“Hail, O men of Rhodes!” Demetrios’ big, deep voice effortlessly filled the marked square. He spoke an Attic-flavored Greek much like Sostratos’, with only a vanishing trace of the broad vowels and odd consonant clusters he must have used as a little boy. “It is a pleasure and an honor to speak to the citizens of the free and independent polis of Rhodes.”
Some of the men in the crowd made small approving noises, soaking in Demetrios’ flattery like dry sponges soaking up water. Menedemos thought the Macedonian was being sardonic, in effect saying, You believe you’re free and independent, but I’m the one with the soldiers and the ships. By the way Sostratos’ eyebrow rose again, he heard the Macedonian’s words the same way.
Demetrios went on, “In the old days, it was easy for a polis to stay free and independent. It was facing only other poleis, more or less the same size it was. But times have changed. I was fortunate enough to liberate Athens from Kassandros’ oppression last year. Athens was a polis, with only the force a polis could draw on. Kassandros rules broad lands in Europe. He has great wealth, and many men to obey him. Without help from my father and me, Athens on her own couldn’t have hoped to gain freedom and independence once more.”
Again, some of the citizens of Rhodes dipped their heads in agreement and made approving noises. Menedemos had been in Athens. To him, what Demetrios called its newfound freedom and independence looked a lot like a change of masters from Kassandros to Antigonos and his son. To Sostratos, too, by the set of Menedemos’ cousin’s mouth.
“Out in the east, Seleukos rules huge tracts of land, all full of barbarians,” Demetrios said. “Hellenes are settling there, but they have no free and independent poleis. Seleukos doesn’t let them, and the locals would swallow places like that if he did. Egypt is the same way. You know that’s true, O men of Rhodes. Ptolemaios rules Egypt like the Persians before him, and like the Pharaohs before the Persians. He tells people what to do, and they do it. No free and independent poleis in Egypt, by the gods!” He threw his hands high, artfully scorning the very idea.
“He’s sly,” Sostratos murmured before Menedemos could. Demetrios was doing the most dangerous thing he could: telling the truth, but slanting it in his direction.
“Now my father, on the other hand, has plenty of free and independent poleis working alongside him as friends and allies,” the Macedonian went on. “That’s what we’re looking for from Rhodes: friendship and alliance. That’s all, by the gods! Join with my father and me in our struggle against the tyrant Ptolemaios, and everything will go back to the way it was as soon as the fight is over.”
To Menedemos, he sounded like a man trying to talk a girl into bed. No mean seducer himself, Menedemos knew a smooth one when he heard him. He looked around. How many of his fellow citizens felt the same way? Did they think freedom and independence were worth holding on to in a world that had changed?
Then again, how many of them traded with Ptolemaios’ Egypt? Joining Antigonos and Demetrios would put a crimp in that. Men tended to think about where their silver came from.
“We don’t want trouble on our border,” Demetrios said. “Next to my father’s lands, Rhodes is only the size of a flea, but even fleabites are annoying. Friends, it’s easier to go the way the wind already blows. Think about that when you make up your minds. If you try to sail the other way, the wave that’s coming will swamp you. Good day.” He hopped down from the platform. In the dead silence in the market square, Menedemos heard Demetrios’ armor clatter about him, as if he were one of Homer’s warriors going to his doom.
He also heard Sostratos mutter, “ ‘My father’s lands,’ ” to himself in thoughtful tones. He understood that; he’d noticed the odd phrasing himself. Since Alexander’s half-witted half-brother and young posthumous son met their untimely demises, none of the generals who held chunks of his empire had declared himself a king. That day might be—likely was—coming, but it hadn’t come yet.
Komanos got back up where the citizens could see him. He was smoother than he had been the first time, but he still didn’t have Demetrios’ size or grace to make the ascent seem easy. “Thank you, most excellent son of Antigonos, for being so plain about your views and those of your illustrious father. We shall now discuss your proposal and determine what the sense of the polis may be.”
Everyone started shouting and waving his hand hand at once. In Homeric assemblies, only the man holding the scepter had the right to speak. Rhodian democracy was rowdier and more freewheeling than that. Everyone thinks he’s Agamemnon or Nestor, Menedemos thought, but a lot of these people would embarrass Thersites.
Xanthos made his way up onto the platform. Menedemos and Sostratos exchanged glances. So did Philodemos and Lysistratos. If that wasn’t a put-up job, none of them had ever seen one.
“Hear me, O men of Rhodes!” Xanthos said loudly. And hear me, and hear me, and hear me some more went through Menedemos’ mind. Sure enough, his father’s long-winded friend spent half an hour walking through the obvious: that Rhodes had long been free and independent, that the polis would probably stay safer if it didn’t get caught up in its bigger neighbors’ quarrels, and that many people in the polis did a lot of business with Egypt. Much later than he should have, he finished, “All this being so, that which is now most expedient to us is to continue the course we have always taken,” and stood down.
The next speaker, a farmer named Polyaratos, proved a fiery partisan of Demetrios and Antigonos’. “They’re what the future looks like,” he declared. “They’ll put Alexander’s empire back together. Do we want to be on the outside looking in after they do that? I don’t think so! They’ll be kings with crowns, and they’ll treat us the way kings always treat people who make ’em angry. We’d have to be mad to turn down what the Demetrios is offering us—mad, I tell you!”
“I wonder how much of Antigonos’ silver he’s got in his wallet,” Sostratos said in a low voice. Menedemos dipped his head; it wasn’t as if the same thought hadn’t crossed his mind.
But others also spoke for the Macedonians. Most of them, like Polyaratos, were men with few ties outside the island. Then another merchant, Rhodokles son of Simos, got on the platform. He was a rival to Philodemos and Lysistratos’ firm, but no one had ever called him a fool.
Blunt as usual, he said, “I’ve heard that Demetrios and Antigonos are paying pirates to join their fleet. If they do things like that, I don’t care to go to war alongside ’em. It’s about that simple.” He jumped down again.
His blunt announcement seemed to take the wind from the sails of Demetrios’ friends. Not a Rhodian breathed who didn’t hate pirates. When Komanos called for the vote, a solid majority chose continued neutrality. Komanos invited Demetrios up. As the warlord scowled at the citizens who hadn’t done his bidding, Komanos put the best face he could on things: “We are not your foes, O Demetrios. We wish only to remain friends with everyone.”
“I shall take this news to my father. Hail!” Demetrios said, and not one word more. That ended the Assembly in unceremonious fashion.
“What do you think?” Menedemos asked Sostratos as they started home with their fathers.
“We may try hard to stay away from the wider world’s affairs, but those affairs won’t stay away from us,” his cousin answered. Menedemos clicked his tongue between his teeth. That seemed only too likely to him, too.
II