Chapter 383: Ares’ Symposium
If you wanted conversation, Ares’ Symposium had it. If you wanted cleanliness, Ares’ Symposium had it. If you wanted art and a sense of ancient decorum, Ares’ Symposium had it. Human dust did not touch this sacred name. Cracks of time did. Low couches and tables of bottle and benches and carpets were occupied by men and women draped in fine robes, sipping wine and engaging in heated debates about the state of the Underground.
But the central focus was on the higher up on the second floor. Like a balcony overseeing everything was a committee of individuals at a table. The true power of the symposium gathered on that table in the second floor. Overlooking, glancing, analyzing everyone that came in, even Dasha.
’Good to know the rumours were true.’
This symposium held a different cadence from the chaotic, rough-hewn streets where opium dens and taverns ruled the night. Here, there was a false veneer of sophistication—a pretense of culture and intellect. Sitting together, talking together, pretending to be better. The symposium was a place for the elites of the Underground to gather, a place where men with power and influence sat on marble benches on the first floor and golden seats on the second floor. They debated philosophy, shared wine, played music, and discussed the delicate dance of politics that held the Underground in a perpetual state of tension.
The first floor was licked with the raunchy side of things: countless rooms with women, men, sex, and loud music. On the second floorer were fewer people, quieter music, and more open space. All that space just for a large, circular table to hold the most weight, seated with the most powerful figures in this corner of the city.
Dasha had just entered. Time slowed as he analyzed. The writing was on the wall. Too many carefully placed guards hidden. No doubt, the committee above truly were the men and women who controlled various neighborhoods, businesses, and operations, from smuggling to assassinations, and everything in between. Dasha remained on the first floor and headed left.
No curiousity, no alarm. Nothing. Dasha Pang and the mask he wore were normal here.
Already, he saw what he needed to. On the second floor, sitting as what appeared to be the head of the committee table was the mightiest man here—Alcibiades. All those who were students of Greek history knew him. He was a free spirit. A traitor to both Athens and Sparta. A man of both little and great importance. Sokrates’ student, best friend, and polar opposite. The beauty that impregnated the King of Sparta’s wife and even managed to go to Persia and sneak into the chambers of the Sultan’s daughter before his death.
A menace not in the way of power but his words. His beauty. His will.