Sunset of the Gods

by Steve White

  Mondrago guffawed. “I’m with him!”

  “It gets better. Aristides, without another word, goes ahead and complies with the man’s request.”

  “Maybe at that point he decides there are worse things than exile from Athens and its politics.”

  Jason smiled wryly. “And then, in 470 b.c., Themistocles will be ostracized.”

  “What? Themistocles? After saving this city’s bacon at Salamis?”

  “Precisely the problem. By then the Athenians will have gotten just so sick and tired of him being so insufferably right all the time. Anyway, he’ll go to Susa and end his life as a valued advisor of the Great King of Persia. Many people in our era are shocked to learn that. They find it crushingly disillusioning and disappointing—a colossal let-down.”

  “Not me. This self-opinionated, back-biting town doesn’t deserve him.” Mondrago shook his head and looked around at Athens. “I’m beginning to think I’d be willing to write my own name on one of those potsherds.”

  Jason said nothing, for now that he had told the story, his dreary inward refrain—I’ve lost a team member—was back in full force. The fact that they were, for the second time, unable to witness the Athenian Assembly in session made it worse, for he knew how unendurably frustrated Landry would have been.

  It got even worse as they walked along, parallel to the South Stoa. It wasn’t the long open-fronted building, with offices for governmental market inspectors, which would one day give its name to the Stoics, philosophers who would declaim in its colonnaded shade. That wouldn’t be built until the late fifth century b.c. But Landry had been delighted to discover that an earlier version—just a long portico, really, fulfilling some of the same functions but never suspected by the archaeologists—existed in 490 b.c. He had insisted that Jason look at it and thereby record it. The recollection caused Jason another jag of emotional pain. He found himself compulsively glancing backward over his right shoulder, in the direction of the Pnyx.

  I’m frustrated too, he suddenly realized. Not as much as Bryan would be, of course. But still . . . considering the importance of what’s going on there today. . . .

  Abruptly, he halted, and a sudden wild resolve drove the depression from his mind.

  “Alexandre,” he stated firmly, “we’re going to that Assembly!”

  Mondrago stared at him, goggle-eyed. “Uh . . . we haven’t exactly been invited.”

  “Who said anything about invitations?” asked Jason with a grim smile.

  “Sir, are you trying to get us in trouble—and jeopardize the mission?” Mondrago pointed back in the direction they had come, where the police had by now rounded up the last of the stragglers. “Those guys in the odd costumes don’t strike me as having much of a sense of humor.”

  “We’re not going that way, back through the Agora.” Jason consulted his map-display of Athens. It confirmed his hunch. “There’s a roundabout alternate route, where nobody ought to be just now. We’ll work our way around to the side of the Pnyx.”

  “Won’t somebody there notice us?”

  “I have a feeling that everyone will be so focused on the debate that two extra men will be able to slip in unobserved. We’ll have to keep our mouths shut, of course, and not draw attention to ourselves. And we probably won’t be able to stay too long. But the outcome of this Assembly session is a matter of recorded history, so nothing we do should cause any harm.”

  “So you’re always telling me, sir: no paradoxes. But you’ve also told me that there’s no predicting what will happen to prevent paradoxes, and that whatever it is might be hazardous to your health.” Mondrago’s tone was respectful but determined, and Jason had to respect him for sticking to his guns. “If this debate is as important to observed history as you say, then reality, or fate, or . . . God, or whatever, might be even less particular about it than usual this time.”

  “I can’t deny the hazards. And of course we won’t be able to appreciate what we see and hear to anything like the extent Bryan could have. But my implant will record it all. It will be priceless data for historians, when we return. It’s what Bryan would have wanted. We owe it to him.” All at once, Jason could no longer meet the other’s eyes. “Or rather, I owe it to him.”

  Mondrago’s face wore an expression Jason had never seen, or expected to see, on it. “You didn’t kill him, sir. Those Transhumanist vermin did. Now it’s up us to get home with the information we’ve got on them, so that maybe they can be made to pay!”

  Every word of which, Jason admitted to himself, was demonstrably true. Only. . . .

