Strongest Among the Heavens
Chapter 383: Ares’ Symposium

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.

Here, Alcibiades had transitioned into the role of a philosopher-king of sorts. A mind that valued power gained through influence rather than raw force.

By his side, just as the children whispered, was the Bloody Kicker Heidi, the Scottish Warlock John Fian, and a red-gold haired servant Galanthis. The spy boy confirmed to him that this Galanthis was the same as the one in legend, a maiden turned into a weasel by the Greek gods but was saved from her torture during the Chaotic Era by Alcibiades.

Dasha was not here to make his presence known to them just yet. No, his target was smaller. He needed to establish himself carefully, subtly, before climbing the ladder to that second floor.

At the left side was a space of musicians. Seated in his own corner, he began to play. He knew that eventually, not today, Tasos would return. And when he did, Dasha would be ready. The package he had given him contained a personal theory of Dasha’s. He studied, he read, and so he theorized. At his current level, however, he could do nothing about this discovery.

About the box.

Tasos perhaps could.

It was nothing more than bait, really. A silly rumour he planned to spread to more and more people. If Tasos managed to get something out of it, then that would be excellent. If not, then Dasha would keep handing packages while pretending to be a messenger.

Dasha had plans among plans. All conjoining toward his ultimate goal of complete dominance. It was how he operated on Earth and it was how he operated here.

And when the time was right, Dasha would offer to help him unlock the supposed secrets of that package. Not today though. Maybe not even tomorrow, but someday, he would come to ask.

But for now, Dasha had another part to play. The musicians were already at their tasks—flutes, lyres, and aulos blending together. The night’s revelry was accompanied by drunks and fake wisemen. Business owners that kissed up to the feet of the ones on the higher floors.

Dasha’s harp rested delicately in his lap. He was a trained musician of hundreds of instruments. While he did not specialize in harps, it hardly mattered. Music was, like so many other things, a language of manipulation. And Dasha had always been an extraordinary linguist.

He played slowly at first, testing the waters, his fingers sliding across the strings. The notes were lilting, almost melancholy, but gradually, they built into something he deemed appropriate for this Greek-influence symposium. An ancient melody from the farthest reaches of Greece and he presumed the well-educated Greeks would recognize. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about being known; it was about being felt.

The music grew. A few of the revelers nearby turned their heads, curious. The drunk grew quiet, drawn in by the hypnotic rhythm.

There were others playing. What Dasha did was amplify himself and them. And then slowly, the drunks went back with a bigger spring in their step.

Dasha noticed, however, as a man approached from across the room—a figure whose presence commanded immediate respect. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and robed in tyrian purple. His graying hair curled down to his shoulders, framing a face that had seen much of the world. His sandals, crafted of fine leather, made no sound. There was something regal about his posture, though not in the way of kings, but of those who had once advised them.

Dasha did not recognize him but he didn’t have to. Kings and the wealthy were known throughout history to be lovers of music and philosophy and patrons of the arts. They hired jesters and philosophers and musicians because they could. To be entertained or merely taught further in their genuine interests.

The broad-shouldered male in purple robes sat adjacent to the masked harp player to drink and listen. His sharp eyes studied the movements of Dasha’s fingers across the harp strings.

After a long moment, the robed male smiled—a rare sight for a man so clearly steeped in seriousness. "This melody," he began, rich and sonorous, "is not one commonly heard in these halls. It hails from the distant isles of Euboea, does it not? A piece dedicated to the muse Calliope, if I’m not mistaken."

Dasha did not break his rhythm, but he allowed a small nod. "You are correct," he said, "it is an ancient ode, written in honor of Calliope’s gift of eloquence. Few know its origins."

Five years ago, on Earth, there was a legendary figure in the auctioning world. He was a Greek historian well-over a hundred years old and his collection was said to have been built from since his grandfather’s time. The steep price of his auctioned items were nearly as legendary as the man himself whose age and wisdom preceded him.

Dasha tracked the old man’s son, murdered him, and then posed as his caretaker. After getting his name on his will, Dasha murdered him and took his mansion and library for himself. Everything he had kept, every poem and ancient artifact was now Dasha’s, physically and mentally.

That was how Dasha Pang knew of this lost music.

The robed male tilted his head, impressed. "Few indeed. You are a man of taste, then. A scholar of the arts, I assume?"

"Not a scholar," Dasha replied humbly, "merely a lover of beauty."

The elite chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling. "Modesty becomes you, but do not mistake me for a fool. Your technique is masterful. I’ve seen lesser men fumble through this piece as though they were playing a children’s tune. Your name?"

"Myth."

A new name for a new alias. First the Professor, then Mr. David, and now Myth. All with different masks. A white Venetian mask for the Professor, a grey Venetian mask for Mr. David, and a black opera mask for Myth.

"Myth. I am Xander. Tell me—how did one such as you come to be in this symposium, playing? I hear you came with Tasos?"

Word traveled fast. As expected of a symposium with loose lips.

Dasha’s hands never faltered, the music continuing as he responded. "Tasos is a friend," he said simply, "and he asked for my company. As for the symposium, I find that such gatherings are the perfect place to observe the world as it is and as it might be."

Xander smiled, nodded, closed his eyes and listened.

For the next two hours, it was all he did.