Fire From Heaven (11 page)

‘Good, now you can keep your eye on them. I shall go out in the weather when it is time, and not a moment sooner.’

‘It’s hardly raining. What will you do when we go to war?’

‘I am saving myself for that, Achilles. Don’t forget Phoinix had his bed made up by the fire.’

‘I’ll set light to that book of yours, if you don’t hurry. You’ve not even got your boots on.’ He hung in the window; small with darkness and furred with mist, the torches seemed to creep like glow-worms on a stone. ‘PhoinixÉ?’

‘Yes, yes. There’s time enough.’

‘Does he mean to treat for peace? Or just to keep them quiet till he’s ready, like the Olynthians?’

Phoinix laid down his book on his knee. ‘Achilles, dear child.’ He dropped artfully into the magic rhythm. ‘Be just to royal Peleus, your honoured father.’ Not long ago, he had dreamed he stood on a stage, robed to play Leader of the Chorus in a tragedy, of which only one page had yet been written. The rest was already on the wax, but not fair-copied, and he had begged the poet to change the ending; but when he tried to recall it, he remembered only his tears. ‘It was the Olynthians who first broke faith. They treated with the Athenians, and took in his enemies, both against their oath. Everyone knows a treaty is made void by oathbreaki?ng.’

‘The cavalry generals gave up their own men in the field.’ The boy’s voice rose a tone. ‘He paid them to do it. Paid them.’

‘It must have saved a good many lives.’

‘They are slaves! I would rather die.’

‘If all men would rather, there would be no slaves.’

‘I shall never use traitors, never, when I’m King. If they come to me I shall kill them. I don’t care whom they offer to sell me, if he’s my greatest enemy, I shall still send him their heads. I hate them like the gates of death. This man Philokrates, he’s a traitor.’

‘He may do good in spite of it. Your father means well by the Athenians.’

‘If they do as he tells them.’

‘Come, one might suppose he meant to set up a tyranny. When the Spartans conquered them in my father’s day, then indeed they had one. You know your history well enough, when you’ve a mind. As far back as Agamemnon the High King, the Hellenes have had a war-leader; either a city or a man. How was the host called out to Troy? How were the barbarians turned in Xerxes’ war? Only now in our day they snap and bicker like pi-dogs, and no one leads.’

‘You don’t make them sound worth leading. They can’t have changed so soon.’

‘Two generations running, there has been a great killing of their best. In my opinion, the Athenians and the Spartans have both drawn Apollo’s curse, since they hired out troops to the Phokians. They knew well enough what gold was used to pay them. Wherever that gold has gone, it has brought death and ruin, and we have not seen the end of it. Now your father, he took the god’s part, and look how he has prospered; it is the talk of Greece. Who is more fit for the leader’s sceptre? And one day, it will come to you.’

‘I had rather -’ the boy began slowly. ‘Oh, look, they’re past the Sacred Grove, almost in town. Hurry, get ready.’

As they mounted in the muddy stable-yard, Phoinix said, ‘Keep your hood well down. When they see you at the audience, you don’t want them to know you were out in the street, staring at them like a peasant. What you expect from this outing is more than I can guess.’

They backed their horses into a little grassy patch before a hero-shrine. Overhanging chestnut buds, half unfurled, looked like worked bronze against the pale watery clouds which filtered the moonlight. The outriders’ torches, burned almost to the sockets, danced to the mules’ pacing in the quiet air. They showed the leading envoy escorted by Antipatros; Alexander would have known the general’s big bones and square beard, even if he had been muffled like the others; but having just come from Thrace, he thought it a warm night. The other must be Philokrates. The body shapeless in its wraps, the eyes peering between cloak and hat, looked the soul of evil. Riding after, he recognized the grace of Aristodemos. So much for those. His eye raked through the train of riders, mostly craning under their limp hat-brims to see where their horses’ feet were going in the muck. Not far from the tail, a tall well-built man was sitting up like a soldier. He was short-bearded, seemed neither old nor young; the torchlight showed up a bold bony profile. When he had passed, the boy looked after, fitting the face upon his dreams.Ê He had seen great Hektor, who would not be old before Achilles was ready.

Ê

Demosthenes son of Demosthenes, of Paionia, woke at first light in the royal guest-house, pushed up his head a little from the clothes, and looked around him. The room was grandiose, with a green marble floor; the pilasters at door and window had gilded capitals; the stool for his clothes was inlaid with ivory; the chamber-pot was Italian ware with garlands in relief. The rain was over, but the gusty air felt freezing. He had three blankets and could have done with as many more. Need for the pot had waked him; but it was at the far side of the room. The floor was rugless. He lingered in discomfort, hunched in his folded arms. Swallowing, he felt a soreness in his throat. His fears, first formed during the ride, were realized; on this day of all days, he was star?ting a cold in the head.

