Orationes 39
Orationes 39 Imperial Aelius Aristides GreekWe have come not to contend with Philip in words, but in deed to bring aid to you and to the surviving fortunes of the Greeks. And far more clearly even now,
men of Thebes, do we recognize how rightly we took thought for you. For that Philip has reached such a pitch of audacity and cleverness as, first, to have sent envoys to you at all, and then envoys asking for aid—so that he may take you without a battle and arrange his affairs against us as he pleases—this, I think, is very much in keeping with his usual practice and his foresight, and worth your attention. The matter perhaps seems novel to you, that, while the enemy is advancing, others should come on your behalf in alarm, and that you should not only have aid offered unbidden, but should also have an appeal added to accept it. But we ask you only this: to imitate the city of the Athenians in what concerns your own interests, and not to incur disgrace before us, these very envoys, as the first to witness it. For if we, against whom they say so many grounds of enmity stand on your side, have come having put all these aside, deeming it right to help save your city together with you, while you, who have nothing for which to reproach yourselves, give up everything without a struggle—how will you not be acting most unreasonably of all men? And the difference of this present day is not such as one might describe, but it has come to the uttermost extreme: either to be slaves to Philip yourselves, and to help enslave the other Greeks, and to behave boorishly toward those who have been your benefactors, and to win among all men a reputation for the three most shameful things—stupidity, greed, and ingratitude—or else to dwell in your city in your ancestral form, standing forward, together with us, as champions of the common freedom. At which I even marvel: that you should think it just to hate those who suppose that the former course rather than this belongs to you, yet should value Philip more than us—Philip, who makes you liable to those very charges; and that, while you would count as enemies those who slander you in word, you will place in the rank of an ally the man who in deed confirms the worst against you. If, then, sharing the same interest is sufficient proof of kinship, surely to think that the same things are fitting is a firm token of friendship. We, then, hold that what we deem fitting for ourselves is fitting also for you: to be held in high repute, to take counsel beforehand, to be honoured above the other Greeks.
How, then, could you justly think others more well-disposed to you than we are? For there are not other prizes awaiting us if we win, and others awaiting you, but the very things we should wish to come to ourselves, these we share with you. So that what we ask of the gods for our own city, this we pray for together with you for yours—a thing, I think, least possible for Philip, to make the same prayers for himself and for any of the others. For such is the despot's nature: that none be honoured equally with himself—reasonably, or rather necessarily. For at the moment another shares in equal honours, the very thing he seeks he has himself destroyed. For one must, I think, rule, and the others be ruled; and these two things do not amount to the same thing. And these matters we need not prove by arguments; Philip confirms them by deed. For who is an ally of his who does not fare worse than the enemy? His several wars, indeed, he wages for the most part by secret means—as now he comes against you, concealing the truth as far as he can; but the purpose he holds once and for all he confesses to all and betrays by a single phrase, if one observes it rightly. For when in his letters and treaties he is first of all "King of the Macedonians," how does he not then proclaim to all men the secret of his purpose, and that it is for no one who desires freedom to deal with him or to trust him? For no one is so insensible or so far out of his wits as to think that the man exults in ruling one nation—and that a nation full of evils, of which there have already been countless kings—but that of Greece, which alone of all things under the sun has never had anyone as its master, he neither desires to be called king nor refers anything he does to anything else of all his aims; or else to compose these words in order: "Philip, King of the Greeks." Never, O Zeus Averter of Evil, and you gods! For the other course is fairer and more just: that we be masters of what is his. Then they say that the flocks of Attica will come over into Boeotia, as if expounding some oracles. But Philip knows
how to give over—not only the flocks of Attica, but even those of Macedonia—for the sake of his own advantage. Recognize this by looking at Anthemus, which he gave up to the Olynthians at the outset. Then, I think, he afterwards demands great wages in return; for not only flocks, but children and women and walls and cities and everything he takes and seizes—just as Homer said it befalls those who break their oaths, that they pay the penalties later with much and great interest. But the difference is so great, that it is not those who break their oaths to whom these things now happen, but it is he himself who works these things by breaking his oaths. And besides the flocks, he knows how, by giving the gold of Macedonia, thus to buy up affairs—just as he bought the cavalry of the Olynthians with these; and timber too, as they say, fine timber from Macedonia, which he gave up to their commanders. But nonetheless it profited the Olynthians nothing that the timber from Macedonia came to them; rather, in return for the fact that one of them roofed his own house, in return for this the whole city was razed to the ground. And indeed he who had given them Potidaea too had in a way given the flocks of Attica, for he had given what was ours; and then, I think, he used them, like flocks, for whatever he wished.
