Empire of Ashes: A Novel of Alexander the Great (8 page)

That the King died of poison I take as granted. After his second and third marriage, his first wife Rohjane had reason to want him dead, and ample opportunity to make him so. You recall that the Babylonians had a taster sample the water she brought in to him. While it is true that this man did not die after he drank, he did suffer later from acute pains of the abdomen. Whatever caused these pains might not have been fatal to a healthy man, but
 
could easily have been deadly to someone who was already weak with sickness. For as we all know, wise poisoners do not strike out of the blue, but wait for some natural illness to cover their handiwork.

You may judge this woman’s motives and character by what happened the very day Alexander died: Rohjane forged a letter in the King’s name to Barsine, ordering her to attend him in Babylon. This letter reached Susa before news of his death was known there. When Barsine trustingly submitted to the royal escort, which was really a gang of thugs in Rohjane’s employ, she was murdered. Like Rohjane, she was carrying a child of Alexander’s. Please understand that I do not mean to play the partisan in the current dispute over the succession. With regard to her motives, and Machon’s, it need only be said that Rohjane has since delivered a boy, and that the child now figures in this matter in a way he never would had Barsine lived.

Of Alexander himself I will say no more. I have eulogized him enough for the purposes of this prosecution. Suffice it to say that the world will never again see his like, and that he was too soon taken from us. Jealous men say he was flawed, and in that they are surely right, for whatever was divine in him, as in us all, was inevitably mixed with that which makes us mortal.
 
I never said he was perfect—I only said he was a god.

M
achon will surely attempt some sophistic assault on the charges we make against him. He will argue that it is impossible for a mortal man like himself to corrupt a divine being. For the record, I will say that I believe Machon to be a devious weakling who could not, by himself, have destroyed Alexander. My claim, rather, is that he was a corrupting influence who consistently worked to undermine that which was good in the man, and encourage that which was destructive. I remind you that Machon does not stand charged with killing Alexander. Rather, the good people of Athens accuse him of impiety before a god, and of violating his orders to support Alexander in a manner that would bring honor to this city. Athenians, tell me: having heard his story, do you feel yourselves covered with honor?

With all that I have placed in evidence, it is perhaps worth recounting the many ways Machon betrayed your trust. At Sardis, he lied about his association with Demosthenes, who was a known enemy of Macedon. At Gordion, he encouraged Alexander’s ambition to untie the celebrated Knot, provoking him to take a risk that only the King’s subtlety overcame. After Issus, he encouraged Alexander to abuse his captive, Stateira. Before the siege of Tyre, he was defeatist. In Egypt, we know by his own words that he plotted against Alexander’s ‘defect.’ At the Susian Gates, he baited the King into what he believed was a foolish mistake, only to be confounded when Alexander succeeded in forcing the Gates anyway. At Marakanda, he goaded the King into killing his friend Cleitus, and boasted that he encouraged Alexander to believe that any offense would be considered just in the eyes of heaven. In that same letter to Demosthenes, he further rejoices at Alexander’s breakdown. We know, based on a letter that Machon wrote from Sogdia, that he intended to use Rohjane to further his designs. We also have material evidence that he received money from the thief, Harpalus, payable in Persian currency. Lastly, and most fatefully, we know that he actively encouraged Rohjane to fear Alexander’s intentions. In this, he as good as encouraged her to act against him.

Aeschines struck up a rhythm that became almost a dance, shifting from one foot to the other as he ran through these points. Swallow and the rest of the jury rocked with him, very entertained, until he brought them up short with a final, dramatic indictment.

In the life of our democracy, so much of our time seems consumed by trivialities. And it might seem that our dispute with Machon is over little more than minor matters—words said at the wrong time, in the wrong place, or left unsaid; the petty boasts of a small man, temporarily enlarged by circumstances he neither deserved nor comprehended. Of Alexander’s vices and virtues, you may believe what you wish, as he is not on trial here. It is this man, Machon, we gather to judge, in the light of the responsibilities he solemnly accepted as an agent of this city. And I say that in the discharge of such responsibilities none of us here—magistrate, juror, prosecutor, or defendant—is entitled to judge which are the important charges to keep, and which are trivialities. Our forefathers have made those decisions for us. I would expect the same standard to be applied to myself, if I were in Machon’s position.

You will shortly hear from the defendant himself. Though he plays the laconic soldier, don’t be fooled: he is as subtle as any con-artist in the stoa, as skilled with words as he is useless with the tools of war. He has his work cut out for him, however. Considering that Alexander is untimely dead, and Machon was sworn to serve Athens by serving Alexander, it seems he has but two choices: he must either admit his malice, or plead utter incompetence. In neither case does he escape his guilt. I therefore beg that you hear his plea and judge it with the wisdom that is worthy of our legacy as Athenians. That done, I cannot doubt that justice, which is our only purpose today, will be served.

Aeschines finished exactly as the last drop of water ran through the clock. This impressed sophisticated jurors as much as anything he said, for it was difficult to accomplish this feat without making one’s speech detectibly stretched or truncated. Turning to look at his colleagues, Swallow could see in their eyes that the verdict on Aeschines was already in: his was a most impressive return.