  “I may not have killed him, but I didn’t prevent it either—any more than I prevented Chantal’s abduction. It may not make sense to feel that way, but I’m stuck with it. And I need to do this. If you don’t want to come, I won’t order you to. You can go back to the house and wait for me.”

  “Hell, somebody’s got to keep you out of trouble,” said Mondrago gruffly. “I’ve been doing it for officers for years.”

  “You’ll pay for that,” said Jason with a grin. “Let’s go!”

  They hurried on to the eastern end of the South Stoa. There, between the Stoa and the fountain-house, stairs ascended to a street that ran parallel to the Stoa, behind it and at a higher level. Here they turned right and followed the raised street a short distance, with the upper parts of the Stoa’s rear elevation to their right. To their left were the low, white-plastered walls that enclosed the rear yards of the houses clustering on the lower slopes of the Areopagus hill. At the first break in those walls, they turned left onto an upward-sloping alley.

  So far, it was the same route they would have taken to return to their quarters, now haunted by the ghost of Bryan Landry. But instead of taking the next turn, Jason led the way straight ahead, further up the slope. The houses began to thin out. As Jason had foretold, hardly anyone was about.

  Beyond the houses, they worked their way to the right, scrambling around the middle Areopagus slopes toward the hill’s northern side. Down to their right, they looked over the sea of tiled roofs to the southwest of the Agora. Ahead rose the Pnyx, their destination, from which a sound of distant voices could be heard.

  Reaching the valley between the two hills, they came among more houses. Here, too, the steep, narrow streets were practically deserted. There was, Jason reflected, something to be said for Athenian society’s domestic seclusion of women, at least from the standpoint of one trying to get around unnoticed. Starting up the Pnyx, they passed between houses cut so deeply into the hillside that their rear rooms were semi-basements. Then they were on the undeveloped slopes, and began scrambling to the left and upward. The sounds of the thousands of men gathered ahead grew louder.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  In the course of their orientation, Jason had learned that the Ekklesia, or Assembly of all Athenian citizens, had originally been held in the Agora. After the overthrow of the tyrants the new democratic regime had decided to move it to the Pnyx, and a great workforce had been employed carving a fitting meeting place out of that hill’s rocky slopes, a project that had only been completed fifteen years previously.

  He also knew that in 403 b.c. the Athenians would erect a truly impressive artificial platform on the Pnyx, earthen but supported by a massive stone retaining wall set against the northwestern slope, with concentric semicircles of seats sloping downward in a theater-like way to a speaker’s dais backed up against the higher slope that rose on the southeast side. Jason had seen a holographic image of that platform, based on the archaeologists’ deductions, and he was very glad that it still lay eighty-seven years in the future. The only way to its top would be two steep and rather narrow stairways on the northwest side, rising from the twin termini of the road leading up from the Agora, along which the citizens were driven. With such limited access, there would have been no way a pair of metoikoi interlopers could have gotten past the vigilance of the police. That very consideration, Jason suspected, would at least unconsciously go into the design�
�an architectural expression of Athenian exclusivity.

  But in 490 b.c. no such platform and no such stairways existed. The meeting-place was a shallow depression sunk into the slope. Thus it was possible to approach unnoticed, climbing the slope to the rim of the “bowl.” That rim was lined with the backs of standing figures, for the rough-hewn seating only accommodated five thousand and the Assembly’s quorum was six thousand. But everyone’s attention was riveted on the speaker’s platform below. No one noticed the two figures ascending the slope from behind and insinuating their way into the overflow crowd. Jason and Mondrago worked their way forward as inconspicuously as possible and reached the rim, just above the highest seats. They looked out over the packed amphitheater-like womb of democracy.

  I’m getting all this for the historians, Bryan, thought Jason, activating his implant’s recorder function. He held no belief that Landry could hear him or would ever know. But he himself knew. That was enough.

  He ran over in his mind what he knew of the Assembly. Each of the ten tribes presided for one-tenth of the year—the prytany, or “presidency.” Normally, meetings were on the average every nine days, to consider legislation proposed by the boule, or “Council,” of fifty members from each tribe, selected by lot for a one-year term. But emergency sessions, of which this was emphatically one, could be called. Any citizen—not just those of the upper classes, as had previously been the case—could speak, but in practice only trained speakers did so. Voting was by a simple show of hands.