Are these things, then, better called gifts and humanity and the profits of those who received them, and—as one might euphemistically soften it—or rather a bait and a snare and a hunting of dominion, and an honour for the dishonoured, and the destruction of those drawn in, and the seeds of disasters, and engines against the Greeks, and all such things? Just as they say the wooden horse was given as a gift to the Trojans by the Achaeans. These, then, are the gifts of an evil genius, and such as no one would willingly accept on behalf of his city—these "presents"; since for his dealings with the Phocians too—and let none of you, hearing this suddenly, be startled, but follow the argument, always fitting the second point to the first as one who casts up an account—for these too he deserves to pay the penalty, and not to receive thanks, as will appear, if you examine it rightly. For if, after helping you to destroy them, he had thereafter kept quiet and meddled in nothing, perhaps one might say that he had acted to your advantage; but if, desiring the rule of the Greeks, and in order that he might come against you yourselves more fearlessly and easily whenever he wished,
- why do you not, from that very day on which he first destroyed the Phocians, reckon him an enemy alike? For he was not avenging the Phocians on your behalf any more than he now comes against you on behalf of the Phocians. For neither can one say this—that the Phocians caused him fear, and he thought it expedient to destroy them, inasmuch as they had earlier set their minds on the rule of the Greeks and won a marvellous reputation by their deeds—while he thought it a slight matter to bring the city of the Thebans, where he was once a hostage, under his own power and to hold it. For there are three cities to which he must of necessity direct his calculations: of these, that of the Lacedaemonians is farthest off and has already been all but worn out by you, and on both these accounts is of less account to him; and as for ours, not even he himself attempts to say that he does not treat it as hostile; but yours, by its position, is first, and on this account necessary for him to seize beforehand, and on the score of fortune this is not without fear, nor less suspect than ours, which, looking elsewhere, he seeks to take, and to collect the customary wages of his benefactions. For these reasons the Phocians and Tilphossaeum are celebrated by him. For by the very calculations with which he gratified you, he reminds you, buying back the service—just as if hunters were to say to the birds that they had toiled no small toil for their sakes, and at the same time, pointing to the bait, were to demand the favour in return. And he, even if he had most especially done these things on your behalf, ought himself, not you, to remind you of them; but as it is, passing over all these things, he advances with arms, displaying his own wickedness and, like a drama, bringing on the ending against all hope.
