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.”