CHAPTER IV
THE VOICE OF DEMOSTHENES
In the Theatre of Dionysus the citizens of Athens were gathering forthe purpose of deciding whether to break their treaty with Macedon andby one stroke revenge upon Alexander the wrongs and humiliations thathis father had made them suffer. Ariston walked through the spaciousAgora, surrounded by colonnades and embellished by the statues ofheroes and the Gods. The shopkeepers and merchants were closing theirplaces of business and joining in the human tide that was setting allin the same direction.
Everywhere Ariston heard repeated the assertion that Alexander wasdead. The news was announced in tones of joy, and invariably it wasaccompanied by an expression of desire for war while the enemy wasstill unprepared. There seemed to be only one opinion among thepeople. It was manifested in the clamor of gay and careless confusionthat betrayed the nervous tension of the throng.
Ariston's face became more thoughtful as he proceeded. He had no doubtof what the Assembly would do if unchecked, and he foresaw the downfallof his plans. A declaration of war with Macedon would be fatal.Whatever the issue of such a conflict might be, it would certainlydelay Alexander's invasion of Persia and keep Clearchus at home. Hemust be rid of Clearchus at all hazards, and without violence.
Moreover, he knew that the report of Alexander's death was false. Itwas impossible that any person in Athens should have been able toobtain information later than that which had been brought to him. Hefelt assured that the young king was fighting his way out of Illyria,with every prospect of escape, and that the report of his death hadbeen started by Demosthenes as a stratagem to dispose the minds of thepeople to war. By preventing the success of this plan, he reflected,he would not only be serving his own ends, but also performing a publicservice. Such a coincidence had happened rarely enough in his career.
But he knew it would be useless to attempt any contradiction of thereport at that moment. He was too thoroughly acquainted with thecharacteristics of his countrymen to think of it. They wished tobelieve and they would not allow that wish to be thwarted. He mustwatch and wait.
Pushing through the chattering crowd, he entered the Theatre. Beforehim, in a great semicircle, hewn partly out of the solid rock of thesoutheastern pitch of the Acropolis, he saw row on row and tier abovetier of his fellow-citizens,--the brilliant, unstable, cowardly,heroic, passionate, generous, cruel democracy of Athens. Above themtowered the crag which they had crowned with triumphs of art andarchitecture beyond the power of the world to equal, guarded by thewonderful Athene, whose creator they had sent to die in prison. On theleft the great temple of Olympian Zeus raised its massive flutedcolumns. In the Theatre where they sat their fathers had hissed orapplauded the masterpieces of tragedy and comedy. The babel of talkand of light-hearted laughter, the shifting of many-hued garments underthe intense blue arch of the sky, reminded Ariston of the fickle sunlitwaves of the AEgean.
The cloud that for years had overshadowed Athens had been removed.Philip, the tenacious, subtle, resourceful monarch of barbarousMacedon, had fallen under the dagger of Pausanias, who had doubtlessbeen inspired by the Gods to punish him for his crimes against theAthenians. Little by little, with a purpose that never swerved, he hadmade himself master of their fairest possessions. Time and again theyhad sought to shake him off with brief outbursts of restless fury; buthe held what he had won, and in the lull that followed the storm he hadnever failed to creep nearer to their citadel. His advance seemed tothem as inevitable as fate.
Now he was gone, resigning his power and his ambitions to his son,Alexander, a boy of twenty years, whom all Athens knew as a foolish andrash youth. After laying claim to the honors that his father hadforced the states of Hellas to bestow upon him, he had marched into theunknown wilderness of the north with his army and there had perished.His fate had been told only in rumors at first, but had not Demosthenestalked with a fugitive from the Macedonian camp, who had seen him fallbeneath a stone? Every Athenian felt that the time had come to placethe name of his city once more at the head of the civilized world.Already the Thebans, aided by their subsidies, had risen against thebarbarian garrison and had shut the Macedonians in the Cadmea. Thereverses of the past had been forgotten and the lively imaginations ofthe Athenians had carried them halfway to the goal of their hopes.
