On the False Embassy

And then on the next day, when the peace was to be ratified, when I supported the resolutions of our allies, and did what I could to secure fair and equitable terms, and when the people sympathized with my purpose and refused to hear a word from the contemptible Philocrates, up jumped the very man who had made the speech I have quoted in the head of all of you only the day before, and addressed you in support of Philocrates,

using language for which, as Heaven is my witness, he deserves to die many times over. He told you that you ought to forget the achievements of your forefathers; that you should not tolerate all that talk about old trophies and sea-fights; and that he would draft and enact a law forbidding aid to any Greeks who had not previously brought aid to you. This speech the shameless reprobate found courage to make while the ambassadors, whom you summoned from the Greek cities at his own suggestion, before he had sold himself, were standing at his elbow and listening to what he said.

Well, you appointed him a second time, men of Athens, as an envoy to receive the oath of ratification; and I shall shortly have to tell you how he again wasted time, mishandled all the affairs of the commonwealth, and repeatedly fell out with me in regard to them when I tried to stand in his way. However, by reason of the persistent misconduct of these men, and their disobedience to instructions, we came back from the embassy for the oaths—that is the embassy which is the subject of the present scrutiny—without having realized any single one, great or small, of the advantages which were promised or expected when you approved the peace,—with nothing but deception and disappointment. Then we repaired to the Council. There are many eye-witnesses of what I am about to relate, for the Council-house was thronged with spectators.

I came forward and reported the whole truth to the Council. I denounced these men, and told the whole story, point by point, beginning with those earlier hopes created by the reports of Ctesiphon and Aristodemus, going on to the more recent orations of Aeschines at the approval of the peace, and showing to what straits they had reduced the city. There remained the question of the Phocians and Thermopylae, and we must not—such was my advice—we must not repeat our experience, and throw them overboard, and so, in reliance upon a succession of idle hopes and assurances, allow ourselves to fall into the last extremity of disaster. I convinced the Council;

but when the Assembly met, and we had to address the whole body of citizens, Aeschines took the first turn of all of us. And here I most earnestly entreat you to verify my account by your own recollections; for I am now relating transactions which ultimately brought your affairs to complete and final ruin. He utterly ignored the duty of giving a report of the doings of the embassy. He never mentioned the speeches made to the Council, or told you whether he disputed the truth of my statement. But he made such a fine speech, so full of big promises, that he carried you all away with him.

For he declared that he had completely converted Philip to the interests of Athens in respect of the Amphictyonic question and of everything else. He went through a long diatribe against the Thebans, which he said he had addressed to Philip himself, recapitulating the main points. He offered you a calculation that, thanks to his diplomacy, without leaving your homes, without any campaigning or worry, within two or three days you would hear the news of the beleaguerment of Thebes, independently of the rest of Boeotia,

of the repopulation of Thespiae and Plataea, and of the recovery of Apollo’s treasure, not from the Phocians, but from the Thebans, who had planned the seizure of the temple. It was himself, he added, who had instructed Philip that those who contrived the project were quite as sacrilegious as the men by whose hands it was executed; and therefore the Thebans had set a price on his head!

He had even heard some Euboeans, who were thoroughly frightened by the friendship that had been cemented between Philip and Athens, utter these very words: Gentlemen of the Embassy, we know all about the terms on which you have concluded peace with Philip, and we are aware that you have given up Amphipolis to him, and that he has agreed to hand over Euboea to you. He had also, he said, settled another matter, but he thought it better not to mention it just yet—some of his colleagues were already so jealous of him. This was a veiled allusion to Oropus.

And so, in all the glory of these disclosures, with everybody regarding him as a grand speaker and a marvellous man, he descended from the tribune in his most majestic manner. Then I rose, and said that the whole story was news to me. I attempted to repeat the statement I had made to the Council; but Aeschines and Philocrates posted themselves one on either side of me—shouting, interrupting, and finally jeering. You were all laughing; you would not listen to me, and you did not want to believe anything except what Aeschines had reported.

And I must say that your feeling was quite natural. For how could anyone, filled with anticipation of those wonderful benefits, be patient of a speaker who told you that you would never get them, and even denounced the conduct of the benefactors? At the moment, I imagine, everything else was thrown into the shade by the hopes and expectations that were suggested to you; contradiction seemed to be mere annoyance and malice; and these great achievements were thought amazingly fine and most beneficial to the commonwealth.

Why have I begun by reviving these memories and quoting those old speeches? My first and chief object, men of Athens, is that, when you hear me relate some performance that seems to you atrocious and incredible, no one may ask in surprise: Then why did you not speak out and give us this information instantly?

but that, by recalling the assurances by which on every occasion these men stopped others from getting your attention, and that magnificent promise of Aeschines, you may realize that you have to thank him for this crowning injury,—that you were precluded from learning the truth promptly and at the proper time, being cheated by hopes and impostures and vain assurances.

That, I say, is my first and main purpose in this narration. What is my second purpose? It is one of no less importance. I want you to remind yourselves of that policy of precaution and distrust of Philip which this man deliberately chose when he was still unbribed, and to compare the confidence and friendship that afterwards sprang up so suddenly;

and then, if the fair reports he laid before you have really proved true, and if all the results have been fortunate, to admit the view that that friendship was formed for truth’s sake and in the best interests of the city; but, if the sequel has given the lie to all his predictions, if it has involved the city in much dishonor and in grievous perils, then be assured that his own sordid greed has prompted this change of front, because he has sold the truth for a bribe.