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ATHENS
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Callias never thinks twice about entering the Bouleuterion through the rear door, which by custom is reserved strictly for elected members of the Athenian Council.
More importantly, no one ever dares question his ability to do so.
At only twenty-nine years of age, Callias has already carved himself an impressive military career from the prestigious name his father Hipponicus gave him. He was the youngest division commander in the army and when his advancement was stymied by a lack of conflict his father convinced Pericles to appoint him as the archon’s personal liaison to the legislature. It was a duty Callias had grown quite fond of and good at over the years; so good, in fact, that he thought about abandoning his military career for one in politics each time he entered the building.
Walking into the Bouleuterion, Callias realizes immediately that he’s chosen the perfect day to conduct his business. Standing in the well of the chamber is a councilman of no significance from a neighborhood no one cares about droning on monotonously about a matter that will be forgotten by dinner time. His audience reflects the stature of the poor speaker: only a sparse showing of councilmen scattered throughout the seats of the chambers, each engaging in more pressing matters like private correspondence or leisure reading. The emptiness of the chamber reminds Callias that he could easily maintain both a military career and one in politics.
No sooner does he set foot in the building then Callias recognizes the reason for his visit. Standing in the wing of the well of the chambers was a portly parliamentarian named Bias carefully scrutinizing a scroll as the councilman spoke. Legally, Bias was responsible for setting and maintaining the Council’s agenda without prejudice, but in practice he was no more impartial than any other man.
“Orders from the Archon,” Callias whispers, taking care to hand Bias a small roll of paper in a manner that none of the councilmen could see.
Bias sets the scroll down on his podium and backs into the shadows to review his instructions. “More warships?” he says. “I suppose I could find a place on the agenda for this request, but as you can see the docket is quiet full at the moment and time for debate may not free up until after the Game lion at the very earliest.”
Callias sighs: the Gamelion was not for another six months. He reaches into the folds of his robes, pulls out a small bag of coins and hands it to Bias.
“Tell Pericles he’ll have the funds by the end of the week!”
The two step out of the shadows to observe the machinations of the Council from the wing of the well. Callias quickly takes stock of the councilmen in attendance and shakes his head with exaggerated disappointment. They are a sorry lot: not a nobleman among them, mostly minor aristocrats and self-made men from the burgeoning Athenian merchant class, seizing a rare opportunity to speak before their colleagues while the most powerful members of the body were elsewhere. A hundred years earlier and the seats of the Bouleterion would have been filled by the most powerful men in Athens, every last one of them clawing and scraping at one another in hopes of becoming Archon. Now those same seats are occupied by pliant men who support Pericles largely because they owe their offices and entre into Athenian high society, to him.
“I don’t think I recognize any of these councilmen,” Callias observes.
“Nor would the people who elected them, I’m sure,” Bias rejoins, his attention now focused back on the scroll at the lectern. “None of the men here today wield much power, if any.”
“Then what are they doing here?”
Bias shrugs and peers at Callias through the corners of his eyes. “Escaping their wives, perhaps?”
Callias grins as he continues to inspect the motley assortment of legislators strewn across the seats until he arrives at a thin man with graying hair furiously shuffling through papers in the very last row. Callias leans in closer and squints hoping a change of perspective might help him recall the man’s name. It does not. (Despite his position, and much to his own secret shame, Callias has a difficult time identifying many of even the most consequential councilmen.)
“Is that one also a new member of the council?” he asks, subtly nodding in the man’s direction for Bias’ benefit.
“Who, Cleon? Good gods, no! He’s been on the council for four, five years now.”
“I’ve never seen him before. Is he one of ours?”
“If he is, then I have forgotten if Pericles’ coins pay for his vote or for his silence. Regardless, I do know his silver mines in Thrace keep him well-fed and away from most of the Boule’s business.” Bias pauses and scratches his scalp as if troubled by thought. “Come to think of it, I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s doing here now.”
Callias slaps the paunchy parliamentarian on the shoulder and exits down the corridor. “The work of the people, old friend!”
School of Athens Page 7
