Sunset of the Gods - By Steve White Page 0,50
unknown language and alphabet would surely draw suspicion onto the head of a foreigner like himself.
“It’s time,” he heard Mondrago say. He nodded. The great beacon-fire atop Mount Pentelikon had been sighted, confirming that the Persians were landing at Marathon.
They stepped out into the early morning coolness that unfortunately wouldn’t last, and moved toward the Agora with all the other mustering men. Athens’ unique economy, with over half of its wheat supplies imported and stored in granaries, had made it possible to concentrate the army at a central location rather than having to call men in from farms all over Attica. This, in turn, made the strategy of a rapid response to the Persian landing possible. Slaves carried the armor and weapons; the miserably uncomfortable fifty-to-seventy-pound hoplite panoply was intended to be donned no sooner before battle than was absolutely necessary, especially in the August heat. Of course, ekdromoi like Mondrago marched in their own lighter equipage of small round shields, leather shirts, slings, and two javelins, with light helmets hanging from the waist for travel.
As they descended the steps between the South Stoa and the fountain house and entered the Agora, Jason searched for the Leontis muster, hoping to spot Themistocles among the throngs. As he stood looking around, an older man approached him.
“You’re Jason, the man from Macedon, aren’t you? Rejoice! I’m Callicles, of the Leontis tribe. The strategos Themistocles—he’s done a good turn or two for my family—asked me to look you up and sort of give you any help you may need, since you’re new here.”
Which, Jason thought, was damned nice of Themistocles. In the not-exactly-open society of the Athenian tribes, having a buddy in the ranks would help an outsider like himself to no end. He studied Callicles with interest. He already knew that hoplites were liable for active duty up to sixty, with no concessions of any kind to their age, and Callicles was fifty if he was a day—a much riper age than it was in Jason’s world. But he looked like a tough old bird.
“Thanks,” Jason said. “I know I’ll be grateful to have you around, not being a member of the Leontis tribe at all.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Callicles reassured him. “Themistocles told us about you. He explained that you’re a well-born soldier in your own country.” Not a tradesman like most metoikoi in Athens, was left unsaid. “Some of the men’s sense of humor may be a little rough around the edges, I grant you. But nobody will really give you a hard time. Come on. We’re over here.” As he turned and led Jason toward his fellows of the Leontis, he spoke to Mondrago over his shoulder, as an afterthought. “The ekdromoi are over there,” he said shortly.
Jason saw Mondrago make a gesture in the direction of Callicles’ back—a gesture he suspected was a very old one in Corsica.
They joined the Leontis ranks, and Callicles greeted various fellow veterans of numerous campaigns in defense of the Athenian democracy. As he did, Jason noticed a knot of older men off to the side, surrounding a much younger man wearing only a loincloth and a headband. They seemed to be giving him last-minute instructions. A gooseflesh-raising thought occurred to Jason: Could that possibly be . . . ? Moved by a sudden impulse, he turned to Callicles. “Who is that young man over there?”
“Pheidippides. You wouldn’t know about him, not being from Athens. He’s the best runner we’ve got. We’re sending him to Sparta to ask for their help.” Callicles spat expressively and rubbed his grizzled beard. “Small chance, if you ask me. But even the Spartans ought to be smart enough to see that they’re next, after throwing those Persian emissaries down a well.”
Jason stared, and brought up information from his implant. Pheidippides was in his late teens or early twenties, tall and long-legged, with barely an ounce of body fat overlaying muscles that were long and flowing rather than massive and knotted. He looked like what he was: one of the greatest long-distance runners the human species would ever produce. For he would run the one hundred and forty miles of rough, winding, hilly roads to Sparta in two days—something a few athletes would duplicate starting in the late twentieth century, wearing high-tech running shoes and served by numerous watering stations. Then he would turn around and return to Athens in the same incredible time. And then he would fight in the Battle of Marathon. And then—if legend was