Ariston gazed about him at the shifting throng as though in search ofsome one. The priests of Ceres, Athene, and Zeus stood talking ingroups with the officials of the city, or had already taken theirplaces in the cushioned marble arm-chairs, with curved backs, thatformed the first row of seats. Presently the old man caught sight ofClearchus, and his friends, Chares and Leonidas. With them sat a youngman of singular appearance whom Ariston did not recognize. He wore asplendid mantle of purple, embroidered with gold, a profusion of ringsflashed upon his fingers, and the odor of costly perfumes hung abouthim like a cloud. It seemed as though he sought in his costume to makeup for the deficiencies of nature, for in figure he was short andstout, with legs and arms of disproportionate slenderness, and hisnarrow eyes were set beneath a square forehead from the top of whichthe hair had been shaved.
"Greeting, uncle," Clearchus said cordially, as the old man forced hisway toward them.
Ariston sat down on the broad marble step in the space that Clearchusmade for him. He found himself between his nephew and the stranger.
"This is Aristotle of Stagira, but more recently of Pella," Clearchussaid. "He can talk to you by the hour, if he chooses, about Alexander,whom you so much admire."
"Is he really dead, as they say he is?" Ariston asked doubtfully.
"I do not know," lisped Aristotle. "It is his habit always to exposehimself in battle."
"Can he make himself master of Hellas?" Ariston asked again.
"Only the Gods can answer that," Aristotle replied. "It is safe to saythat what human ambition can accomplish, he will do. He was my pupil,and there are those who maintain that he knows more than his master!"
Although the philosopher spoke with a smile, there was a trace of ironyin his tone that did not escape the alert Athenian.
"You hear that?" he cried, turning to Clearchus. "Here is a boy whobegins by conquering his instructor. Where will he end?"
"They say he has ended already, up there among the savages," Charessaid lazily.
"I'll lay you a box of Assyrian ointment that Alexander is stillalive," Aristotle said.
"It's a wager," the Theban cried. "And the box shall be of gold."
"There goes Callicles. Hi, there, old Twenty Per Cent!" cried a youthwho was sitting in front of them.
"By the Styx, I wish I had what I owe him!" Chares remarked fervently.
A young man with oiled and curled ringlets, wearing a long silken robe,and carrying a cane inlaid with mother-of-pearl, pushed toward them,followed by a slave laden with cushions for him to sit upon.
"Do you know what Phocus has done now?" he asked in an affected voice.
"No," said Chares, coldly.
"He happened to go to the Lyceum the other day, and he overheardTheodorus, the atheist, say that if it was praiseworthy to ransom afriend from the enemy, it would also be commendable to rescue asweetheart from bondage. What does he do but buy Tryphonia her freedomfrom old Mnemon. He vows that he will marry her."
Having imparted this bit of gossip, the youth lounged away to repeat it.
"Who is that young man with the red chiton?" Leonidas asked.
"He is Ctesippus, son of Chabrias," Clearchus replied. "He has spenttwenty thousand talents of gold since his father died--he and Phocustogether. He thinks he knows more about war than his father knew. Hedrives poor Phocion almost distracted with his advice whenever there isa campaign; and Phocion endures it because he is his father's son."
Throughout the Theatre rose the hum of gossip and malicious small talk.Chares listened with indolent contempt. Leonidas studied the faces ofthe men who had won distinction in war, such as Diopethes, Menestheus,and Leosthenes, whom C
learchus pointed out to him. Aristotle continuedto lisp to Ariston concerning Macedon. The attention of the crowd wasdiverted by the arrival of the Lexiarchs with their scarlet cords.Stretching them across the narrow streets, they had been driving thestragglers into the Assembly like sheep. The laggard whose garmentsshowed a trace of the dye with which the cords were covered was forcedto pay a fine.
"Look; there's Phaon with the red stripe on his back!" Chares cried,standing up to get a better view.
