Orion and the Conqueror Page 18

  I had to admit that he was right. Another blow to my progress along the Eightfold Path.

  Three days after we had arrived in Parsa, we were called to the great audience chamber of the hundred pillars. Ketu wore his best and most colorful robe, a striking pattern of bright red against lemon yellow. I had polished my bronze breastplate until it glowed like the sun. No weapons were allowed in the presence of the Great King, although I wore my dagger beneath the skirt of my chiton almost without thinking of it, it had become such a part of me.

  There was enormous formality to an audience with the Great King. All morning one of the king's masters of protocol, an elderly man with shaking, palsied hands, instructed us on how we were to prostrate ourselves before the throne, how we were not to look directly at the Great King, what forms of address we were to use. Actually, I was to use no form of address at all; Ketu was to do all the talking.

  We were marched to the great audience hall by a full squad of soldiers, gleaming with gold and silver. At the enormous double doors, four times higher than my head, heralds announced us, an honor guard in golden armor formed up ahead and behind us, and we paraded through that forest of obsidian pillars toward the distant throne. A throng of noblemen stood watching, their robes resplendent, pearls and jewels gleaming from necklaces and earrings and bracelets. Most of them wore rings on every finger of both hands, even their thumbs.

  As we walked the endless distance toward the throne, I saw that it was of carved ivory in the form of a peacock, with jewels in its tail glinting in the sunshine from the great skylight above it. The man sitting on it seemed small and slight against that magnificent throne. His robe was heavy with gold thread, jewels bedecked him, and he wore a massive crown of gold and still more glittering gems. His black beard was curled and oiled. His slippered feet rested on a special stool, since the Persians believed their king's feet must never touch the ground.

  Once we reached the foot of the throne the chief herald, standing to one side of the dais, spoke our names aloud once again. On that cue, we laid ourselves face down before the Great King. It rankled me to abase myself, but I reasoned that when in Parsa one does as the Persians do. I smelled great decadence here; all these jewels and formalities and shows of pomp spoke of the trappings of power rather than power itself. Philip's court, in contrast, was about as formal as a group of friends meeting to discuss the price of horses at the marketplace.

  "The Great King Dareios Codomannus, lord of all the world from the rising to the setting of the sun, conqueror of . . ."

  It took the chief herald several minutes to speak all the titles and honorifics of the Great King. His voice was powerful, and he gave each title a dramatic intonation. At length he said to us grandly, "You may rise and gaze on his magnificence."

  Of course we had been instructed specifically not to look directly at the Great King. I clambered to my feet and gazed slightly off to his left, close enough to see him clearly.

  Dareios III appeared much younger than Philip, although that might have been because he had led a much more comfortable life. His beard was so black that I thought it might have been dyed; it was curled and oiled like a woman's locks. His face seemed to be powdered; it was noticeably whiter than any of the other Persians I had seen. Sitting on his massive throne of ivory and inlaid teak he looked somewhat small, as if the throne had originally been designed for a much larger man. His robes were so stiff and heavy that it was impossible for me to tell much about the body beneath them. But I would not have been surprised if Dareios were soft and pot-bellied. The jeweled crown he wore must have been much heavier than a battle helmet.

  No queen sat beside him. There was not a woman in the entire vast audience hall. Off to his left, however, sat a dozen older men, some of them in soldier's uniforms, others in robes: the king's advisors and generals, I surmised.

  Dareios leaned slightly toward the chief herald and spoke in a near-whisper, "Ask my ambassador for his report."

  The herald called out in his clarion voice, "Your report, ambassador of the Great King."

  I understood their language as easily as I understood the tongue of Philip and Demosthenes. Why did the Great King tell his herald to ask for Ketu's report? Ketu spoke their language fluently. Then I realized that the Great King was considered too lofty to speak directly to his ambassador, or—horror of horrors—to have the ambassador speak directly to him. The chief herald was the go-between.

