Fire From Heaven (12 page)

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 bed-fellow, 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 bought 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 hornet’s 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.’

Slowly the boy gazed from man to man. Slowly a crimson flush spread from his chest, dyeing his clear skin up to his brow. He remained quite silent

Now, thought Demosthenes, we may learn something to the purpose. One thing was certain - the thought thrust in, even while he pondered his next move - he had never seen a handsomer boy. The blood showed like wine poured into alabaster and held up to the light. Desire became insistent, disturbing calculation. Later, later; everything might hang upon keeping one’s head now. When he had found out who owned the boy, he might try to buy him. Kyknos had long since lost his looks, and was merely useful. One would need to take care, use a reliable agentÉ. This was folly. He should have been pinned down in his first confusion. Demosthenes said sharply, ‘And now tell me the truth, no lies. What did you want with Aischines? Come, out with it. I know enough already.’

He had paused too long; the boy had collected himself; he looked quite insolent. ‘I don’t think you do,’ he said.

‘Your message for Aischines. Come, no lies. What was it?’

‘Why should I tell lies? I’m not afraid of you.’

‘We shall see. What did you want with him?’

‘Nothing. Nor with you, either.’

‘You are an impudent boy. I suppose your master spoils you.’ He went on to improve on this, for his own satisfaction.

The boy had followed the intention, it seemed, if not the Greek. ‘Good-bye,’ he said curtly.

This would never do. ‘Wait! Don’t run off before I have finished speaking. Whom do you serve?’

Coolly, with a slight smile, the boy looked up. ‘Alexander.’

Demosthenes frowned; it seemed to be the name of every third well-born Macedonian. The boy paused thoughtfully, then added, ‘And the gods.’

‘You are wasting my time,’ said Demosthenes, his feelings getting the better of him. ‘Don’t dare go away. Come here.’

He grasped the boy’s wrist as he was turning. He drew back the length of his arm, but did not struggle. He simply stared. His eyes in their deep sockets seemed to grow first wide, then pale as the pupils narrowed. In slow Greek, with fastidious correctness, he said quietly, ‘Take your hand off me. Or you are going to die. I am telling you.’

Demosthenes let go. A frightening, vicious boy; clearly, some great lord’s minion. No doubt his threats were emptyÉ but this was Macedon. The boy though released still paused, brooding intently on his face. A cold creeping moved in his bowels. He thought of ambushes, poison, knives in dark bedrooms; his stomach turned, his skin chilled. The boy stood motionless, gazing from under his mane of tousled hair. Then he turned, vaulted the low wall, and was gone.

From the window, Aischines’ voice boomed in its lowest register, and soared, for effect, to a pure falsetto. Suspicion, only suspicion! Nothing one could pin to an indictment. The soreness climbed from Demosthenes’ throat to his nose; he gave a violent sneeze. Somehow he must get a hot tisane, even ?if some ignorant fool would make it. How often, in his speeches, he had said of Macedon that it was a land from which it had never yet been possible even to buy a decent slave.

Ê

Olympias sat in her gilded chair carved with palmettes and roses. Noon sun streamed from the window, warming the high room, lacing the floor with shadows of budding branches. A small table of cypress-wood was at her elbow; on a stool by her knees sat her son. His teeth were clenched, but low gasps of agony now and then escaped him. She was combing his hair.

‘The very last knot, my darling.’

‘Can’t you cut it off?’

‘And have you ragged? Do you want to look like a slave? If I did not watch you, you would be lousy. There; all done. A kiss for being good, and you may eat your dates. Don’t touch my dress while your hands are sticky. Doris, the irons.’

“They are too hot still, Madam; hissing-hot.’

‘Mother, you must stop curling it. None of the other boys have it done.’

‘What is that to you? You lead, you do not follow. Don’t you want to look beautiful for me?’

‘Here, Madam. I don’t think they will scorch now.’ They had better not! Now don’t fidget. I do it better than the barbers. No one will guess it’s not natural.’

‘But they see me every day! All but theÉ’

‘Keep still, Êyou will get a burn. What did you say?’

‘Nothing. I was thinking about the envoys, I think after all I’ll wear my jewels. You were right, one shouldn’t dress down to the Athenians.’

‘No, indeed. We will look out something presently, and proper clothes.’

‘ Besides, Father will wear jewels.’

‘Oh, yes. Well, you wear them better.’

‘I met Aristodemos just now. He said I’d grown so much he’d hardly have known me.’

Ê’A charming man. We must ask him here, by ourselves.’

‘He had to go, but he presented another man who used to be an actor. I liked him; he’s called Aischines, he made me laugh.’

‘ We might ask him too. Is he a gentleman?’

‘It doesn’t matter with actors. He told me about the theatre, how they tour; how they get their own back on a man who’s bad to work with.’

‘You must be careful with these people. I hope you said nothing indiscreet.’

‘Oh, no. I asked about the war party and the peace party in Athens. He was in the war party, I think; but we’re not like he thought. We got on well.’

