Orion and the Conqueror by Ben Bova Page B

there dumbfounded.
    "It was a deliberate assassination attempt. Deliberate!" Alexandros raged all the way back to Aeschines' house. "They tried to kill me."
    "But who sent them?" Hephaistion asked. Alexandros had torn a strip from his own chiton and tenderly wrapped the scratch on his friend's forearm.
    "Demosthenes," answered Ptolemaios. "Who else?"
    "That's not logical," Alexandros said.
    No one had bothered to wrap my wound. I knew I healed quickly, and it did not appear that any vital organ had been cut. My body responded to my conscious control; although I had shut off the pain receptors in my brain, I could sense that the wound was neither deep nor serious. Infection was the only thing I worried about, yet I knew that I could manufacture antibodies at a prodigious rate, when necessary.
    I seemed to recall Aten, the Golden One, smirking at me, telling me that he had built me to be a warrior and had included all the self-repair that I needed for my task.
    "What do you mean, not logical?" Harpalos asked.
    A little more calmly, Alexandros replied, "It would not be logical for Demosthenes to try to have me assassinated. Not here. Not now."
    "Not in Athens?" Harpalos wondered aloud.
    "Not while he's making his speech," Ptolemaios joked.
    Nearkos said nothing. He simply walked along with us, his dark Cretan eyes always on Alexandros.
    "If you were assassinated in Athens," Hephaistion argued, "your father would come down here and raze the city to the ground."
    "Or try to," said Ptolemaios.
    "That would force the Athenians to fight us, which is just what Demosthenes wants."
    Alexandros shook his head. "But Demosthenes wants the Athenians to fight a just war. You heard him; he claims that democracies have a higher spiritual standing than kingdoms."
    "Yes, and crows can sing."
    "He would not want to fight a war brought on by a cowardly assassination. In his own city, yet."
    "During his own speech."
    "The Athenians might refuse to fight such a war," Alexandros insisted. "No, it was not Demosthenes."
    "Who then?"
    We were climbing the cobblestoned street as it rose toward the residential area where Aeschines' house stood.
    Alexandros made a fluttering gesture with both his hands. "Aristotle taught me to look for the logical answer to every question."
    "So what's the logical answer to this one?"
    "Yes, who sent the assassins—logically?"
    "The man who would gain the most from my assassination, of course."
    "But who would gain?"
    Alexandros walked on for several silent steps, head bent, hands slowly balling into fists. I thought he was mulling over the question, but once he spoke I realized that he had known his answer all along.
    "The king," he said.
    "What?"
    "Your father?"
    They all stopped walking, stunned by the enormity of the accusation.
    "I don't know if he is my true father," Alexandros said. He spoke not with shame, not even indecision. "My true father might be Herakles. Or Zeus himself."
    The other youths fell silent. There was no sense arguing that point, each of them knew.
    "But even to imagine that the king might have tried to have you assassinated . . ." Hephaistion's voice was hollow with fear.
    "Think of it logically," Alexandros said quietly.
    "What better pretext could he have for attacking Athens directly? You said so yourself, a moment ago."
    "Yes, but—"
    "Who would come to Athens' aid if Philip made war to avenge his son's murder?"
    "No one."
    "That's true enough."
    "He'd have isolated Athens completely."
    I spoke up. "Who would inherit the throne if Philip died in battle?"
    "What difference does that make?"
    "A great difference," I said. "Philip has spent his life molding Macedonia into a powerful and secure nation. Would he throw away all that by killing his son and heir? Would he knowingly throw the kingdom into such a turmoil that it might split apart once he dies?"
    The youths were nodding among themselves.
    I asked Alexandros, "Is that logical?"
    He gave me a troubled gaze.
    "Your father," I said, "sent