone on such matters.

‘Be careful, Epikleos,’ he murmured.

His young friend knew him well enough to understand the warning. He shrugged.

‘I make no judgement. The gods give and they take away. See poor Miltiades there, being helped to a seat! When last he stood in this place, he was a hero of Marathon. If the priests of Apollo wish to cook themselves a fine breakfast on the heights of the Acropolis, I do not think it will matter now.’

‘Enough!’ Xanthippus said, shocked.

It was well known that the priests took home the cooked meat of sacrifices. They burned the most sacred organs on the altars but, yes, fed their families with the rest. Somehow, Epikleos seemed to take that truth and demean it with his choice of words. Xanthippus shook his head when Epikleos made as if to speak again. His friend subsided, reluctantly.

Around them, the Pnyx hill filled with people. No Athenian could remain asleep or go to work on such a day. Xanthippus saw Themistocles was there, looking tousled as if he had been drawn from his bed just moments before. Aristides was on the other side, already surrounded by the senior archons of the Areopagus council and men of his tribe, all come to hear Miltiades’ report. In that place, they were the same, with one vote and no more. Rich and poor: builders and fullers and landowners mingled, shoulder to shoulder, each with as much right as any other to argue matters of law and morality.

‘There is excitement here this morning,’ Epikleos said. ‘Can you feel it? This is the beating heart of the city, Xan. I wonder if Hippias felt the same when he arose from his bed as tyrant. This morning, we are the tyrant of Athens.’

‘The Assembly cannot be a tyrant. That is its purpose,’ Xanthippus replied stiffly.

‘Tell that to the mob when they start furiously scratching names on shards of pottery. We should at least allow a defence against being ostracised. Would you relish ten years away from the city, away from Agariste and your children?’

‘There is no mob. To sway so many against a single man would take more than a whim or mere spite! He would have to deserve it.’

The thought prompted both men to look over to where Miltiades rested, his head bowed as if in exhaustion. He had not been given a chance to bathe or change before coming to the Pnyx. As they watched, his son accepted a package of cloth, unrolling it on the seat beside him to reveal a few olives, a piece of hard bread and a couple of silver fish no thicker than a finger. Cimon passed the collection to his father with a cup of cold water, concerned with filial duty. Xanthippus watched, sensing the mood of the crowd around him.