Gordon Doherty - Assassin's Creed Odyssey - The Official Novelization

Kleon’s face widened in utter delight, slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other with his every word: “Nor. Can. We! ”

The assembly exploded in a storm of agreement. Perikles weathered it all like a statue. “Kleon is right,” one man jeered. “Our city is in stinking squalor, and there is no end in sight for this damned war.”

“Quite,” Kleon agreed. “And is this not the first time in months… months ! That the mighty Perikles has deigned to actually attend our sacred gathering? Does he believe he is not subject to your scrutiny?”

More abusive cries.

Uninvited, Kleon stepped up onto the plinth. He swung a loose fold of his sapphire robe over his arm and continued his diatribe, chopping his free hand through the air like an ax as he spoke. Quietly, Perikles stepped down to allow his rival to rant. It went on for an age, and only when the crowd grew tired of the matter did the Assembly turn its attentions to the next topic of debate: an ostracism. “Anaxagoras, a friend of Perikles, stands before you today accused of impiety.” Kleon pointed to an ancient man in the crowd.

Rumbles of disgust rang out.

“He claimed the sun was not Apollo himself… but some blazing ball of matter!”

The rumbles rose into shrill jeers now.

Anaxagoras tutted and swiped a hand at the air as if angrily swatting away bees, then gestured up at the sun as if the truth was evident to anyone with eyes.

A fellow came around, holding a sack. Each man in the assembly dropped in it a piece of broken vase to mark their vote. Perikles deposited his piece just as Herodotos led Kassandra over toward him. As they approached, she saw that his statue-hard expression from the plinth was gone, replaced by one of dejected weariness.

“Old friend?” Herodotos said.

Perikles looked up, and his face lifted again, like a man seeing the sun after days of rain. He and Herodotos embraced. She noticed the historian whisper something in his ear. Perikles’s face dropped for a moment, before he nodded and thanked his friend. When they parted, he beheld Kassandra. “And this is?”

“Kassandra. A friend,” Herodotos said. “I heard from the men on the docks that you intend to hold a symposium tonight. She seeks the wisdom of your closest comrades. Perhaps she could attend?”

“After what you have just told me, old friend,” Perikles stopped him, “I would be a fool to invite a stranger—a misthios, no less—into my home.”

Herodotos leaned in to whisper in his ear again.

Perikles stared at Kassandra for a time. Whatever Herodotos had said had changed things in her favor. “You can attend,” he said. “You cannot bring your weapons… but you would be best advised to come armed with your wits.”

The marble-walled andron was a forest of polished columns, blazoned in bands of fiery red. Emerald vines hung like drapes from the pillars and the ceiling, and pots of purple bougainvillea and lemon trees hugged the corners. The floor was a riot of color: a tessellated scene of Poseidon lurching from a teal sea along with a school of silvery sea creatures, all dappled with an archipelago of sunset-red, honey-gold and lapis-blue Persian-silk rugs. The air was thick with the scent of baked fish, roasting meats and most of all, rich wine.

Citizens stood in clusters, locked in discussion and heated debate. Laughter and gasps of surprise floated through the room like waves. Men leaned on the columns, hung over balconies, swaying, shrieking with laughter, faces ruddy from the wine. A lyre and a lute combined to fill the hall with a sweet but pacey melody, and every chorus seemed to be marked by the raucous laughter of groups and pairs falling from one side room to the next, or the crash of a dropped amphora and a mighty cheer.

At one such sudden din, right behind her, Kassandra instinctively made a grab for her belt, her spear… then smoothed the thigh of her azure Athenian stola—cursing the absent mercenary leathers and weapons. “You’re supposed to be the symposiarch , aye?” she said with a roguish look. “The one stopping them getting too drunk?”

Herodotos, by her side, shrugged. “In theory. A task somewhat akin to grabbing a rabid wolf by the ears.” He tilted his as-yet-unfilled cup toward her, showing her the hideous, boil-ridden creature painted on the bottom of the inside. “The idea is that they will drink more slowly so as not to be first to see the monstrosity at the bottom of their cup—bad luck, apparently.”

Kassandra gazed around. Everybody seemed rather keen on this bad luck. She saw one fellow tilt his cup back to drain it and frowned at the thing painted on the vessel’s base. “Is that…”

“A massive, angry, swollen penis?” Herodotos finished for her. “Aye, Priapos would be proud. Supposedly the statesmanlike types here should be too reserved and cautious to tilt their cups back so much as to reveal the image. But…”

He needed say no more as the drinking man held the cup over his groin as if the penis image was his own. He danced a jig, a dozen others exploding with laughter.

“It seems wrong, aye?” Herodotos remarked. “The countryside burns, the streets are crammed with refugees… and up here men who should be leading this city to safety guzzle on wine and pickle their minds? But you have seen how it is outside the city. The Spartans are here and we are trapped within these walls like dogs. At the end of the world, who is to say how one should behave?” he said then threw his head back with a throaty laugh. “I verge onto the dramatic—something best left to the experts on such matters.” He gestured to some of the attendees. “In truth, Perikles hosts these gatherings not because he’s a fan of crowds, but to keep Athens’s loudest voices speaking in his favor. And not every mind in here is ablaze with wine. Go, speak with the ones who are not staggering or vomiting. They are the ones Perikles truly trusts—the ones upon whose shoulders Athens’s fate rests.” He handed her a wine krater and one of water. “Take this, and before you ask anyone for information, fill their cup. If they ask for a good amount of water to dilute the wine then they’re worth speaking to.”

Herodotos wandered off to talk with a cluster of hoary old men and Kassandra suddenly felt the walls of the villa close in on her. Every one of the men here seemed gull-like and intimidating. Long of tooth and reeking of experience. She felt like a girl, out of place. What a fool, thinking she could mine these haughty types for information. Some shot her arch glances, looking away again as soon as she caught their eye. She took a deep breath and stepped into the sea of strangers.

He watched her arrive as twilight cast Athens in a dark veil. The wretched historian walked as her chaperone. What a wonderful and unexpected turn of events, he mused, tracing the contours of his mask. Now, he would not have to hunt her through the squalid city streets. Now, he could deal with her—and the damned historian—right here in Perikles’s villa. He snapped his fingers, and the four shadows with him scuttled away into position.

She saw one short, pug-nosed, dark-bearded and incredibly hirsute fellow grinning at her, and turned away from him. Spotting another, a hawk-faced type—a man who looked like he oozed knowledge and seemed somewhat trustworthy—she edged over in his direction. “Wine?” she said. He stared through her, then slid, gently, silently, down the wall to a sitting position, his head lolling forward and a great, serrated, wine-fueled snore pouring from his nostrils.

“Appearances can be deceptive,” a voice spoke, right by her shoulder. She started, turning to see nothing, then looking down to see the short, hairy, grinning homunculus from moments ago, who had now sidled up to her. He wore a himation —an old-style garment that left half of his chest bare—and walked with the aid of a stick. She eyed him askance.