Sunset of the Gods (20 page)

“You heard Pheidippides,” said someone Jason didn’t recognize. “All we have to do is hold out until the Spartans arrive: seven days if they keep their promise, and he’s convinced they will.”

“And there’s no reason why we can’t keep this stalemate going that long,” said someone else. “All we have to do is stay here, in this fortified camp on ground of our choosing.”

A murmur of agreement arose from what seemed to be a clear majority of the generals. The murmur rose to a pious pitch when one voice added, “And remember, according to Pheidippides we have Pan’s promise of assistance!”

Miltiades rose to his feet, the torchlight glinting from the remnants of red in his beard. The self-convincing murmur gradually subsided. All the
strategoi
were veterans of wars against the enemies of Athenian democracy—
Greek
enemies. But Miltiades knew the Persian way of war from inside and outside, and they all appreciated that fact.

“We can’t just sit here behind our earthworks and wait for the Spartans,” he said as soon as he had absolute silence. “The Persians have spies and well-paid traitors everywhere. Anything we know, we must assume
they
know. So don’t you suppose they’re taking account of Spartan schedules themselves?”

The silence took on an inaudible but perceptible quality of uneasiness. “Military intelligence” was still a barely understood concept among the Greeks, and there was something sinister, almost uncanny about it. But the Persians were the first people in history to recognize that information was the key to control. And Miltiades knew the Persians.

“Furthermore,” Miltiades continued, “Datis is running out of time. Even on half rations, his food stores can’t last more than a few days. I know we’ve seen some coming and going of ships, bringing in supplies from islands under Persian control. But with harvest season coming on, even those supplies must be running low. Before the Spartans arrive, and before his army starves, Datis is going to have to try a new strategy.”

“What strategy?” someone demanded. “What can he do? He can’t attack us here in this position.”

“What he can do,” explained Miltiades patiently, “is embark his army and sail around Cape Sunium and land at Phalerum, with nothing between them and Athens, leaving us still sitting here, looking stupid.”

A shocked silence fell. None of these men, Jason was certain, were under any illusions as to the likelihood that the undefended city wouldn’t contain a single fifth columnist to open the gates as the gates of Eretria had been opened.

“When they begin to embark,” Miltiades resumed into the silence, “We will have no choice. We will have to advance onto the plain and attack.”

If possible, the silence deepened into still profounder levels of shock as the
strategoi
contemplated the prospect of doing exactly what Datis had been hoping they would do.

“But,” said Miltiades before anyone could protest, “that will be our opportunity. Think how difficult an operation that embarkation will be for them—especially because they’ll want to break camp at night, to conceal it from us. And the hardest part will be getting the cavalry aboard. Whenever they’ve loaded horses aboard ships before, they were able to use the docks in Ionia and at Eretria; they didn’t have to get them up gangplanks on a beach in shallow water. They’ll have to do that first, before daybreak. If we can strike them at exactly the right time, they’ll be without their cavalry, and off balance. We’ve never had such a chance! And we’ll never have it again!”

“But,” protested Thrasylaos,
strategos
of the Aiantis tribe to which Callimachus himself belonged, “we’ll need to know in advance when they’re preparing to depart.”

Even at a distance, Jason could see Miltiades’ teeth flash in a grin. “The Persians aren’t the only ones with spies. They have a lot of Ionian conscripts over there, and among them are some old associates of mine from the rebellion. I still have contacts among them. They and I have arrangements for meeting and exchanging information, over there in the Grove of Heracles.” Miltiades raised a hand to hush the hubbub. “That’s all you need to know at present.”

“But,” Thrasylaos persisted, although his voice was that of a man who was wavering, “if we advance out onto the plain, they’ll be able to outflank us, with their superior numbers.” An uneasy murmur of agreement arose, for a phalanx was always terrifyingly vulnerable to flank attacks. “And they’ll have their archers,” he added, in a tone that held a mixture of conventional disdain—the Greeks had always looked on archery as the unmanly expedient of such dubious heroes as Prince Paris of Troy—and healthy apprehension.