The envoys seem to me to say marvellous things, and altogether contradictory to themselves, who say that you ought to be grateful to Philip if ever he did you any good, but bid you yourselves give up all your affairs
which are in your own power, and become so much worse than Philip toward yourselves that, whereas he, even if he did not wish this, at least did you some service at the right moment, you, willingly, in regard to things than which you could have nothing greater, will wrong your own selves, and will be so far from imitating him that, whereas he handed over your enemies to you, you, if you do what these men persuade, will hand over your own selves to your enemies. For what reason, then, tell me, will you still be grateful to Philip, if your own preservation is no concern of yours? For I, for my part, hold that from both points of view the present partnership is the opposite of that former one. For if he was in truth well-disposed to you and zealous in those matters, it is shameful to praise his zeal but to neglect your own selves; but if it was a trial against you and a preparation for the time to come, he owes you a penalty for two things, not one—both for deceiving you in those matters and for now coming against you with arms. So that these things are not to be granted on account of those, but for both his vengeance is to be exacted when he has been caught. And it would be well, having used Philip's villainy, to guard against the harm that attends it. No one denies that the Phocians perished justly; but Philip is not on that account to be trusted as just. But if one must say something about the Phocians too: in the part that concerned themselves they have suffered these things justly, but as concerns Philip, not rightly. For when he appears to have brought these things about not for the god's sake nor for yours, but for his own greed, which he displays in all things, those men perhaps perished justly, but he has destroyed them unjustly. Do not, then, because the Phocians perished deservedly, give up your own affairs recklessly, nor condemn yourselves to suffer the very things the Phocians suffered. For of them we could say that they suffered what was fitting, having transgressed against the god; but for what cause you will now undergo this penalty, we at least are not aware. And this too seems to me monstrous: that the Phocians owed a penalty because they seized the temple at Delphi,
but he who has not only plundered the temple at Delphi, but, instead of plundering the temple, conducts the Pythian games and expounds to the Greeks what in no way belongs to him; and instead of plundering Delphi alone, has not plundered but destroyed the temples of two and thirty cities together in Thrace; and apart from these, plunders all Greece and makes no exception—not temples, not offerings, not walls, not horses, not arms, not money, not persons, not harbours, not constitutions, but moving everything as if by a thunderbolt, and utterly making away with some, and using others for whatever he wishes—this man will not seem to owe a penalty for these things, but will be crowned as a benefactor, and that too by you, whose rank he has outraged. And if not, when did you fare better—and that you may take no offence—was it when Epaminondas and Gorgidas and Pelopidas led you, and you knew Philip as a hostage, or when he had passed into power, and when he led you, bestowing so many favours, by which he meant to make use of you when you were weaker thereafter? And I think that if at the very outset Philip had asked you this wage for his help—to bow down and hand over your city to him—no one would have valued the rivalry against the Phocians at so high a price.
Do not, then, give now, in return for those things, what at the outset you would not have endured; but consider that, first, what you wished has nonetheless been accomplished for you, so that there is no longer any great need of this; and next, that even if there were a choice of two, it is better to war with the Phocians than to let this man in. For of those you would have prevailed both by yourselves and with us, as over the Lacedaemonians before, and perhaps in some other way too; but if once this man becomes master of you, I do not know what greater thing you will afterwards find against your own selves. And again, the one course would have been not to exact a penalty from the Phocians, but the other is to have been unwilling to save your own selves. And it is surely better to spare others for their own sakes than, on account of others, to deem it right that you yourselves should perish. Nor, again, has anything they have slandered us with any sense. For what could be more unreasonable than
to accuse us, if anything disagreeable exists between us, yet, if we shall now do something good by standing together, to be vexed and not to understand that they are refuted by their own arguments? For if those former things were rightly done, why do they accuse? But if they were errors, why do we not now choose the better, since at least it is permitted? For just as those things are worthy of censure, so the opposite belongs to the better course. And I hold it to be the part of men of sense that whatever of their existing affairs is well should be deemed worthy of imitation for the future too, and kept as safely as possible; but whatever ought not to have been done at all, these things should be followed as little as possible. For it was not, after all, best of all to add error to error, but from the beginning to deliberate what was needful; and between these two, should some error fall in the middle, to change one's mind. And indeed, if, just as we have done some disagreeable things toward you, so you too have done some toward us, why have they accused us of these things rather than you? But if you never erred against us, for what reason will you now first demand satisfaction, in a matter in which you will also give up your own interests along with it? And I marvel if, at the very time of the charges and the greatest of oppositions, we were beside you and you made use of us, but now, since those things have been lightened by time and these things have come after them, then we should be indignant from the beginning, and apart from any example should set ourselves to be temperate, yet, with so many examples at hand, be no better. But if one used the examples of others for the sake of safety, we should think it right to attend to them; yet, having so many from our own selves, how is it not monstrous if we shall not use them? And indeed, if there is no need to remember anything at all, for what reason do they stir these things up? But if it is right, it is better to remember the things that make for safety, and not, willingly letting go the better, to cling to the worse. And I hold that even if all the most opposite things had been done by us toward one another from the time we have inhabited our cities, and everything had been most intimate between you and Philip up to this point, the present day would reasonably change everything. For he stands over you bidding you take these as your final deliberations, while we have come to dissolve together all the danger. So that, even if
one had to bear a grudge, that man at least would not allow it.