  Bowing low, Ketu told the herald of Philip's desire for peace, and his demand that the Greek islands and the cities of Ionia be granted their freedom. He phrased it all very diplomatically, using words such as "dearest wish" and "friendly request" instead of "offer" and "demand." The chief herald relayed to Dareios exactly what Ketu had said, almost word for word, as if the king were deaf or his ears not attuned to hearing voices from the foot of his throne.

  "Tell the ambassador that we thank him, and will in due time prepare a fitting answer for him to bring back to the Macedonian."

  "The Great King, munificent and all-glorious, thanks his servant the ambassador and will, in due time, present him with his gracious and sagacious command to the Macedonian royal house."

  I almost broke into a laugh at that word, "command," thinking how Philip would react to it.

  The king mumbled something more to the herald, who turned to me and announced, "The Great King, ruler of the earth and leader triumphant of battle, demands to know the name and origin of the barbarian presented with the ambassador."

  I was startled. He was referring to me. With only a moment's hesitation, I said to the herald, "I am called Orion, in the service of Philip, king of Macedonia."

  Apparently my size had impressed the Great King, which may have been the real reason Ketu brought me with him to this audience. The Persians were not small men, but few of them had my height or the width of shoulder that I have. The king and chief herald buzzed briefly, then I was asked:

  "Are you a Macedonian?"

  "No," I said, unable to hide my grin, "I am from one of the tribes conquered by the Macedonians."

  The Great King's eyes widened. I laughed inwardly at his brief loss of self-control, hoping that he truly realized that Philip's army was not afraid of size.

  Inadvertently I looked directly at Dareios. Our eyes met momentarily, then he looked quickly away, blushing. And I knew in that instant that the man was a coward. We were instructed not to look directly at him, not because it would rouse his imperial wrath, but because he did not have the courage to look at men eye to eye.

  The chief herald dismissed us. Bowing, we backed away from the throne for the prescribed distance, then were allowed to turn our backs and walk like men from the hall.

  But we did not get far. At the great doors a Persian soldier stepped before us.

  "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 bejeweled 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 B
abylon 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."

  "You don't need me for that," I said.

  "No, there's something else that I want you for," said Demosthenes.

  "What is it?"

  "The ambassador first."

  The slave brought us cups and poured the wine. It was I cold and biting, yet warmed my innards as I drank of it. Ketu repeated Philip's offer and demands practically word-for-word.

  "Much as I expected," Demosthenes muttered when the ambassador was finished, blinking nervously.

  "What will be your advice to the Great King?" asked Ketu.

  "That is for me to tell Dareios, not you," he answered, with some of his old haughtiness. "You will learn of his decision when he is ready to give it."

  I thought I knew what Demosthenes would say to Dareios: refuse to surrender the cities and the islands, but make no warlike step against Philip. Demosthenes wanted to get Philip to start the war, so that he could tell the Athenians and anyone else who would listen that the barbarian king of Macedonia wanted to drown all the world in blood.

  He looked at me as if he could read my thoughts. "You don't like me, do you, Orion?"

  "I serve Philip," I replied.

  "You think me a traitor to Athens? To all the Greeks?"

  "I think that, no matter what you tell yourself, you serve the Great King."

  "Yes! I do!" He pushed himself out of his chair to face me on his feet. "I would serve the Furies and Chaos itself if it would help Athens!"

  "But you said that Athens no longer listens to your voice, no longer wants your service."

  "That doesn't matter. The danger of a democracy is that the people will be misled, will be tricked into following the wrong road."

  "I see. Democracy works fine as long as the people do what you want them to. If they vote otherwise, it is a mistake."

  "Most people are fools," said Demosthenes. "They need leaders. They need to be told what to do."

  "And that is democracy?" I asked.

  "Bah! No matter what the people think they want, I serve Athens and the cause of democracy! I will use the Great King, the Spartans, the fish of the sea and the fowl of the air if it helps me to fight Philip and his bastard son."

  It was my turn to smile. "You had your chance to fight them at Chaeroneia."

  The barb did not bother him in the slightest. "I'm a politician, Orion, not a warrior. I discovered that at Chaeroneia, true enough. Now I fight in the way I know best. And I will beat Philip yet."

  "I am a warrior, not a politician," I replied. "But let me ask you this question: would Athens and its democracy be safer under the Great King's authority, or under Philip?"

