“Well, I won’t say you’re wrong,” Protomakhos replied. “Whether he’s mad for women or not, though, the way he got into our harbors shows he’s a pretty good general.”

“That’s true,” Sostratos said. “The way he relieved Ptolemaios’ siege of Halikarnassos a couple of years ago, too.”

He got in another jab there, though again not one Protomakhos would notice. Menedemos couldn’t think of Halikarnassos without thinking of the trouble he’d wound up in there on account of that merchant’s wife. He glanced over to Sostratos once more. His cousin had had things all his own way lately when it came to giving. Menedemos knew that was his own fault; his affair with Xenokleia had given Sostratos plenty of openings. But that didn’t mean Menedemos wouldn’t enjoy revenge. Oh, no, it didn’t mean that at all.

Demetrios’ men pummeled the fortress at Mounykhia with dart- and stone-throwing engines. Trapped inside the fort, Dionysios and the garrison fought back as well as they could. But they were badly outnumbered, and the catapults made going up on the battlements worth a man’s life. A few days after Megara fell, Demetrios’ men stormed the stronghold. The Macedonians inside threw down their weapons when they saw they couldn’t hold off their foes; Demetrios’ soldiers took Dionysios alive.

And then, instead of garrisoning the fortress at Mounykhia themselves, Demetrios’ men started tearing it down. That impressed Sostratos more than anything else they’d done. “Maybe Demetrios really means it when he says he wants Athens to be free and independent,” he remarked at supper the day after the fortress fell. “Who would have believed that?”

“Not me,” Protomakhos said, nibbling at an eel. “I just thought we’d go from one foreign overlord to the next. How about you, Menedemos?”

“Me? I just hope we’ll be able to get some business done now,” Menedemos said. “I let Sostratos worry about the political side of things. He’s the one who enjoys fretting over things he can’t change.”

That held more venom than Menedemos usually used to charge his words. Sostratos wondered what he’d done to irritate his cousin. He couldn’t think of anything. He’d just been himself… hadn’t he?

Before he could fix on anything he might have done, Protomakhos said, “They say Demetrios will finally enter the city day after tomorrow to address the Assembly and make everything official.’’

This time, Sostratos didn’t quibble about what they, whoever they were, might say. What the proxenos reported sounded too likely for him to quarrel with it. Sostratos did ask, “Is there any way a foreigner could join the Assembly when Demetrios speaks to it? I’d love to hear that with my own ears.”

“I doubt they’ll be taking roll, not for a meeting like this,” Protomakhos replied.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Sostratos said eagerly. “Want to come, Menedemos?” He tried to sound as friendly as he could.

His cousin started to toss his head, but then shrugged instead. “Well, why not?” he said. “A lot of the people I’d want to see would be at the meeting anyhow.”

The Assembly met in the theater, not far from Protomakhos’ house. The proxenos and the two Rhodians left his home early, as they’d done to see the tragedies and comedies. Even so, the theater was already more than half full by the time they got there. For one thing, admission to the Assembly was free. For another, after so long obeying Demetrios of Phaleron and, through him, Kassandros, the Athenians seemed eager to reclaim their freedom. That struck Sostratos as a good omen.

As the dawn brightened and the sun finally rose, a man strode importantly across the stage. People pointed at him and exclaimed to one another. Sostratos nudged Protomakhos. “Who is that? I don’t recognize him.”

“That’s Stratokles, by Zeus,” Protomakhos answered. “Demetrios could have started better.”

“Why?” Sostratos pricked up his ears at the hint of scandal. “Who is he? What has he done?”

“He’s a debauched, arrogant buffoon,” Protomakhos said. “He played at politics before Demetrios of Phaleron’s day, and none too well. He used to keep a hetaira named Phylakion. One day she brought back some neck bones and brains from the agora for a supper, and Stratokles said, ‘Here are the things we political men play ball with.’”

Sostratos made a disgusted noise. Menedemos said, “Lovely fellow!”

“Isn’t he?” Protomakhos dipped his head. “And then there was the time the year after Alexander died, when the Macedonians beat our fleet off Amorgos. Stratokles got word of the sea fight first somehow, and told everyone it was a victory. He put on a garland and proposed a sacrifice to the gods and a distribution of the meat. Then a couple of days later the truth reached the polis. Everyone started cursing him, and he said, ‘Why blame me when I made you happy for two days?’”

“Lovely fellow indeed,” Sostratos said.

He would have said more than that, but Stratokles spoke then; “Men of Athens, it is my great privilege to present to you our liberator from years of loathsome tyranny, Demetrios son of Antigonos!” He might have been a rogue, but he owned a ringing baritone voice that filled the theater without effort.

Demetrios came out to stand beside him. They made an odd pair, for the Athenian was short and squat, while Demetrios, who had a godlike physique, towered head and shoulders above him. “Hail, people of Athens!” he said, and his voice also outdid Stratokles’. “Antigonos, my father, is concerned for the freedom and autonomy of all poleis of Hellas, and especially for those of Athens, the greatest and most famous polis of them all.”

That won him a warm round of applause. The Athenians were no more immune than anyone else to hearing themselves praised. Demetrios went on, “This being so, my father has ordered me to restore to you your ancient democratic constitution, which tyrants have trampled on for far too long.”

More applause, a great roar of it. Sostratos clapped his hands along with the rest. He lived in a democratic city, and thought well of democracy. But he couldn’t help wonder what sort of strings Antigonos and Demetrios would attach to the restoration.

“My father has also told me to tell you he is pleased to send you 150,000 medimnoi of wheat from Anatolia for your storehouses and your bakeries,” Demetrios said. “And he will also send you timber enough to build a hundred triremes and restore your fleet to the glory it once enjoyed.”

Amid the rapturous cheers from the Athenians all around, Menedemos muttered, “Ha!” Sostratos dipped his head. Rebuilding a navy took more than timber. It took skilled rowers by the thousands. Where would Athens find them? How would she pay for them? Demetrios said nothing about that. And triremes were the small change of fleets these days, anyhow. Fours, fives, and sixes-all full not only of rowers but also of equally expensive marines-did the bulk of the work. Some of Demetrios’ promises were less extravagant than they seemed.

That might have occurred to the two Rhodians. It didn’t seem to have crossed a single Athenian’s mind. Well, that’s their worry, notmine, Sostratos thought. He hoped it wouldn’t be the Athenians’ worry, but feared and expected it would.

As the applause faded, Demetrios bowed to the assembled people of Athens and stepped back, leaving the stage to Stratokles again. The orator said, “With our first decrees as men free once more, let us praise the great Antigonos and Demetrios for liberating us from the hateful yoke of Demetrios of Phaleron and Kassandros, his puppetmaster!”

More cheers rang out. Demetrios son of Antigonos looked artfully astonished, as if he hadn’t imagined Stratokles would propose such a thing. “See how modest he is!” someone behind Sostratos exclaimed.

Sostratos had other ideas. He glanced over at Menedemos, who was also looking his way. “Put-up job,” Sostratos mouthed. His cousin dipped his head.