“My girls are young and healthy. Half of them have not even begun to bleed yet.”
“The young ones are the worst. Two days in the hold and they stink like ferrets.”
“I will offer you a drachma for every three, simply to spare myself the trouble of further inquiries.”
For just an instant the master frowned. One might almost have supposed he was about to take offense. Then his face went smooth again, and one realized that its momentary change of expression had had its origins in something else. “Two drachmas for every five.”
“Done.”
Having struck their bargain, the two men lapsed into silence, as if they could no longer trust each other with the most harmless conversation. Pammenes, who had remained silent all through the meal, caught Philip’s eye and smiled.
“I am always amused when men speak of the ruthlessness of politics,” he said later, when they had gone down to the docks in hopes of escaping the heat—the sun had long since set, but the very walls of the houses were still warm to the touch, making the prospect of a sea breeze very welcome. “Yet what are politics except the relations of everyday life played out on a somewhat larger scale? I have made this tedious journey to treat with the Athenians on questions of commerce and military policy, and I am obliged to have no thought except for the profit of Thebes. Substitute my own interests for those of Thebes and I am a merchant from Lydia, trading in the flesh of young girls. Or a teacher of rhetoric, instructing his students in the best means of perverting the conclusions of a jury. By contrast, the statesman is all openness and generosity, since he confines his treachery to foreigners.”
“Then the Lydian was right—life is a brothel.”
“Say rather that it is a war and that the condition of happiness is not having to fight it for oneself alone.”
* * *
The next morning, after Pammenes had gone off in search of someone with whom to negotiate his treaty, Philip found himself quite at liberty. He had been away from home for several months by then and the idea of exploring yet another foreign city alone oppressed him. He longed to see a familiar face. To the best of his knowledge Athens contained only one, that of his childhood friend Aristotle. Thus, when he reached the central marketplace, he asked directions to the school of the philosopher Plato.
“Oh, yes, it is about a quarter of an hour’s walk beyond the gates. Just follow the road until you come to the Grove of Akademus—you will know the place when you see it. Do you plan to enroll then, youngster? Will you go home in a year or two and overthrow your city’s government?”
The old stonecutter to whom he had addressed his inquiry seemed vastly amused by this suggestion. He laid his tools down on the marble section of column upon which he had been working that he might be at liberty to laugh all the harder at his own joke.
“One goes there to study politics?” Philip asked when the laughter had subsided enough that he thought there was some chance of being heard. “Such was not my impression.”
“It is a school for treason and blasphemy, or that is what people say,” the stonecutter answered, after first wiping his eyes. The description was offered without any apparent malice. “I myself have doubts. I knew Sokrates, whose disciple Plato claims to be—his booth was just here, next to my own, when I was apprenticed to my father—and there was no particular harm in him, although he was lazy and a poor workman. If he carved a capital, it would always come out a little crooked. Yet that does not make a man a criminal. It was after the war with Sparta and tempers were short that they made him drink his hemlock. In such times a fool who loves the sound of his own voice is not safe.”
Philip thanked the man for assisting him and started in the direction that would take him to the main gate. He was not sure which impressed him more, that in Athens they executed their philosophers or that they cared enough about such matters to take the trouble. It was certainly not in every city that any workman could point one’s way to the doorstep of the local sage. No wonder that Aristotle had been eager to come here.
The road leading into the countryside was straight and heavily traveled so that the dust that quickly covered one’s feet had long since been ground fine under the wheels of a million oxcarts. Already, by midmorning, the sun made the back of Philip’s neck burn. He wondered if Aristotle might have a pitcher of wine about him, or if philosophers were above noticing the heat.
The Grove of Akademus was a pleasant place. Flies buzzed in the shade of plane trees that someone had once planted in neat rows but which had long since grown tall enough that their branches laced together to make an unbroken canopy. Men gathered in little clusters of two or three, and sometimes as many as ten or fifteen sat at the feet of some wise teacher, scratching away at their wax tablets as he spoke. Everywhere there was the murmur of voices.
Philip found Aristotle by himself, sitting with his back against a tree trunk, reading a scroll. Aristotle glanced up at the sound of his name. He did not even seem surprised.
“My father wrote to me that you had been sent to Thebes as a hostage,” he said as he stood up. The scroll dangled from his hand so that one end almost touched the ground. “I take it, from your presence here, that the terms of your captivity are not too harsh.”
“No, it is not harsh. It is not even captivity. I could return to Macedon tomorrow and the Thebans would merely shake their heads at my rashness and wish me a safe journey. They have all been very kind. Pammenes is here on diplomatic business and brought me with him as a treat.”
“Pammenes?” Aristotle allowed himself to look impressed. “I should like to meet him if it can be managed conveniently. All the Theban oligarchs are well thought of here. Plato holds them up as models of the enlightened and selfless ruler—he only wishes they would pay more attention to philosophy.”
“Does a ruler need philosophy?”