I would gladly ask those who plead the opposite case: whether they think these matters should be judged from the time to come, or from the time past. For if from the time to come, the things from us—freedom, safety, to be ranked first among the Greeks—are all the fairest; but the things from him, what could one say of them, save so far as to turn the gods against his own head? But if indeed it must be judged from the time past, let him show that all the things Philip ever did for you are a match for two acts of aid from us—the earlier one to Haliartus and the later one against the garrison; of which the one drove the Lacedaemonians out of Boeotia, the other out of the Cadmeia. Are these things like helping the Phocians? Do you not know that against those you contended from a position of abundance, but in the necessities in which you stood, then you needed no others but us? And consider too who the Phocians were beside the Lacedaemonians, and how each of them stood toward you. Were not the latter rulers of the Greeks, but the former faring no better than anyone? And I forbear to say that the Lacedaemonians invaded Boeotia as it were through Attica, passing by our city—and that too when it was unwalled at the outset—while Philip had no trouble from the Phocians, but held the Phocians in the midst of his own allies. And indeed the future is more our own than the past for all men—for the past has been alienated, and one could fare neither worse nor better by it, but the future is coming on—and we, from both occasions, so far prevail that in that earlier one we have proved ourselves far better than he toward you, and from this present one a single vote is laid up for you, to come over to our side. Thus, prevailing in both, we are the more superior in the more authoritative. But there is, nonetheless, one good thing in his embassy: for it shows how he fears the cities, and that, if we stand together, he has not the slightest hope concerning his affairs. It is for us, then, seeing his fear and where he is unsound, to relax nothing of our strength, but to press upon him and to take away
his holds, and not to prefer what is advantageous to him. For it is not because some difficulty exists between us toward one another that he now comes indignant on your behalf, but in order that he may use up both of us; for this reason he searches these things out. So that the more pretexts he is well supplied with, the more he is to be distrusted. And so little does even he himself trust you that he has not sent simply asking for aid, as one confident in his resources, but says you may choose whichever you wish—either to join in invading Attica, or to let his army pass through—so that one might justly obtain neither. For consider: if, men of Thebes, you should join in the invasion, and should choose to gratify him in this way, you would become worse by more than he has demanded. For when he makes it an equal matter—whether you wish to keep quiet or to campaign with him—but you choose the greater, the very thing, I think, that you add on, this becomes an excess of baseness. And yet how is it tolerable, or how does it possess a moderate reputation, when it is not even right to hearken to despots at all—and that too in matters affecting the Greeks and your own kinsmen—that you should grant the greater of the things they make to depend on you, and that the betrayal should outrun the need? But indeed, if you let his army pass through, it will come, in time, not to your credit but to your reproach. For now, I think, courting the occasion, he professes to be content; but if once he were rid of his enmity with us, he would make your not having campaigned with him a pretext. And this you may learn from the very things that have already come to pass. For the Lacedaemonians, men of Thebes, once charging you with this very thing—that you did not join in invading the Piraeus—brought you into a war. And that the Lacedaemonians are children compared with Philip in the matter of cleverness and of doing mischief, we are all surely aware. And indeed this too we know about the Lacedaemonians, since I have mentioned them: that when they were waging the war against us, they said they were fighting for the freedom of the Greeks, and by this they drew the many to their side; but when they had done what they wished, they turned first against the allies themselves and transferred the war to them.
The Chians, for instance, who had been most zealous of the islanders on their behalf, and had led almost all the Greeks in revolting from us, they deprived of their constitution and their walls, and filled them with so many exiles and slaughters that all the miseries of the war seemed to them peace; and the Great King they besieged by land and sea, and they showed a garrison against you, and a little later they were present at Corinth.
