“They say this city is a democracy,” I said, “where all the citizens are equal. Yet they have slaves.”
“Slaves are not citizens, Orion. Nor are women.”
“Then how can it be a democracy if only a portion of the population has political power?”
He countered with another question. “How can the city manage without slaves? Will the looms run by themselves? Will crates carry themselves from place to place? You might as well ask that we give up horses and mules and oxen as give up slaves. They are necessary.”
I fell silent. But once I had gently deposited the crate on the floor of his workroom, Aristotle carried his lesson a step farther.
“You have hit upon a sensitive point, Orion. Democracy is to be preferred over tyranny—the rule of one man—but democracy itself is far from perfect.”
Deciding to play the student, I asked, “In what way?”
There were no chairs in the workroom as yet. Nothing but the crates that the slaves were bringing in. Aristotle peered at one, decided it was not too fragile to sit upon, and planted himself on it. I remained standing.
“When all political decisions are to be made by a vote of the citizens, then the man who can sway the citizens most easily is the man who makes the real decisions. Do you see the sense of that?”
“Yes. A demagogue can control the citizenry.”
“You say ‘demagogue’ with scorn in your voice. The word merely means ‘leader of the people.’ ”
“The Athenians have turned the word into something else, haven’t they?”
He blinked at me. “How do you know so much, when you have no memory?”
“I am learning quickly,” I said.
He did not look entirely satisfied. Still, he went on. “Yes, it’s quite true that orators like Demosthenes can sway the Assembly on tides of passion and rhetoric. It is Demosthenes who has goaded the Athenians into making war against Philip. It is his demagoguery that I must counter.”
“Are you an orator, also?”
He shook his head wearily. “No. Orators can be hired, Orion. They are merely lawyers who work for a fee.”
“Then who does Demosthenes work for?”
The old man gave me a puzzled look. “He has clients, of course. Civil suits, damage claims, inheritances. That is what buys his bread.”
“But who pays him to speak against Philip?”
“No one. At least he claims to do it as a free Athenian citizen.”
“Do you believe that?”
Aristotle stroked his beard. “Now that I think on it, no, I do not.”
“Then who pays him?”
He thought a moment longer, then replied, “Logically, it must be the Persians.”
Aeschines arrived home shortly after sunset, full of apologies for being late and warm greetings for his old friend. He was a smallish man with a pot belly, a red face and bulging frog’s eyes. Apparently he had been a student of Aristotle’s when the philosopher had taught at Plato’s school in the Academy district of the city some years earlier.
“Demades speaks to the Assembly tomorrow,” he told us, as his servants scurried to bring wine and goat cheese. His face went grim. “And then Demosthenes.”
“I must hear them,” said Aristotle.
Aeschines nodded.
Supper was served in a sumptuous room with an intricate tile mosaic for a floor and a meager fire crackling and spitting in the fireplace—just enough to ward off the autumnal night chill. Philip had ordered that Alexandros remain incognito, even to his host, so he and his beardless Companions were introduced merely as young noblemen. Alexandros was such a common name among the Macedonians that there was no need to give the Little King an alias. Most Macedonian nobles had at least a passing knowledge of Attic Greek, especially the younger ones. Philip had seen to that.
Aeschines gave Alexandros a crafty look when Aristotle introduced him, but said nothing more than he said to all the others, including me, when names were exchanged.
The talk around the supper table was all of Demosthenes.
“He is whipping up the people to a war frenzy,” Aeschines told us unhappily. “They go to listen to him as if they were going to the theater, and he gives them a good performance. By the time he’s finished speaking they’re ready to arm themselves and march against Philip.”