  Looking toward the speaker’s platform, stage to the amphitheater, Jason saw that the elite got the best seats. There were gathered the nine archontes, or administrative officers, and the ten astynomoi, or magistrates, all chosen by lot. In the same favored area were the ten elected tribal strategoi. He could pick out Themistocles’ jet-black head and Miltiades’ graying-auburn one.

  There was, Jason thought, more than a quorum here today—hardly surprising under the circumstances. And the orientation of the meeting-place was such that the participants got an unrivaled view. For Jason, on the upper rim, the panorama was especially breathtaking. To the right rose the acropolis in all its awesomeness. Below spread the city, and beyond that the plain of Attica. In the distance Mount Pentelikon could be glimpsed, and the two roads to Marathon.

  I can see why they moved the meeting-place here, Jason thought. Unlike the people of other Greek city-states, who invented fanciful foundation legends of heroic migrations and divine descent, the Athenians believed themselves to be autochthonous, sprung from the soil of the corner of Greece they inhabited, as much a part of the landscape as the vineyards and the olive trees and the very rocks. Up here, looking out over that landscape, it was hard for them to forget that.

  The day’s debate had begun while he and Mondrago had followed their indirect route, and was obviously well under way. And Themistocles had indicated that, after days of discussion, both sides were down to summations of their arguments. That seemed to be the case at present. A speaker was holding forth even now, untypically portly for this society, and evidently a Eupatrid, judging from his obviously imported himation, dyed Phoenician purple and lined with gold figurings. “We all know the Persians will have us hopelessly outnumbered. I have it on good authority that their army numbers two hundred thousand men!”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “I heard six hundred thousand!” somebody yelled from the seats. A shudder ran through the throng, accompanied by moans.

  “Shit!” Mondrago muttered in Jason’s ear. “How many men do these people think each of Datis’s six hundred ships can carry, over and above its own crew?”

  “Not to mention supplies,” Jason whispered back, nodding. “What would all those men be eating? Each other?” He motioned Mondrago to silence, so as not to interfere with the audio pickup.

  “And,” the speaker continued, “They are bringing their cavalry!” A hush settled over the crowd. The memory of the retreat from Sardis was all too fresh among these people, many of whom had lost relatives to the arrows and javelins of the Persian horsemen. “And no Greek army has ever defeated them in open battle! We have no choice. We cannot submit and expect mercy—not after. . . .” He left the thought unspoken and glared in the direction of the strategoi, and specifically at Miltiades, who had advocated the trial and execution of the Persian envoys. “No. We must remain inside our walls and place our trust in the gods!”

  “Like the Eretrians did?” came a coarse jeer. A commotion erupted. Jason recalled being told that the Assembly was a tough audience.

  The presiding officer, chosen from the current prytany, called for order and sought for the next speaker to recognize. Miltiades stood up. A respectful silence gradually descended, for everyone knew his background.

  “The last speaker,” he began, “has addressed you with an eloquence I cannot hope to emulate, for I am only a rough, simple soldier who has spent his years fighting the Persians while he has perfected his oratorical skills.” A titter arose from the audience, with outright laughs rising like whitecaps above it. The Eupatrid turned as purple as his himation. “Nor do I need to, for he has set forth, far more persuasively than I could have, the arguments for marching forth and confronting the Persians in the field!”

  A flabbergasted hubbub arose. Miltiades raised his hands to silence it.

  “Yes, the Persians are coming in overwhelming force, and are bringing their cavalry. And after the last few days’ debates, we are all agreed that they will probably land at Marathon.” Miltiades pointed theatrically toward the distant outline of Mount Pentelikon. “From there, two roads lead around that mountain to this city. If the Persians seize even one of those roads, their horsemen will have the freedom of the plain all the way across Attica!” He let the breathless silence last a couple of seconds. “But, if we can get there in time and deploy across those roadways, we can pen them up in their beachhead where the cavalry will have no room for maneuver.”

