“Archestratus has a claim to leadership too,” said the second.
“What we need now is an experienced commander of war to lead us against the aristocrats,” said the third. “I would be the right man for that.”
“You’re talking civil war!” the fourth man protested.
“Yes. The Areopagus has started it, and we’ll finish it for them.”
They shouted at one another all at once.
Pericles looked at me, and I at him.
“And so it begins. Don’t fail me in this, Nicolaos. I will do my best to limit the political damage, but I can only do so much without your answer. This pot will boil, and it is a mere matter of time before it explodes.”
2
I walked straight to the place I love best in all the world: the Agora of Athens, the heart and soul of our city. It isn’t merely the marketplace; it’s also where men gather to talk, argue, and exchange opinions. In Athens, if it isn’t said in the Agora, then it may as well not be said at all. I wanted to observe the reaction of the people to Ephialtes’ death. Besides, it was lunchtime, no one would agree to see me during the meal, and my stomach needed attention.
I pushed my way through the crowd, picking up a fish cake from one stall and watered wine in a wooden cup from another. I nibbled at the fish cake in my left hand while I sipped the wine in my right. When the cup was empty I put it back on the stall and wandered about listening to the babble.
The open space in the middle was covered in a jumble of stalls, each little more than a rough plank resting upon a barrel at each end, with perhaps an awning to keep the vendors and their goods in the shade. I walked past the many stalls selling produce from the farms. These stalls were covered with jars and baskets of olives, olive oil, figs and grapes, corn, goat’s cheese, and, rarely, smoked goat meat. Behind every stall stood a farmer, his skin leathery and dark from years working in the sun, his hands calloused, wearing rough clothes and a floppy sheepskin hat, shouting his products or dealing with a customer. These weren’t men to care much of politics; it was all they could do to scratch a living from the stony soil. Barely visible, fenced off from the chaos, was the Altar of the Twelve Gods. The altar was the very center of Athens, the point from which all distances were measured. It was the only place in Athens dedicated to all twelve Gods, and so especially sacred: a place of sanctuary for anyone who could make it inside the fence before their pursuers reached them. The altar stone was made of marble, flat on top and somewhat weathered, though it had been set in place only sixty years before.
The people at the stalls were too intent on trading to talk politics; haggling was in full swing all about me. When a price was agreed on, the customer would reach into his mouth and pull out the coins he had put there before he left home. Only the rich had so many coins that they needed a purse, and no man would be so foolish as to display a money bag in the Agora. The thieves would have it cut away before he took two steps, and if he was lucky that would be all they cut.
A number of women were moving between the vegetable stalls, each with a man or boy to carry for her. Since the women were barefoot and buying, I knew them to be slaves. I recognized some of the young women since I look out for them; most households have a regular slave who does the shopping each morning, and their faces are a pleasant fixture in the Agora. I always smiled at the pretty ones but never approached; it doesn’t do to interfere with someone else’s property-at least, not in public.
To one side of the farmers were the fishmongers who had hauled their catch up in carts from the port of Piraeus before dawn. Anything they hadn’t sold yet would be unfit to eat before long. They would mark down their prices after lunch and the poor would arrive to buy it. This was the one place where most of the vendors were women. The fishwives would sell the catch while the men saw to their boats, mended the nets, and went to bed in preparation for their early rise next day. A fish-wife might have plenty to say, and whatever she said would be in language strong enough to make a soldier blush, but no woman knew anything about politics. The aroma here was strong and I passed them by quickly.
Next to the fishmongers came the bronze ware, and the famous pottery of Athens, which could also be bought at its source in the deme-the suburb-of Ceramicus. Most of the pottery was newly made, painted in fashionable red figures on a black background: kraters for mixing wine, hydriai for water, pyxides for cosmetics and jewelry, pelikai for storing olive oil in the kitchen, ordinary cups and bowls. There were still secondhand dealers selling cracked or chipped examples of the older style black figure on red, but only the poor, the tasteless, or the hopelessly traditional would touch them. There were five or six middle-aged women-respectable married women- inspecting the goods at the better stalls, each accompanied by several slaves. They talked to one another, picked up the pieces, no doubt to complain about them, and put them back down. Not one was smiling. I pitied the vendors who had to deal with them.
I looked about, but there were no respectable maidens to be seen. In any case, no girl would be allowed in public without slaves and a chaperone, and any man who approached would be asking for trouble from her guard.
All the other people jostling one another in the crowded lanes were men. How many were slaves and how many citizens I couldn’t say, because in Athens the slave of a rich man might be better dressed than a poor but free laborer. Even the resident aliens, called metics, adopted Athenian dress, and more often than not the local accent too.
The haggling was less intense here. The people were muttering to one another, asking if anyone had heard any news about what had happened.
“He was set upon by ten men,” I heard one man say.
“I heard it was twenty, and they beat Ephialtes with clubs.”
“He put up a fight, though. I heard he killed two of them.”
“You’re all wrong! What I heard, he was speaking to the Council of the Areopagus, and when he angered them with his words they rushed upon him all together and beat him with their fists.”
“No, it was clubs.”
I realized with a shock that I knew what had happened, and the people of Athens did not. I felt a thrill of power and excitement, and I had to bite my lip to stay silent and not contribute to the rumors. Contrary to the general opinion, I knew for sure that the rock had not been awash with homicidal statesmen. It would have been the most fun of my life to hold court among the men as the only one present with any sure knowledge, but I knew instinctively that calling attention to myself would destroy any chance of succeeding in my mission. I told myself firmly I was there to gauge the mood, not to make a bad situation worse, and I walked on before the temptation to speak overwhelmed me.
I moved to the perimeter, where I stubbed my toe on a building stone, stumbled, swore, and lost the last handful of my lunch. The men around ignored me, except for one fellow who turned and snarled, then marched off with squashed fish cake and sticky sauce attached to his back. It happened every day. The Agora is a building site in which anyone could stumble and fall. It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
I had walked to a highly controversial building, half risen, with a strange circular wall in place of the normal four corners at right angles. It had been designed by an architect, so it bore little resemblance to any normal structure. My father, who has to deal with architects from time to time in the course of his trade, considered it typical of their alienation from all normal sense and taste. This was the Tholos, which, when it was completed, would house the leaders of the Boule: the committee of five hundred that manages the agenda for the Ecclesia and oversees the running of the city. They would live in the Tholos when on duty, since they have to be available to the people day and night. The Boule had existed for generations, but because its members were chosen each year by lot from among the citizens, and no man could serve twice, it was part of the new democracy. There was talk too, since it was close to the Agora, of placing in the Tholos the standard weights and measures, so that any dispute in the marketplace could be settled quickly before it came to blows. That idea alone would decrease the annual murder rate by an appreciable amount.
The workmen had stopped for lunch. They sat among the formwork, rivulets of sweat making tracks down the dust on their faces and chests, in the shade of that strange circular wall. Their hands cupped small bowls of lentils and bread. I sat among them but heard nothing of value. All they talked about was women and sport.