He thought with longing of his snug house in Athens, where Kyknos, his Persian slave, would have fetched more blankets, brought up the pot and brewed the hot posset of herbs and honey which soothed and toned his throat. Now he lay like the great Euripides who had met his end here, sick among barbaric splendours. Was he to be one more sacrifice to this harsh land, breeder of pirates and tyrants; the crag of that black eagle which hung ravening over Hellas, ready to swoop on any city which flagged, stumbled or bled? Yet with the pinions darkening the sky above them, they would straggle after petty gains or feuds and scorn the shepherd’s warning. Today he would meet the great predator face to face; and his nose was thickening.

On the ship, on the road, he had been over and over his speech. It would come last; for to settle contested precedence on the way, they had agreed it should go by age. Eagerly, while others thrust forward evidence of seniority, he had proclaimed himself the youngest, hardly believing they could be so blind to what they were giving away. Not till the final list had been drawn up, had he seen his handicap.

From the distant pot, his eye moved to the other bed. His room-mate, Aischines, slept soundly on his back; his height had pushed his feet nearly through the bedclothes, his broad chest gave resonance to his snores. When he woke, he would run briskly to the window, do the showy voice-exercises he kept up from his theatre days, and, if one mentioned the cold, say it had been worse in some army bivouac or other. He would speak ninth, Demosthenes tenth. No good, he felt, seemed ever to reach him unalloyed. He had the final word, an asset beyond price in the lawcourts, and no price could buy it. But some of the best arguments had been claimed by earlier speakers; and then he must follow this man’s portentous presence, his deep voice and artful sense of timing, his actor’s memory which could keep him going a run of the water-clock without a note, and - most enviable gift of the unjust gods - his power to speak extempore at need.

A mere nobody, pinchpenny reared, his schoolmaster father beating enough letters into him to give him a pittance from clerking; his mother a priestess of some immigrant back-street cult, which ought to be put down by law; who was he to swagger in the Assembly, amongst men taught in the schools of rhetoric? No doubt he kept going on bribes; but nowadays one heard forever about his forbears, eupatrids of course - that worn-out tale! - ruined in the Great War, his military record in Euboia, and his tedious mention in dispatches.

A kite screamed in the raw air, a piercing gust blew round the bed. Demosthenes clutched the blankets round his meagre frame, recalling bitterly how last night, when he had complained of the marble floor, Aischines had said off-handedly, ‘I should have thought you’d mind it the least, with your northern blood.’ It was years since anyone had brought up his grandfather’s metic marriage to his Scythian grandmother; only his father’s wealth had scraped him citizenship, but he had thought it all forgotten long ago. Staring down his cold nose at the sleeping form, putting off for a moment longer the urgent walk to the pot, he murmured viciously, ‘You were an usher, I was a student; you were an acolyte, I was an initiate; you copied the minutes, I moved the motion; you were third actor, I sat in front.’ He had never in fact seen Aischines play; but his wishes added, ‘You were booed off, I hissed.’

The marble was green ice underfoot, his urine steamed in the air. His bed would be cold already; he could only dress now, keep moving and stir his blood. If Kyknos were only here! But the Council had bidden them hurry; the others had stupidly offered to dispense with attendants; it would have been worth a thousand words to any hostile orator, if he alone had brought one.

A pale sun was rising; the wind grew less; it might be warmer out than in this marble tomb. The paved garden-court was empty, but for one slave-boy loite?ring. He would take his roll with him, and run over his speech again. Doing it here would wake Aischines, who would express surprise at his still needing a script, and boast of having always been a quick study.

No one stirred in the house but slaves. He glanced at each, in search of Greeks; many Athenians had been caught in the siege of Olynthos, and all the envoys had commissions to arrange ransoms where they could. He had resolved to redeem any he found, if it had to be at his own cost. In the bitter cold, in this haughty and boastful Palace, he warmed his heart at the thought of Athens.

His childhood had been pampered, his boyhood wretched. His rich merchant father had died leaving him to uncaring guardians. He had been a puny lad, exciting no one’s desire but readily excited; in the boys’ gymnasium this had been starkly exposed, and the dirty nickname had stuck to him for years. In his teens he had known his guardians were robbing his inheritance; he had no one to fight his law-suit but himself, with his nervous stutter. He had trained stubbornly, wearily, in secret, copying actors and rhetors, till he was ready; but when he won, the money was two thirds gone. He had made a living at the one thing he had skill in, building up capital from such pickings as were half-respectable; and at last had begun to taste the great wine of power, when the crowd on the Pnyx was one ear, one voice, and his. All these years, he had armoured his tender bruised pride in the pride of Athens. She should be great again; it should be his victor’s trophy, one to last till the end of time.

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 Thrarian 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 pathois. 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 yo?ur 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, favoured 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 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 eldest 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 sonÉ’”