“Plato thinks so. Let me introduce you to him. He has a weakness for royalty. Since you are a prince, he may even invite us to lunch. You will find him amusing…”
* * *
And he was amusing. Plato turned out to be a man in his early sixties, white-haired, effeminate, and voluptuously fat. The servant who stood beside him at the table and kept his wine cup filled was perhaps twelve years old, and from time to time, while he talked about Sokrates or the Ideal of the Good or the indignities he had suffered at the hands of his disciples, the great philosopher’s hands would absentmindedly wander over the boy’s shoulders and neck. In spite of this minor distraction, his conversation, delivered in the purring voice of one who has left no passion ungratified, was fascinating.
“It is against every principle of reason that a government that is at the mercy of society’s basest elements could ever attain either coherence of purpose or dignity of expression. Even the best of men cannot turn mud into gold simply by squeezing it between his fingers, and in like manner even the most selfless of patriots must find himself hampered and corrupted by allowing himself to become the agent of mob rule. The ideal of rational policy can only be attained when authority is vested in a single individual, and he a philosopher king. Democracy has been a curse upon the Greeks, not least upon the Athenians, who condemned my master, Sokrates, simply because they could not understand the complexity of his thought. My dear Prince, you must try a little honey on those figs. It improves the flavor enormously.”
“Yet, Master, is not all government simply an expression of human nature, and should we not therefore be indifferent as to its form?” Aristotle inquired, with just the hint of a malicious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your own experience with Dion of Syracuse…”
Provided one had eyes to see, the look that passed between student and teacher—the flash of irritation, instantly extinguished and covered over with a laugh and a deprecatory wave of the hand—revealed much, and Philip realized, with the slight shock that always accompanies any change in our assessment of the familiar, that Plato, for all his years and vast prestige, was just a little afraid of Aristot
le and that Aristotle knew it. And at the same time he was disappointed with himself for being surprised. Plato must have realized that the physician’s son from Pella was the most gifted of his disciples and, in a world where intellectual agility counted for everything, why should he not be just a little afraid?
“Ah, yes, that wretched man—such a disappointment!” Plato sighed like an actor in a bad tragedy and consoled himself with a swallow of wine and a glance at his servant boy. “I was speaking merely of what might be. A tyrant may be clever or a fool, virtuous or criminal, a blessing to his subjects or a curse. Anything is possible, even perfection. Democracy, however, is always and of necessity a catastrophe. Athens has become like the people who rule it, and our polity has assumed the character of a porter’s wife—grasping, quarrelsome, petty, and contradictory. Our allies and our enemies alike are united in their hatred of us, and for all this we have our democracy to thank.”
When lunch was over, Philip persuaded Aristotle to return with him. They would climb the Akropolis together and visit the temple of Athena.
“I have been in Athens for half a year and have never seen it,” Aristotle mentioned as they rejoined the road leading back to the city. “I am not quite sure what Plato believes concerning the gods, but displays of piety are not encouraged. Nevertheless, I am given to understand that the building itself is quite beautiful. Also, the statue of the goddess is considered the finest piece of sculpture in the world.”
“Excellent. Then I will make sacrifice to my patroness, and you will admire her proportions. It seems likely that aesthetic pleasure and religious awe are both simply aspects of the same movement of the soul toward the divine, so perhaps the goddess will not take offense.”
“You are beginning to sound like one of Plato’s students.”
“Am I? It is probably something about the climate.”
“Did you know that Arrhidaios is in the city?”
At the mention of his half brother’s name, Philip felt a chill, which he interpreted as mere surprise.
“No,” he answered, “I did not. Have you seen him? Is he well?”
“I have not seen him, nor should I advise you to do so. If one wishes to return to Macedon, it is wisest not to compromise oneself by associating with declared traitors.”
“Arrhidaios is not a traitor,” Philip snapped, astonished at his own sudden flash of anger. “One is not a traitor for seeking refuge from the suspicions of our lord regent. You know as well as I that had he not fled, Ptolemy would have found some way of implicating him in Alexandros’s murder.”
“I believe I referred to Arrhidaios as a declared traitor. I did not accuse him of anything.”
The expression of Aristotle’s face suggested that he was amused rather than offended, which was not necessarily preferable. Philip decided that it might be best simply to go on.
“How is he living?” he asked.
“Quite well, I should imagine.” Aristotle shrugged his thin shoulders, as if bored to be discussing anything so obvious. “Doubtless he has his patrons—a foreign prince is always an asset.”
When Philip looked merely blank, Aristotle smiled and Philip knew at once that he was about to receive a lesson in political sophistication. He did not much relish his friend’s tendency to treat him like a raw bumpkin, fresh from the edge of the world, but he supposed he had something of the sort coming. He decided to remain silent and let Aristotle enjoy himself.
“Athens has interests in the north to which Macedon is a potential threat,” Aristotle began, in a voice he must have copied from one of his teachers. “She has colonies in Chalcidice and Thrace, and she must always be concerned to preserve her access to the Black Sea. As long as Macedon is weak and in turmoil Athens may do as she likes, and the House of the Argeadai oblige by regularly plotting against and murdering whomever among them happens to be currently occupying the throne. Thus, having Arrhidaios in reserve suits Athens quite well, since it gives her someone with whom she can threaten the Lord Ptolemy—or whoever should happen to succeed him in power. A possible pretender is as good as a small army, and much cheaper to maintain.”
