“Ambassador Svertaketu, barbarian Orion, follow me.”
He did not look like a Persian; his skin was more olive-toned and he was much bigger than the bejewelled dainty men I had seen at Dareios’ court. In fact, he was the biggest I had seen in Parsa, nearly my own height and size. And a squad of six other equally big soldiers fell into step behind us as he led us out of the audience hall into the bright warm sunshine of the early afternoon.
“Where are you taking us?” Ketu asked.
“To where I have been commanded to bring you,” said the soldier. His voice was deep, almost a growl.
“And where might that be?” Ketu probed.
“To see one of the Great King’s slaves, in the palace. A Greek slave.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
He turned a level, cool-eyed gaze at me. “What difference does that make?”
“You don’t look like a Persian. Your accent is different from the others we have spoken to.”
He thought about that as we walked out into the sunshine and across the flagstone square between the audience hall and the palace proper.
“I am from Media, from the high hills where the old worshippers still tend their sacred fires. My people, the Medes, conquered Babylon and created this great empire.”
His voice was flat, his tone unemotional. Yet I felt there was a world of scorn and bitterness behind his words.
“You are descended, then, from Cyrus the Great?” Ketu asked. It was more a statement than a question. Cyrus had founded the Persian Empire ages ago.
“From Cyrus, yes. Though today the Medes are hardly more than one tribe among the many that compose the empire, still we serve the Great King whose power has come from Cyrus’ mighty army. We serve, and we remember.”
Another sign of unhappiness in the empire. Another man with an unsettled grievance. It began to look to me as if the vast empire of the Great King were rotting from the inside. Perhaps Alexandros could conquer it after all.
But all such thoughts flew out of my head when I saw the “Greek slave” to whom the Median soldier had been commanded to bring us.
Demosthenes.
“Don’t look so surprised, Orion,” he said to me, sitting at his ease in a cushioned chair in a luxurious palace apartment. A slave woman knelt in the far corner of the room. The table in the room’s center was decked with a huge bowl of fruit and a silver decanter of wine chilled so well that its curved surface was beaded with water droplets. Demosthenes wore a long woolen robe of deep blue. He seemed to have recovered his aplomb since the last time I had seen him, or perhaps it was simply that he was not facing the fierce hatred of Alexandros. Still, he had grayed, and his eyes squinted beneath their bushy brows.
“You knew I was receiving the Great King’s gold,” Demosthenes said, leaning back in his chair.
“I did not know that you were his… servant.”
“I serve Athens,” he snapped. “And democracy.”
“The Great King supports democracy?”
Demosthenes smiled uneasily. “The Great King supports anyone who can help him defeat Philip.”
“Have you been exiled, then?” Ketu asked.
His smile turned grim. “Not yet. But Philip’s friends are working hard to have the Assembly ostracize me. That’s his way: show the open hand of peace and friendship while he gets his lackeys to stab you in the back.”
“Why have you sent for us?” asked Ketu.
As if he suddenly realized that he was being less than polite, Demosthenes indicated the other chairs with his out-swept hand. “Sit. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Slave! Bring cups for my guests.”
Ketu sat. I walked over to the window and looked down. A lovely courtyard garden was being tended by ragged dark-skinned slaves. Through the open doorway I saw the Median soldier and his squad lounging out in the corridor.
“Why have you summoned us?” I repeated Ketu’s question.
“I am now an advisor to the Great King. You might say that I have his ear. He has asked for my opinion of Philip’s offer. I want to hear what it is for myself, from the lips of the Great King’s ambassador.”