In contrast to his overconfident matron, Sebastian, not only her better by gender, but by a decade as well, seemed bashful and in much need of rhetorical instruction.
No wonder the Western Hellenes all come to Isokrates for rhetoric. There must be something in the air over there that makes them meek-mouthed.
Look at Doryklus leering at the staff-toting barbarian woman. Why do the prize-seekers and warriors value large hips and breasts so while my type prefer face, hands and ankles of the elegant kind?
Oh yes, the timid mind finely emerges from its shell.
“Learned Aristotle, My Lady has put me to deep study of your predicament. I have long had in my possession detailed maps of Hellas as well as the auguries of your death at Chalkis on Euboea. It is my understanding that your wife and relatives by marriage reside there, and it being an island, would seem to offer a safe haven. We, however, were told that you would die there of stomach complaint suspected of being poison after the Assembly of Athens passed sentences of impiety and death-for-sacrilege upon you for your reverence of Hermeias, and your manner of sacrifice to him.”
Yes, that would have been the natural and predictable exile. My enemies could have guessed. And they would persecute me for honoring passed mentors and relations. Why I shall not be surprised if they pass sentence upon me for sacrificing to Plato’s ghost.
The man continued in his halting manner—Demosthenes would eat-him-alive in the political theater, “It is known that Theophrastus is your heir at the Lykeum and that you would likewise wish to leave proper inheritances to your family. The obvious course for the accomplishment of this would be to engage Makedonian witnesses at Chalkis and make known your wishes for the distribution—what an unfortunate term, Isokrates would have taught him better—of your wealth and the freedom of slaves and other such grants.
I suggest, as your personal treasury is held in sacred trust by the Priests of the Pythian Oracle at Delphi that we travel in the direction opposite of that expected, and instead journey to Delphi, where you might confidently make such arrangements in the knowledge that your wishes will be carried out after your passage into the West. And in that direction we will have already progressed.”
Yes, a fine plan, and overstated. If he had been a general at battle we would all lay dead at his feet by now. We need someone capable of snap decisions if we are to take the Delphik Road without a sacred or hegemonic truce in force.
You have already consented to this course without inquiry?
It is the logical path.
He stands sweating, begging your approval.
“Yes Sabian—I don’t think that is the exact pronunciation, but he is just a barbarian. What does he expect!—I concur, but we need an escort.”
Doryklus rumbled in answer, “I’ll take you Stagirite,” all the while failing to take his eyes off of the curvaceous body of the companion’s servant.
What good chance to have taught this man’s son.
You might rather say what good chance to be fleeing into the sunset with that which he desires. Yes, only horses rival our kind in lust.
“I shall be generous in return Doryklus. I’ll have Theophrastus assure a curatorship for your son. I think you should know your way to Delphi since you own one of their crowns.”
What became of your selfless concern for this man and his son?
The boxer wishes to demonstrate his arête in a broader context. Do or die, the son is to benefit from his father’s sacrifice.
You reason like a Makedonian autocrat. It would be best to take your poison now.
No, the Iberian adduced the best course, a course that provides me with a purpose yet, and I shall take it.
The surly boxer grumbled, “Best keep our destination secret, and see to your people paying off a Skythian or two to watch my back.”
He nodded in response as the bull-necked man stepped aside to permit Theophrastus, Polos, Xenophile, old Skylax and two Skythian peace-keepers—apparently already bribed—entry into his Muse House; his no longer, not even to wander and wonder among its racks.
His voice sounded muffled and yet wooden as he tried to be cheerful, “Last of greetings Theophrastus, Skylax.”
Goodbye Plato. May your ghost rise to inform those who would listen.
The tinkling of the fountain—really just a small aqueduct coming to splash over rocks at its end—seemed to come to him for this first time since he had overseen its construction. With the museum so crowded he had no opportunity to feel its cooling effects as the afternoon breeze wafted through this space. But its purpose was not lost on his still avid mind, which now beat a quicker tune in his breast in anticipation of an adventure, the likes of which he had not experienced since his marriage to Pythias and their flight following the political slaying of her father, the Tyrant Hermeias.
If only Chance would have smiled on us then you could be here with me Pythias. This could be no worse than our flight to Lesbos.
Yes, but you are gone, and I take with me your surrogate, having already forsaken my lonely wife on Euboea.
I suppose that is a domestic sin of some sort. Surely the Athenians could define it as a crime punishable by death.
It is surely so old man.
