He hated many men, some with good cause, others from envy; but more than them all he hated the man, still unseen, in the heart of this old hubristic Palace, the Macedonian tyrant who would debase her to a client city. In the hallway, a blue-tattooed Thracian slave was scrubbing. The sense of being an Athenian, inferior to no other breed on earth, sustained him now as always. King Philip should learn what it meant. Yes, he would sew up the man’s mouth, as they said in the law courts. He had assured his colleagues of that.
If the King could be defied, there would have been no embassy. Yet subtly, with reminders of old bonds, one could prick out neatly enough his broken promises, reassurances meant only to gain him time, his playing off of city against city, faction against faction; his comfort to Athens’ enemies while he seduced or crushed her friends. The preamble was word-perfect; but he had a telling little anecdote to work in just after, which could do with polishing. He had the other envoys to impress, as well as Philip; in the long run they might matter more. He would publish, in any case.
The paved court was scattered with windblown twigs. Against its low wall stood pots of pruned leafless rose trees; was it possible they ever flowered? The far skyline was a blue-white mountain range, split with black gorges, skirted with forests as thick as fur. Two young men ran past, cloakless, beyond the wall, calling to each other in their barbaric patois. Flogging his chest with his arms, stamping his feet, swallowing in a vain hope that his sore throat might be better, he allowed the unwilling thought that men reared in Macedon must be hardy. Even the slave-boy, who should no doubt have been sweeping the twigs away, seemed at ease in his one drab garment, sitting on the wall, warm enough to be idle. His master, though, might at least have given him shoes.
To work, to work. He opened his scroll at the second paragraph, and, pacing to keep from freezing, began to speak, trying it this way and that. The linking of cadence with cadence, rise with fall, attack with persuasion, made each finished speech a seamless garment. If some interjection forced reply, he made it as brief as he could, never happy till he was back with the written script. Only when well rehearsed was he at his best.
“Such,” he told the air, “were the generous services of our city to your father Amyntas. But since I have spoken of things which are naturally outside your remembrance since you were unborn, let me speak of kindnesses you witnessed and received yourself.” He paused; at this point Philip would be curious. “And kinsmen of yours who are now old will bear out what I say. For after your father Amyntas, and your uncle Alexandros, both were dead, while your brother Perdikkas and yourself were children, Eurydike your mother had been betrayed by those who had claimed to be her friends; and the exiled Pausanias was returning to contest the throne, favored by opportunity, and not without support.”
Walking and declaiming together made him pause for breath. He became aware that the slave-boy had jumped down from the wall to walk just behind him. In a moment, he was returned to the years of mockery. He turned round sharply, to catch a grin or lewd gesture; but the boy looked back with a grave open face and clear grey eyes. He must be held by the mere novelty of gestures and inflections, like some young animal by a shepherd’s flute. One was used, at home, to servants coming and going while one rehearsed.
“When, therefore, our general, Iphikrates, came into those parts, Eurydike your mother sent for him, and, as all who were there confirm, she led into his arms your elder brother Perdikkas; and you who were only a little child she put on his knee. ‘The father of these orphans,’ she said, ‘while he lived, adopted you as his son…’”
He stopped in his tracks. The boy’s stare had pierced his back. To be gaped at like a mountebank by this peasant brat was growing tiresome. He made a shooing gesture, as if sending home a dog.
The boy fell back a few steps, and paused looking up, his head tilted a little. In rather stilted Greek, with a strong Macedonian accent, he said, “Do please go on. Go on about Iphikrates.”
Demosthenes started. Used to addressing thousands, he found this audience of one, only now disclosed, absurdly disconcerting. Moreover, what did it mean? Though dressed like a slave, this could not be a garden-boy. Who had sent him, and why?
A closer scrutiny showed him clean, even to his hair. One could guess what that meant, when it went with looks like these. This was his master’s bedfellow, without a doubt, employed, young as he was, on the man’s secret business. Why had he been listening? Demosthenes had not lived among intrigue for thirty years in vain. His mind explored, in moments, half a dozen possibilities. Was some creature of Philip’s trying to brief him in advance? But so young a spy was too unlikely. What else, then? A message? Then for whom?
Somewhere, among the ten of them, must be a man in Philip’s pay. On the journey the thought had haunted him. He had begun to doubt Philokrates. How had he paid for his big new house, and brought his son a racehorse? His manner had changed, as they got near Macedon.
“What is it?” asked the boy.
He became aware that while he had been engrossed within himself, he had been observed. An unreasoning anger rose in him. Slowly and clearly, in the kitchen Greek one used to foreign slaves, he said, “What you want? You look someone? Which master?”
The boy tilted his head, began to speak, and seemed to change his mind. In Greek which was quite correct, and less accented than before, he said, “Can you please tell me if Demosthenes has gone out yet?”
Even to himself, he did not admit feeling affronted. His ingrained caution made him say, “We are all envoys alike. You can tell me what you want with him.”
“Nothing,” said the boy, unmoved it seemed by the voice of inquisition. “I only want to see him.”
There seemed no more to be gained by hedging. “I am he. What have you to say to me?”
The boy gave one of those smiles with which civil children meet inept grown-up jokes. “I know which he is. Who are you really?”
These were deep waters indeed! A secret beyond price might be in reach here. Instinctively he looked about him. The house might be full of eyes; he had no one to help, to hold the boy and stop him from crying out, which would stir up a hornets’ nest. Often, in Athens, he had stood beside the rack, when slaves were questioned as law allowed; there must be something for them to fear more than their masters, or they would never witness against them. Now and then they had been as young as this; one could not be soft in a prosecution. However, here he was among barbarians, no legal resource at hand. He must do as best he could.
Just then, from the guest-room window, a deep melodious voice started running up and down the scale. Aischines stood, his bare torso visible to the waist, his broad chest expanded. The boy, who had turned at the sound, cried, “There he is!”
Demosthenes’ first feeling was blind fury. His stored envy, goaded and taunted, almost burst him. But one must be calm, one must think, go step by step. There, then, was the traitor! Aischines! He could have wished for no one better. But he must have evidence, a lead; it was too much to hope for proof.
“That,” he said, “is Aischines son of Atrometos, an actor by trade till lately. Those are actors’ exercises he is doing. Anyone in the guest-house will tell you who he is. Ask, if you wish.”