Callimachus rose to his feet. His bald scalp gleamed in the torchlight, but he looked younger than he had when Jason had first seen him in the Agora, for he no longer had the stooped, careworn look. He now exuded calm confidence.

“We will prevent them from outflanking us,” he explained, “by lengthening our line. To accomplish this, our center—the Leontis and Antiochis tribes—will form up four men deep.” He gave Themistocles and Aristides, the generals of the two tribes in question, a meaningful look. “The right and left wings will be eight deep as usual.”

Themistocles and Aristides looked at each other, their mutual detestation for once in abeyance as they considered the implications of this order.

“
Polemarch
,” said Themistocles respectfully, “we have observed over the past several days that the Persian center is always the strongest part of their formation.” There was no fear in his voice. He was merely inviting his commander’s attention to certain facts, with scrupulous correctness.

Aristides amazed everyone present by nodding in agreement. “It’s where the Medes and the Persians themselves are concentrated, and the Saka from the east—the best troops they’ve got.”

Miltiades answered him. “Yes. That’s the standard Persian formation, with their weaker troops—levies from all over the empire—on the wings. And that’s precisely why we’re making our wings stronger.”

Callimachus quieted the hubbub that arose. “You’ll all understand why soon, for I mean to explain my plan to you so you can tell your men what to expect. And as for Thrasylaos’ other point, about their archers. . . .” For the first time, Jason saw Callimachus smile. “Well, we’ll just have to give them the least possible time to shoot their arrows!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason noticed men beginning to take notice of him. Reluctantly, he moved on, carefully projecting the casual air of a man who had paused for no particular reason. Given the reputation of the Persians for espionage, he couldn’t risk any suspicious behavior.

And besides, he had a very good idea what Callimachus was about to say.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Another day of deadlock went by,
and then another, and another.

The ritualistic morning confrontations continued, and Jason saw what Callimachus and Miltiades meant about the Persian formation. The Medes and Persians and their eastern ethnic relatives, the Saka, were massed in the center, with archers behind the protecting lines of infantry carrying wicker shields and armed with short spears and the short swords known as
akenakes
. Here as well were the lightly clad horse archers, and cavalry armed with spears and—alone among the Persian army—wearing bronze helmets. It was a typical Persian array, except that, having had to cross the sea, it contained a lower percentage of horsemen than was normal. And, just as typically, it was flanked by polyglot masses of troops from all over the empire, visibly less smart about getting into formation each morning and staying there in the baking August sun.

“Rabble,” sniffed Mondrago with reference to the latter troops, late in the afternoon.

“Don’t be too sure,” Jason cautioned. “Remember, this army has spent six years crushing the Ionian rebels and conquering Thrace. They’re veterans, and all that experience fighting and training together has probably given them about as high a degree of operational integration as is possible for such a multiethnic force. And they have a tradition of victory—they’ve never been defeated.” He looked around to make sure no one was observing them. “Anyway, I need to get going.”

Jason inconspicuously gathered up the fruits of his surreptitious labor over the past two nights. Mondrago looked at the small satchel dubiously.

“Do you really think these things are going to last over twenty-eight hundred years?”

“Why not? Archaeologists dig them up all the time.” Jason took out one of the ceramic potsherds he had been collecting and inscribing with his report. Only a small amount of the English lettering would fit on each one, but he had numbered them; Rutherford should have no trouble puzzling them out when they appeared at the message drop.

“So now I’m going to have to cover for you again,” Mondrago grumbled.

“Well,” said Jason reasonably, “I have to be the one to go. Would you be able to find the message drop on Mount Pentelikon?”

“I know, I know. You’re the one with the map spliced into his optic nerve.” This clearly didn’t sweeten it for Mondrago.

“I’m still going to need daylight, though. So I’d better get going now.”

Jason slipped out of back of the camp and made his way up Mount Agriliki to the ledge where he had left the Transhumanists’ aircar. It was still there, to his relief; the Transhumanists evidently had no way of locating it. He took it aloft and made his invisible way to Mount Pentelikon, rising over thirty-five hundred feet a few miles to the southwest.