A roar of laughter greeted the victim as he entered and his name wasrepeated from all sides.
"Were you asleep, Phaon? Did your wife keep you at home? You shoulddrink less wine in the morning!" shouted his acquaintances.
Another unfortunate came to divert attention from Phaon, and stillothers, until all the citizens were accounted for. The tumult wassucceeded by a hush as the white-robed priests solemnly advanced intothe open space in the middle of the semicircle, carrying a bleatinglamb. After an invocation to Athene, they cut the animal's throatbefore the altar and sprinkled its blood in every direction upon thepavement. The oldest of the priests then stood forth, raised hishands, and looking upward, cried the accustomed formula:--
"May the Gods pursue to destruction, with all his race, that man whoshall act, speak, or plot anything against this State!"
The priests then slowly withdrew, and a herald mounted the bema toannounce, on behalf of the Proedri, the occasion of the Assembly. Hedeclared the question to be whether the treaty with Macedon should bemaintained or set aside, and he added that the Senate of the Areopagushad referred the matter to the decision of the people withoutexpressing its opinion.
He was followed by a second herald, representing the Epistate, who,with a loud voice, called upon any citizen above the age of fifty yearsto speak his mind, others to follow in accordance with their ages. Ashe ceased and descended, all eyes were turned toward a portion of theTheatre where sat a gray-haired man, with shoulders slightly stooped, asloping forehead, and a retreating chin, partly hidden by aclose-cropped beard.
"Demosthenes! Demosthenes!" came from every part of the horseshoe.
The man to whom Athens turned in this crisis of her affairs sat unmovedand apparently oblivious to the demand of the crowd. Accustomed asthey were to the oratorical combats of the Theatre, the citizensunderstood that Demosthenes had determined to reserve to himself theadvantage of speaking last. They turned, therefore, to his chiefopponent and called upon AEschines.
With an affectation of carelessness, AEschines ascended the bema andplunged at once into his argument, like a man who speaks what firstoccurs to his mind. The burden of his contention was that Athens wasbound by her oath to observe her treaty with Macedon. To break it, hedeclared, would be to sink to the depth of dishonor and to make thename of the city a byword throughout the world. As he elaborated pointafter point in his reasoning, all tending to confirm and enforce hisconclusions, it was plain that he was making an impression in spite ofthe fact that all who heard him knew that he had been in Philip's pay.He painted in dark colors the cost and danger of the war that wouldfollow the violation of the treaty and closed with a florid appeal forconstancy and forbearance, which he called the first of virtues.
He was succeeded by the dandy, Demades, whose robes of embroideredlinen trailed upon the ground, but who sustained the argument againstwar with sledge-hammer blows of rhetoric. Glaucippus, Eubulus,Aristophon, and other orators, less famous, sat nodding their headsamong their pupils and admirers, who clustered about them criticisingor commending each period that fell from the lips of the speakers.
Watching the effect of the speeches, the partisans of Demosthenes,fearful that it might be disastrous to permit his opponents to hold theattention of the people any longer, renewed their shouts for him. TheAssembly joined them. It had heard enough of the peace party, and itwas eager to know how Demosthenes would answer.
There had been hardly any cessation of the talk and laughter. Manypersons even moved about through the audience, chatting with theirfriends, and the Scythians, whose duty it was to maintain order, didnot venture to interfere with them. Everywhere there was talk of theadvantages of peace. The fever for war had cooled before the logic oforatory. Ariston, keenly attentive to all that was passing, was amongthose who left his place and wandered about the amphitheatre, pausinghere and there to exchange a few words with an acquaintance. Behindhim, like a ripple on the surface of a lake, there spread through thecrowd the news that the story of Alexander's death was a falsehoodcontrived by the friends of Macedon to entrap the republic into war.