He glanced at Philip and smiled again.
“Thus perhaps, at least now, the Lord Ptolemy is not wrong in suspecting Arrhidaios of treason, since, if he has made no overt move against the peace of his homeland, he is at least poised to do so.”
Philip felt a giddy sensation in the pit of his stomach. It was a kind of grief, and he knew that it showed. In that moment, and for the first time in his life, Philip discovered that he really hated Aristotle, who was enjoying his distress. The feeling would pass, and with it his anger—this he understood quite well—but for that brief space of time both were quite real.
“A man is not made a traitor by what is forced upon him.” He found himself unable to say anything more.
“Then let me ask you a question, Philip—as we have known each other all our lives, I will take the liberty.” Aristotle’s countenance now showed only a kind of awed pity, as if he realized at last that what he had stirred up with his restless intellectual probing was something akin to tragedy. “If it had been you, forced to flee to escape the plots of your relatives, would you have put yourself at the disposal of Macedon’s enemies?”
When Philip did not answer, Aristotle shook his head.
“No, I thought not. You, at least, would have preferred to starve in a ditch.”
As they walked in silence, they passed a slave gang—a line of eight or ten emaciated figures trudging lifelessly along the side of the road, a long chain running through the rings of the iron collars they wore around their necks, the end fastened to the back of a wagon loaded with stone. There was a burly man driving the wagon and a guard bringing up the rear of the column, but he hardly seemed to need the whip he carried in his hand. These pathetic creatures had long since forgotten even the possibility of resistance.
“City slaves,” Aristotle announced as if answering a question. “One can tell from the way the tops of their ears are notched.”
“Then they were probably prisoners of war whose families could not pay the ransom. What a grotesque fate to befall a man whose only crime was to be on the losing side.”
“You are too compassionate, Philip—especially for a prince. A slave is nothing more than a tool with life in it.”
“What, then, must an exile be? Those men, perhaps, fought for their country. Arrhidaios has not even so much as that to dignify his loss.”
19
It was late afternoon before Philip and Aristotle returned from visiting the temple of Athena Parthenos, and Pammenes had not returned to the inn. Instead, he had sent round a note to the effect that Philip should meet him for dinner at the house of one Aristodemos near the Dipylon Gate.
“Do you mind if I accompany you?” Aristotle inquired, with the air of one who knows he will not be refused. “Aristodemos is one of the richest men in Athens, a dabbler in politics and a collector of famous men—his banquets are notorious for their size and anonymity. No one will even notice my presence.”
“Then how can I mind?”
They went to the public baths and cleaned off the dust of their excursion. The light was beginning to fail by the time they reached the Dipylon Gate, but they had no trouble locating Aristodemos’s house. They had merely to follow the noise.
As Philip and Aristotle entered, a man stumbled past them through the door. When they turned around to look he was doubled over, retching against the wall of the house.
“What a pig!” Aristotle murmured, shaking his head, but Philip merely laughed.
“Don’t be so exacting, my friend, for thus you show yourself unaccustomed to the usages of the great. Besides, had this been my father’s court in Pella he would not have troubled himself to find his way outside, otherwise his retreat would have been covered by a hail of half-chewed mutton bones.”
“I gather, at any rate, that they have started without us.”
And so it was. A banquet, no
less than a man, struggles through infancy to youth and then, after reaching its full growth, enters the inevitable decline that leads to extinction. It was apparent at once that this particular revel was well advanced into a vigorous maturity. The clattering din of perhaps a hundred different conversations drowned out the musicians, so that the women who had been hired as entertainers seemed to dance to some inner rhythm only they could hear. Even in the great hall, which, had it been empty, might have seemed a large room, the damp heat of so many bodies was overpowering, and the air stank of wine.
The head table was toward the back of the hall, and it took Philip a moment to discover it. Pammenes was there, sitting next to a plump, elderly little dandy whose hair and beard were an unnatural silvery color and elaborately curled. This was presumably their host. Pammenes’ attention was all directed, however, toward the man at his right, who was in his middle years and dressed with the simplicity of one who is not interested in being noticed.
“Is that he?”
When Philip nodded, Aristotle smiled with satisfaction. “I thought as much. That is Aristodemos, looking like a pampered old cat. And the one on the other side is Anytos, a member of the Committee of Fifty—a powerful figure, for all that he is only a carpenter. I see we will be obliged to fend for ourselves, since there are no places near the guest of honor. It is just as well. I plan to forget for one night that I am a philosopher and become wildly drunk.”
“Will anyone be able to tell the difference?”
Aristotle did not seem to find the jest particularly amusing.
After perhaps an hour Philip began to wish he had stayed behind at the inn and dined on bread and onions. He did not care for the noise, and the man sitting next to him seemed to have made a game out of knocking over his wine cup and scattering its contents all over his neighbors.
If I leave, no one will be offended, he thought. Aristotle knows the city far better than I do. He does not need me for a guide. And Pammenes is too occupied with business to notice. This banquet is not amusing—I would do better to be asleep in my own bed.
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