Before their departure from the twenty-fourth century, he had taken a virtual tour of the mountain, and his implant had been programmed to project a tiny white dot on his neurally activated map display where an overhanging rocky ledge sheltered the spot that had been chosen as a message drop.

At this moment, in the linear present of the year 2380, it was empty. In a few minutes, Jason’s potsherds would be there, to be discovered in the course of the next of the inspections of the site. But no one would be there at the precise instant of the linear present when Jason put them there. Something would prevent it. He suppressed the eerie feeling that always took him at moments like these.

He cruised about in search of a place where the aircar could rest concealed from any goatherds who might be about, finally settling for a kind of small glen. Save for being more extensively forested, all was as it would be in his era. He hefted his satchel and set off on a narrow path leading around the mountainside toward his destination. Turning a corner, he saw the flat top of the ledge under whose far end was the message drop, a few feet below.

But he had eyes for none of that, for he was not alone. Ahead of him stood Franco, Category Five, Seventy-Sixth Degree, and one of his strong-arm men . . . and Chantal Frey.

For a heartbeat the tableau held, as they all stood in shocked surprise. Then the low-ranking Transhumanist sprang into action, as he was genetically predisposed to, whipping out a short sword and lunging toward Jason.

Jason dropped his satchel and let his trained reflexes react for him as he took advantage of the tendency of a lunge to put the swordsman slightly off balance. Twisting aside to his left and gripping the wrist of his assailant’s sword-arm, he pulled the man forward while bringing his right knee up, hard, into his midriff. The wind whooshed out of him as Jason pulled him forward, continuing the lunge, and his grip on the sword-hilt weakened enough for Jason to twist it out of his hand as he fell.

Jason whirled toward Franco, who was too far away for a thrust. He knew he had only a few seconds before the swordsman recovered. His sword wasn’t designed for throwing, but it would have to do. He drew it back. . . .

With an almost invisibly quick motion, Franco grabbed Chantal in his left arm, swung her in front of him as a shield and, with his right hand, put a dagger to her throat.

“Drop the sword or she dies,” he said emotionlessly, in his strangely compelling voice. Chantal’s eyes were huge in her frozen face.

A measurable segment of time passed before Jason let the sword slip from his fingers and hit the flat rock ledge with a clang. The guard retrieved it, and Franco released Chantal. She took a step toward Jason.

“I’m sorry, Jason.” She seemed barely able to form words, and her features seemed about to dissolve in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said dully. But then he looked into those enormous eyes, and began to understand what he was seeing in them.

No
, he thought as a horrible doubt began to dawn.

Then she stepped back and stood beside Franco, half-leaning against his side as he put an arm around her shoulders.

“No,” said Jason, aloud this time but almost inaudibly.

“Yes,” said Franco with a smile. “This works out very well. When she returns to her own time she’ll be able to explain how you and the others met your unfortunate end.”

“Returns to her own time? Haven’t you made that impossible?” Jason jerked his chin in the direction of Chantal’s left arm, which still had a bandage around it. She seemed to seek refuge deeper in the crook of Franco’s arm. “Why did you do that, by the way? Just sheer, random sadism?”

“Oh, we had to, in order to keep you from being able to track her whereabouts. Oh, yes, we know about your brain implant, and the passive tracking devices incorporated in the other team members’ TRDs.” Franco pursed his lips and made a mocking
tsk-tsk
sound. “Whatever happened to your precious ‘Human Integrity Act’?”

“You never told me about that, Jason,” Chantal said with a kind of weak resentment in her voice. She snuggled even closer to Franco. “
He
did!”

“Chantal,” said Jason, still struggling with his bewilderment, “don’t you understand? He’s made it impossible for you to return to your own time. You’ll have to spend the rest of your life in this era!”

“Oh, no,” Franco denied, shaking his head, before Chantal could speak. “Now that we have you, and while that thug of yours is otherwise occupied at Marathon, we’ll find her TRD.”

“You’re lying, as usual. Why would you want to do that?”