If, then, men of Thebes, Philip now too should see that you have let go what is in hand to deliberate about what comes later, and, having settled the war against us to his mind, should imitate the Lacedaemonians, and, supplied with some pretext—or even bidding all pretexts farewell and simply attacking you outright in this way—will you say that you have rendered him this service against us Athenians, or against your own selves? And in which way, in the name of Zeus, do you think he would come against you better and more readily—when we are flourishing and hold the rank we now hold, or when you alone are left and there is no fear from us to him who attempts any revolution? And indeed you know this much, that if at that time among the Greeks the words spoken by certain men had prevailed—that our city must be enslaved and our land left for sheep-pasture—you would not, when the Lacedaemonians made their expedition against you, have had anyone to whom to go. But as it is, the salvation and survival of our city has proved opportune not only for you, but, as it seems, for all the Greeks. It is therefore plain that not even if we now suffer anything would your affairs be without danger; nor, even if you have not yet been the first to be in danger—but one day will set both the things there, for so it is fair to say, and the things here, as they ought to be. Consider this too: that some accused you of speaking that resolution against us, but you, coming, deprecated it, saying truly that the vote was not carried by the common authority of the city, but one man spoke it sitting in council; so that we could no longer accuse you, and we voted to bring aid. Is it, then, men of Thebes, the part of the same men, at that time to insist strongly on the fact that nothing disagreeable had been voted concerning us, and to turn the blame onto another,
- but now, when you know that this man is coming against us to do whatever he can, to be seen willingly cooperating with him? And indeed, if one were to grant that those words of yours are true—by which you absolve yourselves of the reproach, as we at least are persuaded—these things are not only shameful but also contrary to those. But if you shall say you were lying, you will be ascribing to yourselves what does not become you. Do not, then, when it is possible both to have seemed to speak truly then and to act justly now, choose these three worst things—both to have been ill-disposed in purpose toward us from the beginning, and, being caught, to be shameless, and now again deliberately to play the villain—nor, in return for the fact that we have come willing to share the danger with you, in return for this become manifest in joining Philip in his invasion against us. For this is worthy neither of the ancient partnerships, nor—to pass over everything else—of our present purpose.
That you will also deliberate worse about your own selves than about us, if you incline toward him, reckon from this. For if someone should ask you for what we now have a war against Philip, you would all, I know, say: for freedom and for not doing what we are bidden. So be it. But which of us will prevail, we or Philip, is, I think, unclear to everyone, save perhaps to the gods. Is it not, then, when it is unclear whether we shall prevail, also unclear whether we shall be enslaved? And indeed, that if you join Philip you both have done and will do what you are bidden, is plain to everyone. For one must, I think, follow along with the rest and do whatever seems good to him. How, then, will you not deliberate worse about your own selves than about us, if indeed the very things that, if we are foiled in the war—which God forbid—are laid up for us, these you will suffer in the choosing of whom you must fight alongside, and will be enslaved sooner, before knowing which side will prevail? For there are two things, surely, whatever else befall, in which at least we gain over you: first, the time during which we contend over these things, and next, the not seeming willingly to have condemned our own selves to the worst. So that, while what fortune gives is bearable to men of sense, to honour the worst things
willingly falls nothing short of disgrace; for to do justice to oneself and not to do it come to the same. And indeed, if any of you thinks that the contest between us and Philip extends only so far as to doing or not doing what is bidden, but that it will be over the very ground and the uttermost things, and that these are by nature owed to men of another race—first, you do not set yourselves in a fair posture, when you cooperate in such things with such a man; next, how is it possible for you to be confident about your freedom, when it is not even possible to be slaves to one another, but Philip must, once for all, be destroyed—I, at least, would add, O Zeus? And what will be the sense of the alliance? For if you will not permit this man to do these things, how is it worth while to lend a hand to him? But if you will cooperate to the very end, how are these things worthy of Dionysus and Heracles, who, born among