I had expected Attica to be somewhat like Macedonia, a wide fertile plain ringed with wooded mountains. But instead the mountains marched right to the edge of the sea, and they were mostly starkly bare rock.
“The Athenians cut down their forests over the generations to make ships for their incessant wars,” Aristotle told me. “Now the country is fit for nothing but bees.”
Alexandros rode up between us. “You can see why the Athenians took to the sea,” he said excitedly. “There isn’t enough farmland here to feed a village, let alone a great city.”
“That’s why they depend on the grain from beyond the Bosporus,” I guessed.
“That’s why they want to hold onto the port towns. We can strangle them by taking all their ports away,” said Alexandros. Suddenly his eyes lit up. “When I make war against the Persians, the first thing I will do is to take all their port cities. That will make their fleet useless!”
And he galloped off to tell his friends of his sudden strategic insight.
Philip’s command was that Alexandros and his Companions—he had brought four of them—should remain incognito while in Athens. They were to be nothing more than part of the guard for the revered teacher and philosopher, Aristotle. I knew it would be difficult to keep these high-born Macedonians from shining through any disguise; especially Alexandros, who wanted to see everything and be everywhere. He would never follow my orders. Any Athenian with half an eye would see that this was the golden-haired son of Philip who was already becoming something of a legend throughout the land.
We entered Athens without fanfare, stopping at the city gates only long enough to tell the guards on duty that this was Aristotle of Stagyra come to visit his old friend Aeschines, the lawyer. As we rode through the narrow, winding, noisy streets I saw the great white cliff of the Acropolis rising before us and, gleaming atop it, splendid marble temples and an immense statue of Athena, the city’s protectress.
My heart leaped in my chest: Of course! This is her city! This is the place where I will find her.
As if he could read my thoughts, Alexandros said to Hephaistion, riding beside him. “We must go up there and see the Parthenon.”
His young friend, tall and lean and dark where Alexandros was short and solid and blond, shook his head. “I don’t think they allow visitors up there. It’s sacred ground.”
“It’s where they keep their treasury,” Ptolemaios said, laughing. “That’s why they don’t allow visitors.”
“But I’m not merely a visitor,” Alexandros snapped. “I am the son of a king.”
“Not on this trip,” said Ptolemaios, like a big brother. “We’re just escorts for the old man.”
Alexandros tried to stare Ptolemaios down, found he could not, then turned to stare at me. I looked the other way. Yes, I said to myself, it’s going to be very difficult to keep him under control.
The house of Aeschines, the lawyer, was more magnificent than Philip’s palace. It was smaller, of course, but not by much. Its portico was all marble, its walls decorated with colorful friezes of nymphs and satyrs. Statues crowded the garden like a marble forest: grave men in solemn robes and nubile young women in various stages of undress.
Aeschines himself was not at home when we arrived, his major domo told Aristotle. He spoke Attic Greek, not the Macedonian dialect, but I could understand him just as well. The lawyer was pleading a case before the Assembly and would probably not return until nightfall. We had several hours to unpack and settle into the spacious guest wing of the house.
“Is it true?” I asked Aristotle as we watched the slaves unload his specimens and cart them off into the room that had been given him for his studies. “Are all Athenians lawyers?”
The old man laughed softly. “No, not all Athenians are lawyers. Some are women. Many are slaves.”
I took an especially heavy crate from a staggering, frail older slave and started off toward the philosopher’s work room with it on my shoulder. Aristotle walked beside me as we entered the house.