Hypereides, and we were able to claim a place in front without much trouble. There was nothing to see yet but a couple of men digging a hole, apparently for the end of a timber that they had carried to the spot.
"Xanthippos isn't here," Hypereides commented. "They won't be starting for a while yet."
I asked who Xanthippos was, and he said, "Our strategist. All these soldiers are under his command. Don't you remember Artayctes mentioning him last night?"
I admitted I did not. The name Artayctes seemed familiar, which was natural enough since the heralds had been shouting it as we came; then I remembered telling Io that I had spoken with someone called Artayctes the night before.
Hypereides looked at me speculatively. "You don't remember the fish?"
I shook my head.
"They were pilchards. Do you know what a pilchard is, Latro?"
I nodded, and so did the black man. I said, "A smallish silvery fish, rather plump. They're said to be delicious."
"That's true." (People in the crowd were shouting, "Bring him!" and "Where is he?" so that Hypereides was forced to raise his voice to make himself heard.) "But pilchards are oily fish—fatty fish even when salted. Now I know that both of you are sensible men. I want to put a question to you. It's of some importance, and I want you to consider it seriously."
Both of us nodded again.
Hypereides drew a deep breath. "If some dried and salted pilchards were cast onto the coals of a charcoal brazier—with a good fire going— don't you think that the sudden melting of all their fat might make them move? Or perhaps that oil dripping from the fish onto the coals might spatter violently and, so to speak, toss the fish about?"
I nodded and the black man shrugged.
"Ah," said Hypereides. "I'm of one mind with Latro, and Latro was there and saw them, even if he doesn't remember."
Just then a roar went up from the crowd.
The black man pointed with his chin as Hypereides shouted, "Look! Here they come—worth a round hundred talents apiece, and about to be slaughtered like a couple of goats." He shook his head and appeared genuinely saddened.
The man must have been close to fifty, strongly built and of medium height, with a beard the color of iron. One saw at once, from his dress, that he was a Mede. His son appeared to be fourteen or so; his face was as unformed as the faces of most boys of that age, but he had fine, dark eyes. The man's wrists were tied in front of him.
With them was a tall, lean man in armor who bore neither a shield nor a spear. I saw no signal from him, but the heralds cried, "Silence! Silence, everybody, for Xanthippos, the noble strategist of Thought," and when the chattering of the crowd had been muted a bit, he stepped forward.
"People of Sestos," he said. "Aeolians! Hellenes!" He spoke loudly, but as if this commanding voice were natural to him. "Hear me! I do not come before you to speak for Hellas!"
That surprised the crowd so much that it actually fell silent, so that the birds could be heard crying above Helle's Sea.
Xanthippos continued, "/ wish that I did—that we were come at last to a time when brother no longer warred against brother."
That drew a resounding cheer. As it died away, Hypereides grinned at me. "They're hoping that we've forgotten they were fighting us not so long ago."
"Yet speak I do—and I am proud indeed to speak—as the representative of the Assembly of Thought. My city has returned to yours the greatest blessing that any people can possess—liberty."
Another cheer for that.
"For which we ask only your gratitude."
There were shouts of thanks.
" I said I could not speak for the Hellenes. Who knows what Tower Hill may do? Not I. Who knows the will of the wild folk of Bearland? Not I again,
O citizens of Sestos. And not you. Those few Rope Makers who were here took ship before your city could be freed, as you know. And as for Hill, who does not know how savagely its spears seconded the barbarian?"
That brought a growl of
"Xanthippos isn't here," Hypereides commented. "They won't be starting for a while yet."
I asked who Xanthippos was, and he said, "Our strategist. All these soldiers are under his command. Don't you remember Artayctes mentioning him last night?"
I admitted I did not. The name Artayctes seemed familiar, which was natural enough since the heralds had been shouting it as we came; then I remembered telling Io that I had spoken with someone called Artayctes the night before.
Hypereides looked at me speculatively. "You don't remember the fish?"
I shook my head.
"They were pilchards. Do you know what a pilchard is, Latro?"
I nodded, and so did the black man. I said, "A smallish silvery fish, rather plump. They're said to be delicious."
"That's true." (People in the crowd were shouting, "Bring him!" and "Where is he?" so that Hypereides was forced to raise his voice to make himself heard.) "But pilchards are oily fish—fatty fish even when salted. Now I know that both of you are sensible men. I want to put a question to you. It's of some importance, and I want you to consider it seriously."
Both of us nodded again.
Hypereides drew a deep breath. "If some dried and salted pilchards were cast onto the coals of a charcoal brazier—with a good fire going— don't you think that the sudden melting of all their fat might make them move? Or perhaps that oil dripping from the fish onto the coals might spatter violently and, so to speak, toss the fish about?"
I nodded and the black man shrugged.
"Ah," said Hypereides. "I'm of one mind with Latro, and Latro was there and saw them, even if he doesn't remember."
Just then a roar went up from the crowd.
The black man pointed with his chin as Hypereides shouted, "Look! Here they come—worth a round hundred talents apiece, and about to be slaughtered like a couple of goats." He shook his head and appeared genuinely saddened.
The man must have been close to fifty, strongly built and of medium height, with a beard the color of iron. One saw at once, from his dress, that he was a Mede. His son appeared to be fourteen or so; his face was as unformed as the faces of most boys of that age, but he had fine, dark eyes. The man's wrists were tied in front of him.
With them was a tall, lean man in armor who bore neither a shield nor a spear. I saw no signal from him, but the heralds cried, "Silence! Silence, everybody, for Xanthippos, the noble strategist of Thought," and when the chattering of the crowd had been muted a bit, he stepped forward.
"People of Sestos," he said. "Aeolians! Hellenes!" He spoke loudly, but as if this commanding voice were natural to him. "Hear me! I do not come before you to speak for Hellas!"
That surprised the crowd so much that it actually fell silent, so that the birds could be heard crying above Helle's Sea.
Xanthippos continued, "/ wish that I did—that we were come at last to a time when brother no longer warred against brother."
That drew a resounding cheer. As it died away, Hypereides grinned at me. "They're hoping that we've forgotten they were fighting us not so long ago."
"Yet speak I do—and I am proud indeed to speak—as the representative of the Assembly of Thought. My city has returned to yours the greatest blessing that any people can possess—liberty."
Another cheer for that.
"For which we ask only your gratitude."
There were shouts of thanks.
" I said I could not speak for the Hellenes. Who knows what Tower Hill may do? Not I. Who knows the will of the wild folk of Bearland? Not I again,
O citizens of Sestos. And not you. Those few Rope Makers who were here took ship before your city could be freed, as you know. And as for Hill, who does not know how savagely its spears seconded the barbarian?"
That brought a growl of
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