Free and independent poleis had been the ideal for as long as Hellenes could remember—for a few hundred years, in other words. They’d beaten back the invading Persians, and they’d also fought ferociously among themselves. Philip of Macedon, Alexander, and the generals who battled furiously over Alexander’s empire had subjected most of them. Rhodes remained, still free, still independent, still democratic, preserved in time like that bug in amber.
For the moment, anyhow. “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Sostratos said. “I pray it doesn’t.”
“So do I. So does everyone. But it may,” his father said.
Menedemos and his father walked toward the agora to hear what Demetrios had to say to Rhodes. The day was raw, and on the chilly side. Philodemos hadn’t gone out on a trading run in a double handful of years. Even so, like Menedemos he made do with just a tunic, no cloak, and went barefoot down the muddy street. He’d been a sailor; in his mind, at least, he still was.
They waved to men they knew. Every Rhodian citizen—every property-owning native son, in other words—who could get out of bed was on his way to the marketplace. Most of them looked as worried as Menedemos felt. Even if they hadn’t met Demetrios and seen him in action, as Menedemos had, they knew of him by reputation.
Thinking along with him, his father said, “I don’t suppose the city’s ever faced worse danger.”
“I hope it will be all right,” Menedemos said. “He’s … more easygoing than his father, and takes his pleasures where he finds them.”
“Yes, you’d think well of all that, wouldn’t you?” Philodemos said. Menedemos bit down on the inside of his lower lip till he tasted blood. That let him swallow a sharp retort instead of coming out with it. His father’s gibe stung all the more because it held some truth. Philodemos added, “And my stake in this is greater than yours. Baukis will have her baby later this year, remember. What kind of place for a woman with child is a city under siege? And if it falls … Oimoi!” He clapped a hand to his forehead.
“Avert the evil omen!” Menedemos said, and spat—red—into the bosom of his tunic to help do that. Grunting in something as close to approval as he was likely to give his son, Philodemos imitated the gesture.
But Menedemos went right on gnawing at the inside of his lip. Yes, Baukis was pregnant. Menedemos had no idea whether he’d started the baby when his father’s new wife was coming home after a religious festival or whether it was Philodemos’ seed sprouting inside her. Philodemos had no idea how Menedemos felt about his stepmother … and how she felt about him. It made life under the same roof with them harder than he’d dreamt anything could be.
“Look!” he said suddenly, pointing ahead. “There’s Sostratos.” More than a palm taller than most men, his cousin stood out in crowds. Relieved at finding something safe to talk about, he hurried on: “Uncle Lysistratos will be with him. Shall we catch them up?”
“Let’s.” His father quickened his pace. For a man in his fifties, he was in good trim. His teeth hadn’t troubled him much, and he still exercised in the gymnasion. Lately, in fact, he’d been practicing with spear and sword and shield, as Menedemos had. Menedemos needed to step lively to stay up with him.
Sostratos was looking this way and that, as he usually did. Sometimes he tripped over his own feet on account of it. Now he spotted Menedemos and his father. He waved, then turned back and spoke to Lysistratos. They slowed to let their kinsmen join them.
“Hail!” all four men said at the same time. Menedemos laughed. Laughing at anything felt good.
They’d run most of the merchants and traders out of the agora. Affairs of the city would cost them a day’s business. That was their hard luck. A few sellers did work their way through the incoming citizens with trays of cheap wine in cheaper little cups, of grilled squid on wooden skewers, of dough wrapped around cheese and fried in olive oil.
It was as noisy as a usual day at the marketplace, but the timbre was different. No one shouted, no one chuckled. No women’s voices lightened things, either. Well-to-do women stayed home and sent slaves to shop for them, but the poorer ones had to go out for themselves. Menedemos missed their leavening, though he didn’t say so for fear of another sharp comeback from his father.
Someone had run up a small platform near the northern edge of the agora, from which Demetrios would speak. Like Sostratos, he was tall enough that people would have been able to see him anyway. Still, the platform was a nice touch. Menedemos and his kinsfolk worked their way towards it. So did everyone else, of course. As men squeezed closer together, a few elbows found ribs and a few toes got stepped on. Menedemos tried to give better than he got.
“Hail, Philodemos! Hail, Lysistratos!” The plump, gray-haired man’s well-trained voice showed he’d done his share of public speaking and more.
“Hail, Xanthos,” Menedemos’ father said with less enthusiasm than he might have shown for other acquaintances. Uncle Lysistratos just dipped his head in a bare minimum of politeness. Xanthos liked to hear himself talk … and talk … and talk.
He paid no attention to Menedemos or Sostratos. He looked down his nose at the younger generation when he noticed them at all. But he regaled their fathers with a preview of everything Demetrios would say—everything he thought Demetrios would say, anyhow. To Menedemos, he sounded more like a Rhodian man of business than a Macedonian warlord, but that didn’t stop him. It didn’t even slow him down.
Someone clambered up onto the platform: not Demetrios but a man named Komanos, one of the most prominent people in the city. He called for quiet, then called for it again. When he didn’t get it, he gestured to two men behind the platform. The trumpeters blew a loud, discordant blast that startled everyone.
This time, the assembled citizens paid attention when Komanos asked them to settle down. “Thank you, O men of Rhodes!” Komanos said. Menedemos eyed Sostratos, wondering if his cousin would explain how O andres Rhodioi was modeled after Athens’ O andres Athenaioi, as he did at about every other Assembly. Sostratos pined for Athens the way most young men pined for a gorgeous hetaira they couldn’t begin to afford.
But Sostratos, like the other men in the agora, really was giving Komanos his attention. He could see the civic leader better than Menedemos could; Menedemos was a digit or two under average height. At least I make the most of what I’ve got, Menedemos thought.
“O men of Rhodes, our polis has been free and independent since it was built, almost a hundred years ago,” Komanos said. “The three towns here before, Ialysos, Lindos, and Kamiros, were likewise free and independent poleis.” Demetrios won’t like that went through Menedemos’ mind as Komanos continued, “We are gathered here now to decide whether the day of the free and independent polis is past in Hellas, whether all small states must seek the protection of one strong neighbor lest another strong neighbor destroy them altogether. Here to put to us terms for a possible alliance with himself and his illustrious father is the general and admiral, Demetrios son of Antigonos. I know we’ll hear him with the serious attention his proposal deserves.”
By the gods, don’t start throwing cabbages or rocks at him! That was what Komanos had to mean. By the way one of Sostratos’ eyebrows jumped toward his hairline, he was thinking the same thing.
Up onto the platform stepped Demetrios. Where Komanos had scrambled, he was big enough simply to step, and that despite the weight of greaves and a corselet polished till their bronze shone almost like gold. His face was handsome and ruddy, his hair halfway toward the blond sometimes found among Macedonians and more often in their barbarous neighbors to the north and west.