After more than an hour the road confusingly began to fork and rejoin itself as they neared the walls of Athens. (Not, thought Bulnes, a very impressive defense.) On a flat space in front of the wall a group of men with shields, spears, and crested helmets marched back and forth.
Stopping to draw breath and watch, Bulnes remarked, "They don't look much like Greek gods, do they?"
They did not, for the Athenian militiamen came in the usual range of human sizes and shapes, tall and short, fat and thin. Although the universal beards and cheek-plates of the helmets lent them a deceptive similarity, a close look showed that they varied about as much in features as a random group of modern southern Europeans. Like the Greeks of Bulnes's own time they were mostly brunets, tending toward a stocky build.
Flin sighed. "I confess I find them something of a disappointment. Perhaps we shall be more impressed when we get to the Agora."
They followed the crowd through the nearest gate, a complex structure intended as a practical defense, for it included two sets of doors with a passage between them overlooked by galleries. A little group of Scythian archers watched the traffic and straightened out tangles.
Inside, a street about five meters wide led in the direction of the Akropolis. The city itself, however, proved far from impressive: a huddle of one-storey mud-brick buildings with the same blank, windowless outer walls that Bulnes had noticed in the Peiraieus. Here, moreover, instead of being laid out in a rectangular grid, the houses were placed every which way. The streets were nothing but crooked little alleys winding among the houses, often barely wide enough to let two pedestrians pass, with no pavements anywhere. The stench was worse than at the seaport. Out of this noisome confusion rose the Akropolis, crowned with marble and bronze, like a tiara on a garbage heap, with the peak of Mount Lykabettos towering behind it.
Bulnes, feeling that Flin knew the terrain from his studies, let his companion lead the way. Flin tended to get lost in rapturous contemplation of the objects around him.
"Come, my dear comrade," said Bulnes. "We're hunting the inn of Podokles. Remember?"
Flin shook his head, as if awakening, and led the way onward. Presently the street opened out into the Agora, like that of the Peiraieus, but bigger. It proved to be an open space in name only, for in addition to the statues, monuments, and plane trees that dotted it, it was crammed with tradesmen's kiosks.
The space left among these structures was crowded with Athenians, all reeking of garlic, waving their hands, shouting, laughing, haggling, arguing, and shaking fists in each other's faces. Many wore violets in their hair — "In honor of the Dionysia," Flin explained.
Flin pushed sunward through the crowd; Bulnes, towering over the short Greeks, strolled after him, wishing he had pants pockets to thrust his hands into.
"Looking for somebody?" asked Bulnes.
"My wife, of course. And I thought we might catch sight of Sokrates or Prodikos."
"My dear fellow! We don't even know yet if it's the real Sokrates or a modern imitation, and in any case I doubt if you could recognize him. There are enough bald, potbellied men here to make a hundred Sokratai." Bulnes turned and spoke to a passing Athenian. "To pandokeion Podoklou?"
"What?"
"To pandokeion Podoklou?"
"I know not," said the man, and went his way.
As they worked over toward the east side of the Agora they repeated their question until they got a set of directions, but with so much pointing and arm waving that the inn might have lain any-whither. Another half-hour's search and more questions brought them to their goal in the Limoupedion district.
Podokles proved a burly fellow with part of his nose missing from a sword cut. "Foreigners, eh? Where are you from?"
Bulnes had expected Flin to carry the burden of negotiations, but the teacher was lost in the contemplation of the design on a jar. So Bulnes told Podokles, "Tartessos. I be Bouleus and him Phi-Ion."
"Where is that?"
"In Far West."
"What did you say?"
"To the West."
"You mean Sicily?"
"Farther."
"Hm. I thought beyond Sicily was nothing but shoals and sea monsters. Know you anybody in Athens? I have to be careful."
Hardly the genial host, thought Bulnes. "Kallingos at Peiraieus referred us to you. We stayed with he."
"Then you may be all right," said Podokles dubiously, and they argued terms for a quarter-hour.
Bulnes handed Podokles the bag containing their modern clothes (recovered from the arsenal) and their few other possessions, and asked, "When are lunch?"
"Name of the Dog, you fellows get hungry early! If you want anything prepared, go buy it and bring it to my cook."
Bulnes said to Flin, "I can't get used to beginning the day at dawn. Let's look up Diksen."
"What are you two babbling about?" said Podokles.
"Not you, my dear friend," said Bulnes, smiling blandly through his stubble.
They went out and trudged through the filth toward the Hill of Ares, looking around to be sure of finding their way back. On the hill itself they passed a shed containing a curious object: a ship mounted on wagon wheels, used (Flin explained) in certain religious processions. At last they came to the barracks.
Roi Diksen, alias Pardokas, came out of the barracks rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "I didn't expect to see you two for several days yet!"
Bulnes told him of the activities of Phaleas the gangster.
"Uh-huh," said Diksen. "I'd like to pin something on that ganef, but I think he's bought protection from one of the big shots. Can you make with the Grick, now?"
"Enough to manage if not to compete with the orators. Have you found our astronomer?"
"Yeah, just yesterday. Old geezer, name of Melon, lives just off the Agora."
"Splendid!" said Bulnes. "We thank you most gratefully."
"Aw ... Us barbarians got to stick together, see?"
"Meton!" said Flin. "By Jove, I remember now: He's the chap who burned — I mean he will burn his house down in — umm — fifteen or twenty years so that the Assembly will order his son to stay home from the Sicilian expedition to take care of him."
Bulnes looked questioningly at Flin. "How do we get access to this Meton?"
"That would take a bit of doing, you know. An Athenian citizen's home is his castle."
"Yeah," said Diksen. "Back in Yonkers, you wanna ask some guy something, you call him up and ask him, or say can you come around and see him? But these Gricks is funny. You knock on their door as polite as anything and if you ain't a citizen they sick the dog on you. Foreigners like you and slaves like me is just dirt under their feet."
Bulnes asked, "Does Meton ever go to the Agora?"
"Naw. Just sits around diddling with his calendars and things."
Bulnes said, "I suppose we shall have to find someone who can tender the proper introductions. It's like the story of the two Englishmen wrecked on a desert island who never spoke to each other until they were rescued, seven years later, because there was nobody present who could properly introduce them."
"A base canard," said Flin. "Don't believe him, Mr. Diksen. The English are as affable as anybody."
"I wish you luck," said Diksen, "but I can't help you none. An introduction from a slave wouldn't be no recommendation.''
Bulnes said, "At least you could tell us where to find Sokrates in the Agora."
"I guess he mostly hangs out around the Basileios Stoa, or one of them places. Now can I go back to sleep?"