  He laughed. "Yes, you're no politician at all, are you? You see things in black and white too much."

  "So?"

  "The Great King will leave Athens and the other cities of Greece alone, leave them free, if the threat of Philip can be eliminated. He wants the Ionian cities to remain in his empire. I am willing to let him have them in return for Athens' freedom."

  Ketu spoke up. "That is the nature of politics: you give something to get something else. Give and take—favors, gifts, alliances . . . even cities."

  "Aristotle told me," I said, "that the Persian Empire will inevitably engulf all of Greece. Athens will become a vassal of the Great King, just as Ephesos and the other Ionian cities are."

  Demosthenes frowned. "Aristotle is a Macedonian."

  "No—" objected Ketu.

  "Stagyrite," said Demosthenes. "They've been part of Macedon long enough."

  "But what of Aristotle's prediction?" I asked. "If he's correct, by helping the Great King you are slowly strangling the democracy you cherish so much."

  Demosthenes paced the length of the room, all the way to the window and back to me, before answering. "Orion, I have a choice between Philip and the Persians. Philip is at Athens' gates; the Great King is many months' journey away. Philip will swallow us up in a gulp, like a wolf—"

  "But he has left Athens alone," Ketu pointed out. "He has not occupied the city with his soldiers nor demanded any political power in the city's government."

  "Of course not. What he does is to place his friends in power, Athenians whom he has bought with gold and silver. He uses our democracy to serve his own ends."

  "But he leaves your democracy untouched," I said. "Would the Great King allow that, if he were in Philip's place?"

  "But he's not."

  "He will be, sooner or later, if we can believe Aristotle."

  Demosthenes threw up his hands. "Bah! This is getting us nowhere." He turned to Ketu. "Ambassador Svertaketu, I will ponder the terms you bring from Philip and make my recommendation to the Great King. You may go."

  I took a step toward the door.

  "Not you, Orion," said Demosthenes. "I have further words for you."

  Ketu glanced at me, then made a small bow to Demosthenes and left the room. The soldiers outside snapped to attention and escorted him down the corridor, to his own quarters in the palace, I presumed.

  Clapping his hands sharply enough to make the slave woman jump, Demosthenes said, "You too. Go. Leave us."

  She hurried for the door.

  "And close the doo
r behind you!"

  She did as he commanded.

  "All right, then," I said. "What do you want of me?"

  "Not him, Orion," said a voice from behind me. "I'm the one who has a message for you."

  I turned and saw the Golden One, Aten, the self-styled god who created me. He glowed with energy. Golden hair, flawless face, body as strong and powerful as my own. He wore a magnificent robe of pure white, trimmed in gold. He had not been with us an instant earlier, and there was neither a door nor a window on that side of the room.

  Glancing back at Demosthenes, I saw that he was frozen into immobility, like a statue.

  "Don't worry about him," said the Golden One. "He can neither see nor hear us."

  His smile was wolfish. A shock of recognition raced through me. He looked like an older Alexandros—so much so that he could have been Alexandros' father.

  Chapter 21

  "You recognize me," said Aten, smiling with self-satisfaction.

  "Where is Anya?" I asked.

  "Athena," he corrected. "In this timeplace she is known as Athena."

  "Where is she? Is she here?"

  His smile disappeared instantly. "Anya will be here briefly; near here, at any rate. At a mountain called Ararat. Do you know where that is?"

  "Yes!"

  "She wants to see you there, but she can be there only for a very short time. It's up to you to get there in time to meet with her."

  "When?"

  "As you reckon time, in five weeks. Five weeks from today's sundown. That is when she will appear at the summit of Ararat. Although why she continues to bother about you is beyond me."

  "Can you take me there?"

  He shook his golden head. "Orion, I am your creator, not a delivery service."

  "But, five weeks—Ararat is so far away."

  He shrugged. "It's up to you, Orion. If you want to see her, you will get there on time."

  Sudden anger welled up in me. "What is this, another one of your childish games? Some kind of a test to see if your creature can be made to jump through another hoop?"