Sunset of the Gods

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 influenced 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.”

“Not before that?” inquired Mondrago with a frown. “If you could get there earlier, and secure the beach—”

“No. That was something even Miltiades had to concede. We can’t be absolutely certain the Persians will land at Marathon, even though everything points to it. No, we have to wait until it’s confirmed. Then we’ll march, with every available man. Speaking of which,” Themistocles continued without a break, “about your own military obligation. . . .”

“Yes, Strategos?” Jason had been waiting for this. One of the peculiarities of the Athenian system was that metoikoi, while denied practically all political rights, were liable for military service. “We naturally expect to serve the city that has so generously taken us in, as ekdromoi.” The term referred to light-armed infantry, not very numerous and with a marginal role. The hoplites who made up the phalanx were members of the three uppermost property-owning classes, who could afford a panoply of armor and weapons costing seventy-five to a hundred drachmas, which was what a skilled worker could expect to make in three months. Jason was fairly confident that his and Mondrago’s broad-spectrum expertise with low-tech weapons should enable them to function as hoplites, but that wasn’t what they were here for. As skirmishers, around the fringes of the battle, they should be able to observe with minimal risk. More importantly, now, they would be in a position to watch for Transhumanist intervention.

“Ordinarily, that would be true,” Themistocles nodded. “And in fact it is true in your case, Alexander. Coming from Macedon, you ought to be familiar with that kind of fighting.” The remark held a note of unconscious condescension. The Thracians whom “Alexander” would naturally have fought were noted for hit-and-run skirmishing by light infantry called peltastes. It was looked down on by the southern Greeks, for whom real warfare meant the head-on clash of phalanxes composed of the Right Kind of People—which, Landry had speculated, was why the role of light troops at Marathon had always been ignored by historians. “But you, Jason, as a Macedonian nobleman . . . well, it would hardly be fitting for you not to take your place in the phalanx.”

Jason groaned inwardly. He hadn’t thought of this. He should have, for it went to the heart of the paradox of Classical Athens. Politically, it had the most radically democratic constitution in human history, a record it continued to hold in the twenty-fourth century. Socially, it was class-conscious to a degree that might have seemed just a bit much in Victorian England.

“Ah . . . Strategos, I have no armor, and no weapons other than my sword, and am in no position to supply myself with them.” There was, Jason knew, no such thing as “government issue.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Themistocles said expansively. “Remember, over the last twenty years, we Athenians have captured a lot of equipment in our victories over the Thebans and Chalcians. Most of it has been put on the market—a good thing, as it’s reduced the prices and enabled more of our men to afford it. But there’s a reserve of equipment, to be supplied at public expense to the sons of men who’ve met an honorable death in battle.” Jason knew of the custom. He had wondered how the distribution was organized. Themistocles proceeded to enlighten him. “As strategos of the Leontis tribe, I have control of a portion of that reserve, for our people.” He winked broadly. “I’ve always felt I have a certain latitude in exercising my discretion with regard to that portion.”

No doubt, thought Jason drily. Aloud: “But, Strategos, I belong to no Athenian tribe.” This, he knew, was an important point. The phalanx was organized by tribes, for the Greeks understood something that had eluded various bureaucrats throughout history. Men do not face the pain, death, and simple horror of combat for nationalistic abstractions, and they assuredly do not do it because some politician has made a speech. They do it for the other men in their unit. Never—not even in a Roman legion or in a regiment of the old British army—had this been more true than in a phalanx, where every man depended on the others, for if one man’s cowardice broke the shield-line, all were dead. In the Roman legion or the British regiment, such solidarity was instilled by discipline, training, and unit traditions. In a phalanx it was inherent; the men to either side of you were men of your tribe, known to you from childhood and linked to you by kinship ties. To break ranks in their sight was unthinkable.

“Don’t worry, Jason,” Themistocles assured him, growing serious. “You’ll stand with the Leontis tribe. I know it’s a little irregular.” (Not that you’ve ever let that stop you, Jason thought.) “But I’ll tell those men that you have reason to hate these Persians who made slaves of your people and a puppet of your king. They’ll know you can be relied on.”

I hope they’re right, Jason thought bleakly.