‘Don’t give any of these men the chance to boast of being singled out.’

‘He’ll not do that.’

‘What do you mean? Was he familiar?’

‘No, of course not. We only talked.’

She tilted his head back, to curl the locks above his brow. As her hand passed his mouth he kissed it. There was a scratch upon the door.

‘Madam, the King sends to say he has had the envoys summoned. He would like the Prince to enter with him.’

‘Say he will be there.’ She stroked out the hair lock by lock, and looked him over. His nails were trimmed, he was freshly bathed, his gold-studded sandals stood ready. She found him a chiton of saffron wool, with a border she had worked herself in four or five colours; a red chlamys for his shoulder and a big gold pin. When the chiton was on, she clasped round his waist a belt of golden filigree. She was leisurely; if he were early, it would be with Philip he would wait.

‘Isn’t it finished?’ he asked. ‘Father will be waiting.’

‘He has only just summoned the envoys.’

‘I expect they were all ready.’

‘You will find the afternoon quite long enough, with their tedious speeches.’

‘Well, one must learn how things are doneÉI’ve seen Demosthenes.’

‘That great Demosthenes! Well, what did you think of him?’

‘I don’t like him.’ She looked up from the golden girdle, raising her brows. He turned towards her, with an effort she noticed. ‘Father told me, but I didn’t listen. He was right, though.’

‘Put on your cloak. Or do you want it done for you like a baby?’

Silently he threw it round his shoulder; silently, with un-tender fingers, she drove the pin through the stuff, which gave too quickly. He made no movement. She said sharply, ‘Did I prick you?’

‘No.’ ?He knelt to lace his sandals. The cloth fell away from his neck, and she saw blood.

She held a towel to the scratch, kissing his curled head, making peace before he went to meet her enemy. As he went towards the Perseus Room, the smart of the pin was soon forgotten. For the other, it was like a pain he had been born with. He could not remember a time when it had not been.

Ê

The envoys stood facing the empty throne, with the great mural behind it of Perseus freeing Andromeda. At their backs were ten ornate hard chairs; it had been made clear, even to the most ardent democrats, that they would sit when, and not before, the King invited them. The leader, Philokrates, looked demurely about him, straight-faced, at pains not to seem at ease. As soon as the order and matter of the speeches had been determined, he had made a brief digest and sent it secretly to the King. Philip was known to speak extempore with force and wit, but would be grateful for the chance to do himself full justice. His gratitude to Philokrates had already been very solid.

Down at the far left (they stood in order of speaking) Demosthenes swallowed painfully, and mopped his nose with the corner of his cloak. Lifting his eyes, they met the painted eyes of a splendid youth, poised wing-footed on blue air. In his right hand he held a sword; in his left, by its hair, the ghastly head of Medusa, aiming its lethal gaze at the sea-dragon in the waves below. Manacled to a leafy rock by her outspread arms, her body shimmering through her thin robe, her fair hair lifted by the breeze which upbore the hero, Andromeda gazed at her saviour with soft wild eyes.

It was a masterpiece; as good as the Zeuxis on the Acropolis, and bigger. Demosthenes felt as bitter as if it had been looted in war. The beautiful tanned youth, superbly naked (some Athenian athlete of the great days must have posed for the first cartoon) looked down with hauteur on the heirs of his city’s greatness. Once again, as in old years at the palaestra, Demosthenes felt the pause of dread before he stripped his thin limbs; the admired boys strolling by, elaborately careless of their public; for himself, the giggle and the hateful nickname.

You are dead, Perseus; beautiful, brave, and dead. So you need not look at me. You died of malaria in Sicily, you drowned in Syracuse harbour, or parched in the waterless retreat. At Goat’s River the Spartans bound you and cut your throat. The hangman of the Thirty burned you with his irons and choked you. Andromeda must do without you. Let her take help where she can, for the waves are parting to show the dragon’s head.

With her feet on a cloud, bright-helmed Athene hovered to inspire the hero. Grey-eyed Lady of Victories! Take and use me; I am yours, for what I am. If I have only words to serve you with, your power can turn them to sword and Gorgon. Let me only guard your citadel till it brings forth heroes again.

Athene returned him a level stare. As was proper, her eyes were grey. He seemed to feel again the dawn chill, and his fasting belly griped with fear.

There was a stir at the inner door. The King came in, with his two generals, Antipatros and Parmenion; a formidable trio of hard-bitten warriors, each of whom by himself would have filled the eye. Along with them, almost lost beside them, walked at the King’s elbow a curly-haired, overdressed boy with downcast eyes. They disposed themselves in their chairs of honour; Philip greeted the envoys graciously, and bade them sit.

Philokrates made his speech, full of openings which would be useful to the King, masked by spurious firmness. Demosthenes’ suspicions grew. They had all been given the precis; but could these weak links be merely slipshod? If only he could keep his mind on it; if only his eye did not keep straying to the King.