“I wish we could get close enough to listen.” But even reckless Alexandros saw that it would be impossible. The area around the tent was cleared for a good fifty feet and lit at all four corners of the open space by watch fires. The guards could see anyone approaching the tent from any direction.
Then we saw a familiar figure leave the tent: thin, stoop-shouldered, balding, combing the fingers of one hand through his bushy beard.
“Demosthenes!” Alexandros hissed.
“Their generals don’t need his oratory now,” I said.
We watched Demosthenes make his way to his own tent, head bent, walking slowly, like a man deep in thought. The instant he stepped through the tent’s entrance Alexandros started after him.
I tried to stop him. “Are you mad? One yell from him and you’re a prisoner.”
But he pulled away from me. “He won’t yell with my sword’s point at his throat.”
I could either overpower the young hothead or go with him. I went with him.
There was no guard at Demosthenes’ tent. We pushed right inside, drawing our swords.
He looked up, startled. The tent was no great affair, big enough for a cot and a table, little more. Demosthenes was at the table. A dark-skinned man in a colorful robe, his head wrapped in a white turban, stood next to him.
“A Persian!” Alexandros snapped.
“Who are you?” Demosthenes demanded.
“I am Alexandros, prince of Macedon.”
I swiftly took in the tent’s furnishings. The table was bare except for a pitcher of wine and two cups. A hoplite’s panoply of armor stood arrayed on a wooden form in one corner. Next to it rested a large round shield painted blue, with the words “With Fortune” in white around its edge. Four spears stood behind the armor, poking up into the shadowed ceiling of the tent. A chest next to the cot, a sword in its scabbard atop the chest. Nothing else.
“I am not a Persian,” said the dark-skinned man, in strangely accented Attic Greek. “I am from Hindustan.”
“Hindustan?” Alexandros seemed almost to ignore Demosthenes. “Where is that?”
The turbanned man smiled condescendingly. “Far from this place. It lies on the other side of the Persian Empire.” He had large dark liquid eyes. His skin seemed to shine in the lamplight, as if it were oiled.
“Young Alexandros,” said Demosthenes, his voice trembling slightly.
Alexandros suddenly remembered why he was here. Pointing his sword at Demosthenes’ throat, he advanced on the Athenian. “And you are the man who calls my father a sly dog and a vicious beast.”
“One c-c-cry from m-me and you’re a d-d-dead man,” Demosthenes stuttered.
“It will be the last sound you ever make,” Alexandros said.
“Wait,” I snapped. Turning to the Hindi, I said, “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“I serve the Great King,” he answered in singsong cadence. “I carry gold and instructions to this man here.”
“Gold and instructions from the Great King,” muttered Alexandros. “The man who preaches the glories of democracy over tyranny serves the Great King of the Persians, the tyrant who holds the Greek cities of Ionia in bondage.”
Demosthenes pulled himself to his full height, little taller than Alexandros. “I serve no m-m-master except the de-democracy of Athens.”
“This man says otherwise.”
With a lopsided smile, Demosthenes answered, “The Great K-King serves me, Alexandros. His g-g-gold helps me to fight your f-father.”
“Politics,” Alexandros spat.
“What do you know of politics, princeling?” Demosthenes shot back. Suddenly his nervous stuttering was gone, vanished in the heat of anger. “You play at war and think that conquest is everything. What do you know about ruling people, about getting free men to follow where you lead?”
“I will rule when my father dies,” said Alexandros. “And I will conquer all the world.”
“Yes, I see. You were born to be a ruler of slaves, like your tyrant father before you. All you have known all your life has been luxury and pleasure—”
“Luxury and pleasure?” Alexandros’ voice nearly broke. “I was raised like a Spartan helot. I can run twenty miles and live for weeks on roots and berries. My body is trained and hard, not a soft slug of a worm like you.”
“But all your life you have known you would be king one day. You have never doubted it. You have never had to wonder where your next meal would come from, or if you would have a roof over your head.”
“I’ve spent more nights in the open air than with a roof over my head.”
“What of it?” Demosthenes challenged. “I was born in poverty. All my life the only safety I have had has been from my wits. I have worked all my life, since earliest childhood. No one gave me a place at the table; I had to struggle to get where I am. No one named me prince and assured my future. I had to earn my position as a leader of Athens. And even today, even at this moment, my position can be taken from me. I have no security, no father to protect me, no wealth to shelter me from hunger and cold.”
“By the gods,” Alexandros almost whispered. “You’re jealous of me!”
“Jealous? Me? Never! Never!”
I kept one eye on the Hindi. He was not armed, and he made no move toward the sword on the chest behind him. He seemed to be following the argument with intense interest.
“You envy my position,” Alexandros insisted. “You think that you should be a prince, instead of me.”
“Never!” Demosthenes repeated, so vehemently that I thought Alexandros had touched the most sensitive nerve of all. “I want no princes, no kings, no tyrants to rule over men. I want democracy, where men rule themselves.”
“Where men are swayed by demagogues such as yourself,” Alexandros said. “You want a nation of obedient idiots swept by emotion and your rhetoric. You want followers, slaves to your words.”
“And you want slaves outright!”
“Not so. The king of Macedonia is not a birthright, as you seem to believe, Athenian. The king must be elected—”
“By your army, yes, I know.”
“And our army is all the able-bodied men of the kingdom. How does that differ from your democracy?”
“Because your army will elect the son of the old king, and well you know it!”
“They will elect the son of the old king if they deem him worthy. Soldiers do not willingly elect fools to lead them. But from what I’ve seen of your democracy, anyone can be a leader if he promises enough and has enough fancy words to stir the mob.”
Demosthenes took in a deep, shuddering breath. Eyes squeezed shut, he said in a low voice, “You represent the power of the sword and the privilege of birth. I represent the will of the people. Tomorrow we will shall see which is stronger.”
“If you live to see tomorrow,” said Alexandros.
Demosthenes’ eyes popped open. “I should h-have expected n-n-nothing less from the s-son of Philip. You would kill an unarmed m-man.”
“I would decapitate a poisonous snake.”
“That’s not why we came here,” I reminded Alexandros. “And making a martyr of this man will only make the Athenians fight harder.”
Alexandros glanced at me, then returned his gaze to Demosthenes. “Where will the Athenians be placed in tomorrow’s formation?”
“On the far left,” said the Hindi, before Demosthenes could open his mouth. “The Thebans will be on the right, which will be the stronger side.”
Alexandros blinked at him.
“I will tell you whatever you wish to know, so long as you do not kill this man.”
“Why?”
The Hindi made a sad little smile. “It is my religion. No man should kill another, or allow one to be killed if he can help it.”
“What kind of a religion is that?” Alexandros wondered.
“It is The Eightfold Path. The Way of the Buddha.”
I asked, “Do you know all the dispositions of the troops for tomorrow’s battle?”
“Oh yes.”
“Can we believe that?” Alexandros demanded.
“I am the representative of the Great King,” he replied easily. “My lord Dareios and his advisors will want to know every detail of tomorrow’s battle. I am to carry that information back to them.”
“You’ll give it to Philip and his generals first,” said Alexandros.
“Willingly, if you will spare this man.”
Curious, I asked him, “You will help us to slay thousands tomorrow if we spare this one individual?”
“Tomorrow you will fight and thousands will be slain no matter what I do. I have no control over that. But if I can save the life of this one man, I must do it. That is the Way.”
I turned to Demosthenes. “Can we trust you to remain silent while we take this man to our camp?”
He glanced at Alexandros, still brandishing his sword, then nodded.
“You may trust this demagogue, Orion,” said Alexandros, “but I don’t.”