his end was near. Instead of making a spectacle of his mortal end, he planned simply to vanish into the desert. No doubt such a disappearance would have served his legend well, like that of a god on loan to mankind, making his return to Heaven.
I cannot believe, though, that it was the exit he most wanted. He preferred the taste of metal on his tongue- the fatal fall from a speeding horse on a rutted field. Any death in action would have been better than some second-rate apotheosis, this stealing away in the dead of night from a bed of stinking nightclothes. Taking a knife from a skulking assassin, like his father, would not have been much better. At last, with the help of Hermolaus, he found a better way.
We all went to him as he fell. The wound in his throat did not penetrate his voicebox, but it was still painful for him to speak. Asked to whom he left his throne, he breathed, “To the strongest.” We swooned in disbelief as he faded. This was, after all, Alexander, encased moreover in the armor of matchless Achilles. It seemed impossible that he could die so splendidly armed-until I remembered Hector’s death. He was also wearing the armor of Achilles, having stripped it from the dead body of Patroclus.
Most of you will probably not accept my story without further evidence. This was exactly the thinking of Perdiccas and Ptolemy when they sought to cover up the manner of the King’s death. Hermolaus, of course, was executed straightaway. The two witnesses on the top of the wall were likewise ordered down and killed. I would have joined them, except that I still had a use as recorder of Alexander’s greatness, and would not be believed anyway if I tried to spread the baseless story that he died in a duel with a minor prisoner!
The story went out that he died of sickness. His troops mourned him out of genuine respect, yet also embraced each other out of relief that he was finally gone, as if they had collectively survived some great storm. The Persians grieved too. In their case it was less in their esteem for him than because they were about to exchange the known sins of Alexander for those of someone unknown. Their uncertainty has not ended-as it also hangs over all of us.
Aeschines asks how I know the characters of men like Perdiccas and Ptolemy. I must say I find his case laughable, for as he questions the experience I report after years in their company, he bases his whole prosecution on the written hearsay of absent witnesses! Aeschines, don’t insult these gentlemen by overstating your case! Fine turns of phrase cannot hide your ignorance: if you had been there, for instance, you would know that the head injury Arridaeus received at the Hydaspes has done him some positive good-that he talks more, has taken up the wearing of clothes, and all in all seems ready to reign in his brother’s place. It only serves the purpose of Perdiccas, that fine fellow, to keep Arridaeus from ruling outright.
From the sound of the water it seems I have a little more time, so I will help you to understand the man you have come to judge today. Aeschines says I lack zeal for the Greek cause. He is wrong-I have fought for that cause all my life, in ways and to extremes far beyond mere talk. I was not only at Chaeronea, but carried a spear against Philip on the island of Euboea, and Acarnanian Argos, and Cardia in the Chersonese and in Thrace. This was while our friend Aeschines took his sinecure on sunny Rhodes. And when I was sent to Alexander to fight for him, and the Fates abruptly decreed that the nature of my help must change, I did my best, though I knew little of diplomacy or of educating barbarous females. Never once have I said that if the Athenians wanted the skills of a diplomat or tutor, they should not have sent a soldier. I wonder if Aeschines had been there he would have done better. Certainly his skills have served the Macedonians well in the past. But I don’t think his golden throat would have done him much good against the Mallian raiders that morning on the Hydaspes!
It is in your hands to determine whether I will take part in the coming fight with Antipater. For my part, I hope never to pick up a weapon again. A man can see enough war to understand that it is an exceptional opportunity for the triumph of mediocrities. Mediocre men-who ordinarily stand tongue-tied on the bema, who fight half-heartedly for their city, who make affordable sacrifices to the gods instead of genuine ones-can, with the benefit of arms, snuff brilliant minds, rape graceful women, destroy the greatest art, murder children. Mediocrity always triumphs, no matter how lofty the ideal by which we begin, no matter how great the leader. Neither great evil nor great virtue can be around all the time, can see everything. Yet mediocrity flies on horseback all over the battlefield, shouting “On to Pella, boys!”; it is living it up right now on native labor, on the estates owned by Greek barons in Sogdia and Bactria. Foundations crumble, fame fades. All hail the middling, so ubiquitous, and eternal!
The defendant took his seat with water still running through the clock. Polycleitus let it flow for a few awkward moments as the courtroom absorbed Machon’s strange outburst. To Swallow, this incoherence was the inevitable result of an unschooled speaker forced beyond his skill to defend himself. After all, this was no Demosthenes who had shared the floor with Aeschines all day; where Machon had begun his trial with a face of polished calm, he finished with his manner perturbed, his voice trembling. Whether the jury read his attitude as presumptuous, or as the outrage of a man unjustly accused, might yet figure in the verdict.
“The jury will vote,” pronounced the archon. Then, leaning forward with his voice full of significance, he added “The city expects you all to fulfill your oaths.”
A box was set out in front of the dais. Each juror had been issued two bronze disks: one disk with a hole in the center, signifying a vote of guilty, and one without a hole. As each man filed up to deliver his token, he was obliged to conceal his choice by putting thumb and forefinger over the center of the disk.
The Scythian bailiffs were watching lest anyone try to influence the verdict by speaking, or by bandying his token uncovered. To defeat this, jurors over the years had hit on a simple convention: votes for conviction were dropped in the box with the left hand, ones for acquittal with the right. When this ploy became too well known, the magistrates decreed that tokens would always be handled with the right hand. The jurymen answered with a variation: if voting guilty, the center of the disk was covered with thumb and forefinger, if not guilty, with thumb and middle finger. So far the authorities had devised no response to this.
The first vote was on the charge that the defendant had violated his oath. The citizens came up by rows, with Swallow and Deuteros among the first. Swallow delivered his token by thumb and middle finger, as did his friend. As the box filled with votes, the sound each bronze made as it hit the bottom passed from a wooden thud to a bright clink. Aeschines sat with his back straight and his legs together, looking more anxious than at any point in the trial. Machon slouched, his ankles crossed ahead of him as he looked out the window.
The vote seemed to be closely divided. When the next to last row filed out, the rube who had brought livestock to the courtroom finally woke up. Rubbing his head, he turned to Polycleitus.
“Magistrate, I appear to have fallen asleep. Where is my lamb?”
The archon signaled to a bailiff, who shoved the man toward the tally box. Bewildered, the hayseed collected his tokens and went forward, though he couldn’t have heard a word of either presentation. Swallow watched when he dropped his disk: he used his thumb and all four fingers to handle the token, and so his vote was a mystery.
The last vote was cast. The clerk and his assistant emptied the box and began to count as another set of tokens was handed out to each juror. The voting began on the second charge, impiety, as the counting for the first proceeded. Swallow watched with curiosity as the clerk finished the tally, frowned, and decided they should count again. Because of this the jurymen sat for an unusually long time as their stomachs growled and the full moon dipped into view through the windows.
At last the clerk handed Polycleitus a clean tablet with the count for both charges. The archon looked to the clerk as if to assure himself of the numbers. The clerk tossed his head in the affirmative. Polycleitus faced Machon.
“The defendant will stand.”
XXIII.
Machon hauled himself to his feet. With the possible exception of the archon, he appeared to be the most dejected man in the room.
“Regarding the first charge, failure to fulfill his oath to the Assembly, the jury finds the defendant, Machon son of Agathon, not guilty. The votes are 251-249…”
The room erupted as the jurors turned on each other. Accusations were met with counter-accusations, hands raised in denial, fingers jabbed in every chest. Deuteros was almost pushed off his bench as a juror leapt to his feet behind him, screaming that the vote had been fixed. Another raised his arms toward heaven beseechingly, crying