you, were first honoured by us? With whom you would now far more justly pour libations, together with us and on behalf of the freedom of the Greeks, than against your own selves and those preferred by him. And remember this too: that Philip is now nearer you, like a cloud or a fire, and that he will not march through Attica into Boeotia, but into Attica through Boeotia. But he will not march, if both the gods do what is just and you are temperate. And the other things admit of words and delays—whatever he may come to do concerning us—but this we see: the man is at your borders, no longer invading the Phocians as before, but brandishing his arms against you yourselves, fully intending to set foot in Thebes if you receive him; persuading you of something most like as if, when two men were standing, he should approach the one in the middle and in front of himself, and persuade him of this—that, having thrust the steel through him, he will kill the other, but will spare him. [And against you the first of the blow, and we second.] Let us assign whatever name you wish to the matter—either to receive us as allies, or to become allies yourselves—we shall differ in nothing; but let us both prevent him who comes against us both—chiefly, men of Thebes, trusting in the gods common to the
Greeks, to whom we shall do service in this present time—for the contest will be over nothing else than the whole race, and our temples and tombs and our remaining hopes, about which one must think the gods care far more than about Philip's greed—and next, using the former examples too, how much the cities were able to accomplish when they came together. For both not to add allies to Philip—as he now wishes to take you against us—and that we should belong to one another, is a great weight and portion toward confidently meeting necessity.
And yet the opposite consideration no less reasonably urges you on. For if there is some fear even now in joining us, surely, quite by yourselves, you will not be confident—especially if our affairs are out of the way, which God forbid. All which you must reckon up, and not turn the fear into despondency, but into eagerly preventing what might come about if we are negligent; and not to think the danger grievous, but rather the not running the risk over matters so great. For how is it not shameful, men of Thebes, that over the settlement of the Messenians you waged such a war against the Lacedaemonians, and took pride that this city was inhabited through you; and on behalf of your friends in Arcadia you crossed into the Peloponnese, and would not permit even of them those who wished to change their minds, but chose every danger for the sake of the noble and the just; yet on behalf of your own freedom and at the same time safety—or rather of the other Greeks too—you should not dare to put your arms before you, going out to meet him at the borders of Boeotia, but should become hinderers and betrayers even of those who have resolved to free the Greeks, and should do harm not only to the common cause, but also to your own deeds, by which you are renowned? And though the Thessalians and Python have railed much against us in their speeches, let us leave the Thessalians alone; for the penalty they pay to Philip is sufficient, so that it is better not to be harsh with them than
- to be vexed, and to pray together that they may become masters of their own judgment. But you, consider this much: that if you obey us, you will be disposed like us; but if the Thessalians, like them. These men, then, have come leaving tetrarchies behind at home, while we know no master save the laws. And indeed, even by their very arguments, these men give such counsel as will make you more firmly slaves, but we such as will increase your present happiness. But to Python, that worthy man, we shall give a brief answer. This man, men of Thebes, is a Byzantine; and consider whether we are far apart in nature—we Athenians and this man—and that too in a way that seems from former times by no means friendly between us; rather, the difference comes from this man's own native city. This man, then, lives having betrayed those at home to Philip, while we, when Philip came against Byzantium, brought aid, broke the siege, and preserved the city. This man, then, what he proposes to his own fellow-citizens, for his part, the same he procures for you: to be slaves, to hearken to the worse, to be in the position of an appendage; but we wish for you the very things that came to this man's fellow-citizens through us—and, I think, much greater, by as much as the soil of the Thebans was from the beginning more honoured by us, and is, in relation to present circumstances, more opportune for the Greeks. For us, then, both in word and in deed, some things have been contested, and others, as it seems, will be contested; and it is high time for us too now to have deliberated, and, before seeing Philip, to take our stand with our arms over what you will do, so that he may know that the hands of the Greeks are kept safe, so long as Athens and Thebes lock shields together.