Aeschines himself was not at home when we arrived, his major domo told Aristotle. He spoke Attic Greek, not the Macedonian dialect, but I could understand him just as well. The lawyer was pleading a case before the Assembly and would probably not return until nightfall. We had several hours to unpack and settle into the spacious guest wing of the house.
“Is it true?” I asked Aristotle as we watched the slaves unload his specimens and cart them off into the room that had been given him for his studies. “Are all Athenians lawyers?”
The old man laughed softly. “No, not all Athenians are lawyers. Some are women. Many are slaves.”
I took an especially heavy crate from a staggering, frail older slave and started off toward the philosopher’s work room with it on my shoulder. Aristotle walked beside me as we entered the house.
“They say this city is a democracy,” I said, “where all the citizens are equal. Yet they have slaves.”
“Slaves are not citizens, Orion. Nor are women.”
“Then how can it be a democracy if only a portion of the population has political power?”
He countered with another question. “How can the city manage without slaves? Will the looms run by themselves? Will crates carry themselves from place to place? You might as well ask that we give up horses and mules and oxen as give up slaves. They are necessary.”
I fell silent. But once I had gently deposited the crate on the floor of his workroom, Aristotle carried his lesson a step farther.
“You have hit upon a sensitive point, Orion. Democracy is to be preferred over tyranny—the rule of one man—but democracy itself is far from perfect.”
Deciding to play the student, I asked, “In what way?”
There were no chairs in the workroom as yet. Nothing but the crates that the slaves were bringing in. Aristotle peered at one, decided it was not too fragile to sit upon, and planted himself on it. I remained standing.
“When all political decisions are to be made by a vote of the citizens, then the man who can sway the citizens most easily is the man who makes the real decisions. Do you see the sense of that?”
“Yes. A demagogue can control the citizenry.”
“You say ‘demagogue’ with scorn in your voice. The word merely means ‘leader of the people.’ ”
“The Athenians have turned the word into something else, haven’t they?”
He blinked at me. “How do you know so much, when you have no memory?”
“I am learning quickly,” I said.
He did not look entirely satisfied. Still, he went on. “Yes, it’s quite true that orators like Demosthenes can sway the Assembly on tides of passion and rhetoric. It is Demosthenes who has goaded the Athenians into making war against Philip. It is his demagoguery that I must counter.”
“Are you an orator, also?”
He shook his head wearily. “No. Orators can be hired, Orion. They are merely lawyers who work for a fee.”
“Then who does Demosthenes work for?”
The old man gave me a puzzled look. “He has clients, of course. Civil suits, damage claims, inheritances. That is what buys his bread.”
“But who pays him to speak against Philip?”
“No one. At least he claims to do it as a free Athenian citizen.”
“Do you believe that?”
Aristotle stroked his beard. “Now that I think on it, no, I do not.”
“Then who pays him?”
He thought a moment longer, then replied, “Logically, it must be the Persians.”
Aeschines arrived home shortly after sunset, full of apologies for being late and warm greetings for his old friend. He was a smallish man with a pot belly, a red face and bulging frog’s eyes. Apparently he had been a student of Aristotle’s when the philosopher had taught at Plato’s school in the Academy district of the city some years earlier.
“Demades speaks to the Assembly tomorrow,” he told us, as his servants scurried to bring wine and goat cheese. His face went grim. “And then Demosthenes.”
“I must hear them,” said Aristotle.
Aeschines nodded.
Supper was served in a sumptuous room with an intricate tile mosaic for a floor and a meager fire crackling and spitting in the fireplace—just enough to ward off the autumnal night chill. Philip had ordered that Alexandros remain incognito, even to his host, so he and his beardless Companions were introduced merely as young noblemen. Alexandros was such a common name among the Macedonians that there was no need to give the Little King an alias. Most Macedonian nobles had at least a passing knowledge of Attic Greek, especially the younger ones. Philip had seen to that.
Aeschines gave Alexandros a crafty look when Aristotle introduced him, but said nothing more than he said to all the others, including me, when names were exchanged.
The talk around the supper table was all of Demosthenes.
“He is whipping up the people to a war frenzy,” Aeschines told us unhappily. “They go to listen to him as if they were going to the theater, and he gives them a good performance. By the time he’s finished speaking they’re ready to arm themselves and march against Philip.”
Aristotle shook his head, brow furrowed with worry.
“But Athens is already at war with us,” Alexandros said.
Aeschines replied, “Technically, yes. But until now the Athenians have been content to let others do the fighting for them. They have sent silver against Philip, not Athenian troops.”
I recalled that I was one of the mercenaries that Athenian silver had bought.
“And ships,” added Ptolemaios. “Athens uses its navy against us.”
“To little avail,” Alexandros boasted. “Soon they won’t have a port to put into north of Attica.”
“There is talk,” said Aeschines gloomily, “of making an alliance with Thebes.”
“Thebes!” A stir went around the long table.
“They have the best army outside of Macedonia,” Hephaistion blurted.
“Their Sacred Band has never been defeated,” said dark-skinned Nearkos.
“Well, neither have we,” Alexandros countered.
Harpalos, sitting on Alexandros’ left, made a disappointed frown. “Maybe we haven’t been defeated in battle, but the king has walked us away from victories. Perinthos isn’t the first city that we’ve besieged without taking.”
Alexandros’ face started to turn red with anger. Aristotle spoke up. “Philip has gained more cities at the parley table than on the battlefield,” he said mildly. “That is the art of a true king: to win without bloodshed.”
“There will be blood between Athens and us,” Alexandros predicted, his anger barely under control.
“I fear you’re right,” Aeschines agreed. “Demosthenes will not stop until he has them marching against the barbarians.”
“Barbarians?”
“You,” he said directly to Alexandros. “He calls you barbarians. And worse.”
Again trying to ward off an explosion, Aristotle said, “To the Athenians, anyone not of their city is a barbarian. The word originally meant stranger, nothing more.”
“But that’s not how Demosthenes uses it now,” Aeschines said.
I could see Alexandros was struggling to control his temper. “I saw him once, years ago,” he muttered. “He came to Pella at the king’s invitation. He was so flustered he became completely tongue-tied. He couldn’t speak a complete sentence.”
“He speaks whole sentences now,” Aeschines said, somberly. “With devastating effect.”
“I must hear him for myself,” Alexandros said through tight lips.
But there was something else the prince wanted to see first. We were all quartered in one large room, all except Aristotle. After supper, as I was preparing for bed, I saw that Alexandros and his Companions were heading for the door, cloaks wrapped around their shoulders, swords at their sides.