A horn blew from the cook-fire, to say breakfast was ready. Alexander gazed at the mountains. However hungry he was, he never hurried to food.
“Only Susa. They didn’t let him even begin to talk about Persepolis.”
Anywhere along Armorers’ Street at Piraeus, the port of Athens, it was hard to make oneself heard above a shout. The shops were open in front, to let out the heat of the forges and show the work. These were not the cheap off-the-peg factories with their hordes of slaves; here the best craftsmen made to measure, from clay molds of the naked client. Half a morning might go to a fitting, and to choosing from pattern books the inlaid design. Only a few of the shops made armor meant for war; the most fashionable catered for knights who wanted to be noticed in the Panathenaic procession. They would bring all their friends along, if they could stand the noise; comings and goings were little noticed. In the rooms above the shops, the din was hardly muted; but men could just hear each other speak, if they kept close together; and it was well known that armorers grew hard of hearing, which lessened the fear of eavesdroppers.
In one of these rooms, a conference was going on. It was a meeting of agents. None of the principals could have been seen with any of the others, even had it been possible for all of them to attend. Three men of the four were leaning over an olive-wood table on their folded arms. The feet of their wine cups rattled to the pounding of the hammers that shook the floor; the wine shivered, sometimes a drop leaped out.
The three who were talking had reached the last stages of a long wrangle about money. One was from Chios; his olive pallor and blue-black beard derived from the long Persian occupation. One was an Illyrian, from close to the Lynkestid border. The third, the host, was an Athenian; he wore his hair tied over his brow in a topknot, and his face was discreetly painted.
The fourth man sat back in his chair, his hands on the pinewood arms, waiting for them to have done; his face seeming to say that to tolerate such things was part of his commission. His fair hair and beard had a tinge of red; he was from north Euboia, which had long had commerce with Macedon.
On the table was a wax diptych tablet, and a stylos, the sharp end to write, the flat end to erase what had been written, in the presence of all four parties, before they left the room. The Athenian tapped it impatiently on the table, then on his teeth.
The Chian said, “It is not as if these gifts were to be the end of Darius’ friendship. As I say, Heromenes can always count on a place at court.”
“He is seeking,” said the Illyrian, “to rise in Macedon, not to prepare for exile. I thought that was understood.”
“Certainly. A generous earnest has been agreed on.” The Chian looked at the Athenian, who nodded, drooping his lids. “The bulk sum to follow a revolt in Lynkestis as arranged. I am not satisfied that his brother, the chief, has agreed to this. I must stand out for payment by result.”
“Reasonable,” said the Athenian, taking the stylos from his mouth. He had a slight lisp. “Now do let us take all that as settled, and come back to the man who matters most. My principal wants an undertaking that he will act on the day agreed—no other.”
This brought the Euboian leaning across the table, like the rest. “You said that before, and I answered that there’s no sense in it. He is always about Philip’s person. He has entry to the bedchamber. He might have far better chances, both to do it and to get away. This is asking too much of him.”
“My instructions are,” said the Athenian, tapping the stylos on the table, “that it shall be that day, or we will not offer him asylum.”
The Euboian thumped the already rattling table, making the Athenian shut his eyes protestingly. “Why, tell me? Why?”
“Yes, why?” said the Illyrian. “Heromenes doesn’t ask for it. The news could reach him any time.”
The man from Chios raised his dark brows. “Any day will do for my master. If Philip does not cross to Asia, it is enough. Why this insistence on the day?”
The Athenian lifted the stylos by both ends, rested his chin on it, and smiled confidingly.
“First, because on that day every possible claimant to the throne, and every faction, will be there at Aigai for the rites. Not one can escape suspicion; they will accuse each other, and very likely fight for the succession; this will be of use to us. Secondly…I think my principal deserves some small indulgence. It will crown his life-work, as anyone aware of his life can see. He finds it fitting that the tyrant of Hellas be brought down, not some dark night as he stumbles drunk to bed, but at the climax of his hubris; in this I agree, let me say.” He turned to the Euboian. “And, your man’s wrongs being what they are, I should suppose it would please him too.”
“Yes,” said the Euboian slowly. “No doubt. But it may not be possible.”
“It will be possible. The order of the ceremonies has just come into our hands.” He detailed them, till he reached a certain event, when he looked up meaningly.
“Your ears are good,” said the Euboian, raising his brows.
“This time you may rely on them.”
“I daresay. But our man would be lucky to come off well out of that. As I say, he could get better chances.”
“None so distinguished. Fame sweetens vengeance…Well, well, since we are speaking of fame, I will let you into a little secret. My principal wants to be first with the news in Athens, even before the news arrives. Between ourselves, he plans to have had a vision. Later, when Macedon has sunk back to its tribal barbarism—” He caught the Euboian’s angry eye, and said hastily, “That is, has passed to a King who is prepared to stay at home—then he can proclaim to a grateful Greece his share in the liberation. Meantime, when one remembers his long battle against tyranny, can one grudge him this small reward?”
“What risk is he taking?” shouted the Illyrian suddenly. Though the hammers below were noisy, it startled the others into angry gestures, which he ignored. “Here’s a man risking death to avenge his honor. And only Demosthenes must choose the time, so that he can prophesy in the Agora.”
The three diplomats exchanged looks of scandal and disgust. Who but a backwoodsman of Lynkestis would have sent this rude clansman to such a conference? There was no knowing what he might say next, so they broke up the meeting. All that mattered had been determined.
Each left the building separately, with a little time between. The last left were the Chian and the Euboian. The Chian said, “Can you be sure your man will do his part?”