Before the old man had returned to his seat, the contradiction hadreached Demosthenes, elaborated into every semblance of truth. He sawthat it was believed and that he had been robbed of the main theme ofhis speech; for he could not prove that Alexander was dead. Inresponse to the cries of the multitude, he rose, and there was nopretence in the reluctance with which he walked with head bent towardthe benia, considering what he should say. As he ascended, theshouting died away, and for the first time there was absolute stillnessin the Theatre.
"Athenians!" he began, in a voice of moderate pitch, but of a resonanttone that carried it to all parts of the circle, "by all means weshould agree with those who so strenuously advise an exact adherence toour oaths and treaties--if they really believe what they say. Fornothing is more in accord with the character of democracy than themaintenance of justice and honesty. But let not the men who urge us tobe honest, embarrass us and our deliberations by harangues which theirown actions contradict."
Ariston glanced about him with alarm, which was intensified as theorator, with consummate skill, built up the argument that, having boundhimself by the treaty to maintain the liberties of Greece, Alexanderhad violated his oath by reinstating the tyrants of Messene and bydisregarding other specific clauses. Artfully exaggerating theMacedonian aggressiveness, recalling by flattering allusions the greatdays of Athens, raising the hope of victory if war should be declared,Demosthenes presented the situation to the Assembly in such a light asto make it seem that Athens not only had a right to take up armsagainst Macedon, but that it was her plain duty to begin the attack.This impression grew out of his words without apparent effort to conveyit. There was nothing in his speech to indicate that he was a specialpleader presenting only one side of the case. He seemed thepersonification of candor and fairness. As his voice and gesturesbecame more animated, and the flood of his marvellous eloquence sweptover them, it appeared to his fellow-citizens that the men who hadgiven expression to the desire for peace must be charlatans or worse,who had been bribed by Macedonian gold, as in fact many of them hadbeen, to betray them into the hands of the enemy. In words that nonebut he knew how to choose, he raised the spectre that had been laid bythe death of Philip and made it more threatening than it had ever beenbefore.
Under the magic spell of his voice old thoughts and feelings stirredand woke in the hearts of the Athenians. For an hour they became oncemore the men of Plataea and Salamis and of the hundred bloody fieldsupon which they had measured their strength with that of their ancientfoes from the Peloponnesus. Their former greatness of soul flamed uplike a flash from a dying fire.
While Demosthenes spoke, not a word was uttered in the group aroundClearchus. The young man sat with flushed cheeks and shining eyes,tingling with a desire to sacrifice life itself, if need there were, torevenge the wrongs of Athens and crush the insolent Macedonian.Leonidas listened with hands clenched and with every nerve at tension,like a hound of pure race straining at his leash toward the quarry.Aristotle was gravely attentive, and even Chares, though he could notbe aroused from his lazy pose, followed the oration with evidentenjoyment.
When Demosthenes ended and came down from the bema, the Assembly drew along breath, and instantly each man fell to discussing with hisneighbor what was best to be decided. Suddenly they realized withastonishment that Demosthenes had failed to propose any decree and thatthey had nothing before them upon which they might
vote.
"I thought he was going to tell us how Alexander died!" Demades sneered.
"What has become of his witness of whom we have heard so much?" aleather-dealer asked.
"He is afraid to propose war! He has offered no decree!" anothercitizen cried.
These questions and a hundred others were discussed on every side witha violence that swept away all semblance of dignity or restraint. Thefactions quarrelled like children, and more than once came to blows intheir eagerness, making it necessary for the Scythians of the publicguard to separate them. At last the herald of the Epistate demanded indue form whether the Assembly desired any decree to be proposed. Farless than the required number of six thousand hands were raised in theaffirmative, and the gathering was dissolved, eddying out of theenclosure in turbulent disorder.
"Is that all?" asked Chares, rising and stretching himself with a yawn.
"That is all," Clearchus replied sadly.
"With a phalanx of ten thousand brave men I could take your Acropolis,"Leonidas remarked, measuring the height above his head.
"Yes, but where could you find them?" Aristotle said.
"Who knows? Perhaps in the camp of Alexander," the Spartan replied.
Ariston had slipped away into the crowd.