  Miltiades paused, and someone else got the attention of the presiding officer, clearly seeking leave to answer him. While that byplay was in progress, the Assembly seemed to lose focus as discussions began everywhere. Jason could sense a trend, which doubtless had been building up gradually over the last few days’ debates, in Miltiades’ favor. Nearby, among the standing-room crowd, one man’s voice rose above the rest as he addressed those around him. “Miltiades is right! Let’s all of us speak out in support of him when someone stands to argue with him.”

  “Right!” agreed someone else. “All of us. . . .” He looked around, and his eyes narrowed as they rested on Jason and Mondrago.

  Uh-oh, Jason thought. I knew this was bound to happen sooner or later. These men naturally clump together in tribal groups, and they all know each other—Aristotle considered that a basic precondition of democratic government. Any outsiders are bound to stand out. They’ve been fixated on the speakers so far. But now—

  “Who—?” the man began.

  Time to fight fire with fire, Jason decided. “Who’s that?” he shouted, pointing off to the side. Heads swiveled in that direction, and a commotion spread—a commotion that, Jason saw, was disrupting the new speaker’s opening remarks. But that was all he stayed to see. He grasped Mondrago’s arm, and while everyone’s attention was distracted, they slipped back and scrambled back down the slope, working their way back the way they had come.

  When they were back on the slopes of the Areopagus and could afford to relax their haste a little, Mondrago finally spoke. “Remember that speaker you threw off his stride, there at the end?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . what if he hadn’t been thrown off his stride? He might have been more effective, and talked the Assembly out of approving Miltiades’ strategy.”

  Jason gave him a sharp look. It was the sort of unexpected thing Mondrago occasionally came out with. And it was one of the questions that gave the Authority headaches.

  “I suppose,” he finally said, “that if what I did in
fluenced the outcome, it always influenced the outcome, if you know what I mean. In other words, it was always part of history. That’s just what we have to assume.”

  Mondrago said nothing more, and neither did Jason, because he was still brooding over their enforced early exit from the Pnyx. God, but I wish I could have stayed to the end! he thought in his frustration. He consoled himself with the thought that Themistocles had promised them a recap that evening.

  Themistocles looked drained but triumphant. He took a swig of wine with less water in it than usual. “We won! I have to admit, that canting prig Aristides came around in the end, even though some of his usual allies advanced strong arguments that we should squat inside the walls and settle in for a siege. The same arguments we’ve been hearing for days. But Miltiades was brilliant. He stood the whole argument on its head and turned the fear of the Persian cavalry to his own advantage.”

  “And, as Miltiades has more experience fighting the Persians than anyone else, his opinion naturally commanded respect,” Jason nodded.

  “Naturally. But nobody ever mentioned aloud what was really at the back of everyone’s mind. It was too touchy a subject to raise in the Assembly.” Themistocles smiled rather grimly. “The Eretrians didn’t contest the Persians’ landing, but withdrew inside their walls to resist. And all it took was two traitors to open the gates from inside. And now Eretria is a smoldering heap of rubble.” He took a pull on his almost-neat wine. “In this city, with all its irreconcilable factions and aristocratic family feuds brought to a boil under the pressure of a siege, what are the chances that no one would accept Persian gold or take revenge for some old slight or seek to curry favor with the new rulers? Ha! I doubt if we’d last the five days that Eretria did before somebody betrayed us.”

  “Still, Miltiades’s strategy seems to carry risks of its own,” Jason prompted.

  “Oh, yes. That nonsense about hundreds of thousands is just old women’s rubbish, of course, but the fact remains that the Persian army is going to number several times the nine or ten thousand we can put in the field.” (Thirty-five thousand or so, by modern estimates, Bryan told us, Jason thought. Rutherford wants us to confirm that. All at once, like so many of Rutherford’s priorities, it doesn’t seem quite so important any more.) “So if we’re to have any hope of victory we’re going to have to commit every man we have—which means that Athens itself will be left defenseless.” Themistocles tossed off the last of the wine. “Ah, well, it’s irrevocable now. By solemn resolution of the Athenian people, we will march as soon as the beacon-fire atop Mount Pentelikon is seen, confirming that the Persians have landed.”