Ben Bova – Orion and the Conqueror. Book 1. Chapter 16, 17, 18

“That was a thousand years ago!”

“It was in an earlier life.”

He grinned nervously. “You’ve been talking to that Hindi, haven’t you? He believes in reincarnation.”

“I have lived many lives. One of them was at Troy. I saw Achilles kill Hector. I saw Achilles take his own life when an arrow wound crippled him.”

Alexandros shook his head like a man trying to rid himself of a bad dream. “Orion, I think you have taken too many blows on your head.”

I knew he believed what I had told him but did not want to admit it, even to himself. So I said merely, “Perhaps so. Perhaps it was all a dream.”

“Certainly it was.”

We fell silent as we marched on to the house of Demosthenes. It was not as grand as Aeschines’ house, where once again we were staying, but it was a large and handsome house with a whole detachment of uniformed city constables standing guard before it. Like Aeschines, Demosthenes was a lawyer. It must have been a profession that paid very well, I thought, judging from their homes.

Demosthenes knew we were coming, of course. His servants bowed us in through the front gate. He received us in the central courtyard, where gnarled fig trees provided shade by day. Now, with night’s shadows creeping across the city, the courtyard was lit by lanterns hung from the trees’ twisting limbs.

He stood as Alexandros and I approached, his eyes going wide at the sight of his shield. Our six-man guard stood out by the house’s front gate, with the constables’ detachment, within shouting range.

“I believe this is yours,” said Alexandros, gesturing me to lay it on the ground at Demosthenes’ feet. The man seemed to have aged ten years in the few days since Chaeroneia. His face was lined, a pallid gray, and his beard was ragged.

He stared down at the shield. It was unscratched. He had never come close enough to the fighting to have it marred.

“Wh-what do you w-w-want of me?” He could not look directly at Alexandros.

“Only to tell you that you have nothing to fear from Philip, King of the Macedonians. Despite all that you have said, despite your personal insults, he has instructed me to tell you that he bears you no ill will and he will not harm you in any way.”

Demosthenes looked up then, his eyes more puzzled than surprised.

“But let me add this, Demosthenes,” said Alexandros. “I, Alexandros, will one day be king of the Macedonians. And on that day you can begin to number the hours left to your miserable, lying, traitorous heart.”

“T-traitorous? Whom have I b-betrayed?”

“The thousands of your fellow Athenians who died at Chaeroneia while you flung your shield and weapons away and ran to save your filthy neck. The brave Sacred Band of the Thebans, who fought to the last man because you, bought by Persian gold, talked them into making war against us. The people of your own city who trusted you to lead them to victory and now bless Philip’s name for his magnanimity.”

Demosthenes was trembling, but he managed to choke out, “So y-you intend to k-k-kill me once you g-gain the throne.”

“You can run to the Great King, your secret master, but it will do you no good. Hide at the ends of the earth and I will find you,” Alexandros snarled.

“My secret master?” Some of the old fire seemed to rekindle in Demosthenes. “I have no m-master except the democracy of Athens!”

“You deny you took money from the Persians?”

“Of course not. I would have t-taken money from the dead souls in Hades if it would have helped to stop Philip.”

“Little good it did you.”

“Athens still stands,” he challenged.

“Your people love Philip now. If you showed yourself on the streets they would no doubt tear you to pieces.”

“Yes. Likely they would. Today. Tomorrow. But in time, perhaps a few weeks, perhaps a few months, they will come back to me.”

Alexandros laughed.

And Demosthenes scowled at him. “You have no idea of how the p-people actually behave, do you? This is a democracy, princeling. Loyalty is not forced. Obedience is not coerced. Where the people are free to make up their own minds, they change their minds often.” As before, the warmer his passion became the less he stuttered.

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