Free Sunset of the Gods by Steve White Page B

afterwards rebuilt. The man they were seeking was destined to be the driving force behind that rebuilding, and much else besides.
    They passed through the labyrinthine alleys of the malodorous potters’ quarter known as the Ceramicus, although in truth it was as noted for its cheap whores as for its ceramics. A number of the former were in evidence, or at least the women they saw had to be assumed to be such, for Athens’s sixth-century b.c. lawgiver Solon (one of the most consummate misogynists ever to draw breath, according to Landry) had laid it down that any woman seen in public alone was presumed to be a prostitute. Only the direction-finding feature of Jason’s computer implant enabled them to find their way through that maze, for they knew in general that their destination was south—and, unfortunately, downwind—of the Ceramicus, away from the potteries and whorehouses but near the Hangman’s Gate outside of which was the dumping ground for the bodies of executed criminals and suicides. And the streets (by courtesy so called) still teemed with dogs, goats, pigs, and their fleas.
    In addition to all the actual stenches, Jason detected a psychic one—that of fear. He had been in cities living under the threat of invasion before.
    As they traversed the winding, unpaved, filth-encrusted alleyways, Jason frequently glanced at his followers. He knew from experience the difficulty twenty-fourth-century people had in adjusting to the urban aromas of antiquity, and those aromas were a particularly ripe combination in this part of Athens. Mondrago looked stoical, and the other two seemed to be holding up reasonably well.
    “What made him decide to live in this area?” asked Chantal. Her tone implied that there must be more desirable neighborhoods.
    “Politics,” Landry chuckled. “He’s of aristocratic birth, though not from a politically prominent family. But his pitch is to the poorer elements, so he moved here from the family estates so he could be closer to his constituency. It was also a good location for an attorney—yes, he was the first man in history to parley a legal practice into a political career. And finally, it’s within walking distance of the Agora, where all the political and legal business is conducted. As far as we know, he’s still living here now even though three years ago he was elected Eponymous Archon—the head of state for a year.”
    “A year? Then what’s he doing now?” Chantal wondered.
    “It is believed that at the time of Marathon he was strategos , or general, of his phyle , or tribe, called the Leontis. You must understand, this is an elective office. Every year each of the ten tribes into which the Athenian citizenry is divided elects a strategos, who can be reelected an unlimited number of times. The official commander-in-chief is the polemarch , or War Archon, who is elected by the whole citizen body.”
    “More lack of military professionalism,” Mondrago commented with a sniff.
    Political prominence naturally made him easy to find. Jason’s first inquiry—which incidentally confirmed that they could make themselves understood in the Ionic dialect—yielded directions to a house larger than any of those nearby. It looked like it had been extended as its owner’s political prominence had waxed. Still, it had the same basic look as all the others: built of plaster-covered mud brick, with rooms organized around three sides of a small courtyard, the fourth side facing the street with the main door in its wall. All the larger windows faced inward to overlook the courtyard; only narrow slits faced the street. From within came the sound of flute and cithara music.
    Jason was wondering if it would be good form to knock on the door when a sound of voices came from around a corner of the street. A small group appeared, clustered around a man in his mid-thirties to whom they were talking animatedly. Never mind sandals and chitons; Jason knew political networking when he saw