“The clock is set for a quarter-hour recess!” the clerk announced.

The jurymen used a latrine reserved for them in the alley behind the courthouse. This was a blind wall with a stone-cut channel flushed by running water. As he took his place in the line, Swallow always found himself contemplating the nook and chinks knocked into the masonry, wondering at the generations of jurors who had thus pissed their way to a kind of immortality. The deeper the impressions, he gathered, the more long-winded the advocates. For his part, Swallow preferred style to power, attempting to write his name on the wall as he listened to the reviews of the trial so far.

“I’d hate to be that Machon right now, poor bastard!” someone said.

“Serves him right with that haircut!”

“But he stayed quiet for most of it…that’s more than I would have stood for!”

“Aeschines handed him acquittal with that crap. There was not a bit of substance to it!”

“Are you out of your mind…?”

“…was there a style to that speech…?”

“It was pure Attic!”

“No, it wasn’t! But it wasn’t Ionic either!”

“That’s what makes it so good—it was delivered for the courtroom, not the schoolroom!”

“This is more about politics than the law.”

“What’s the distinction?”

“That was more about that prick Alexander than anything else.”

“Don’t you understand anything?”

“…an overuse of enthymemes…”

“There were no enthymemes…it was all on the surface!”

“Enthymemes? Listen to these two!”

“I’ve never seen them so liberal with the clock.”

“Somebody wants this guy dead.”

“If his speech takes more than two hours I’ll want him dead!”

“I give top honors to the lamb!”

HAR HAR HAR HAR…!

Deuteros was standing at Swallow’s elbow as he wrapped himself, sucking his lower lip. “I guess I don’t see any reason to change our vote,” he said.

“Why would we?” replied Swallow. “The defense hasn’t spoken yet.”

“Do you think it’ll matter?”

“It will to me. Gimme that bread.”

“So what does Swallow say about the trial?” someone asked. Others seconded the question, until every face was turned toward Swallow. As one of the most experienced jurymen, he was presumed to have seen and heard it all since the dictatorship of the Thirty. Swallow knew this was an exaggeration—he wasn’t that old—but
 
didn’t exactly discourage their esteem either.

“I am surprised at nothing from Aeschines,” he said. “Except perhaps the timing of his prosecution. Why does he bring the charges now, so soon after Machon has come back? Why did he not wait until more witnesses returned from the east, so he could present live testimony? I am never comfortable with indicting a man on the basis of something in a letter.”

The jurors stood pensively at their trough. Swallow continued, “I think that what we were expected to understand was not in the speech at all. And the winner, if the verdict is guilty, will not be Aeschines.”

The silence lasted a bit longer as his fellow citizens took his meaning, or realized they never would. The argument then resumed as to which school of rhetorical style Aeschines’ speech was best classified.

When they returned to their seats the man who brought the lamb was still unconscious on the floor. He had missed the entire prosecution, and looked comfortable enough lying there to miss the defense too. There was a certain fairness in this, it seemed.

Aeschines was sitting now with a plate of figs and myrtle berries. He ate with his eyes glued to Machon, who likewise had not moved, but sat staring narrowly at this feet, as if refusing to gratify his opponent by glaring back. As the clerk gaveled the courtroom to order the defendant finally looked up, his eyes sweeping over the mob that would decide his fate. Though Swallow believed Aeschines’ case was a tissue of presumption and innuendo, he’d said one thing that was clearly true: Machon had his work cut out for him.

“Having considered the case for the indictment,” said Polycleitus, “the court will now hear the defense. Does the defendant wish to speak?”

“I claim that privilege,” said Machon, rising. He turned out to be short—so short, in fact, many of the jurors in the back of the room would not see him at all. His voice also had a much higher pitch than one would imagine from his martial appearance.

“Very well. You have the usual measure of time.”

For a moment Machon did not speak, but just stood there with his palms turned upward, as if to beseech heaven, or to express his wonderment at the mess Aeschines had placed before them all. There were a few titters from the left side of the room, toward which Machon, in a clever gesture of confidence, actually winked. Swallow glanced at the Macedonians in the spectator’s box: they were scowling. All this suddenly filled Swallow with anticipation—he leaned over to Deuteros.

“This might be something,” he whispered.

V.

Alexander dead? Impossible! His corpse would fill the world with its stink.

--Demades, Athenian orator

Well then, what a performance! This prosecution was well worth the wait for Aeschines’ return from abroad. I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m excited to vote. Let’s convict this Machon! Let’s grab the lout and string him up!

Machon paused as the jury gave him a good laugh. As much as Swallow enjoyed routine trials, he enjoyed innovative defenses even more. For the speaker was treading dangerous ground with this flip tone—if he misstepped, if he alienated enough jurymen, it could cost him dear. The last person to take such a risk was Socrates when, upon his conviction, he suggested the “penalty” of receiving free dinners from the state for the rest of his life. This piece of wit, such as it was, so irked his jury that it earned him a lopsided vote for death. This was not a promising legal precedent for Machon. Whether or not he could pull it off, no one could deny his tack was most entertaining, like an acrobat working without a net.