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 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.”