Sunset of the Gods - By Steve White Page 0,47

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