“I won my city’s crown by words, then chose poison rather than speak under Macedonian guard.”
I was born in Paeania and orphaned young; my guardians ate my estate. I learned the law to recover it. I trained my voice: pebbles in the mouth, words against the surf, breath on uphill runs, and the pen as a logographer. If my tongue began halting, it learned to obey thought.
When Philip of Macedon pressed the cities, I left the courts for the Assembly. In the Olynthiacs and Philippics I named the danger and the means: ships, ordered finances, timely alliances. I went to Thebes and we clasped hands. At Chaeronea Macedon broke us; later I spoke over our dead.
I did not fall silent. Ctesiphon proposed a crown for my service; Aeschines arraigned us. In On the Crown I defended my course, and the city judged me right. Then Harpalus arrived with stolen treasure. I was condemned in that affair and went into exile.
After Alexander’s death the city called me back. When Antipater’s agent came for me, I took sanctuary on Calaureia and chose poison rather than a Macedonian court. I measured power with a voice, and learned where speech ends and fate begins.
I gave Athens dialogue and law onstage, yet I learned justice first in the dust at Marathon.
Start the conversationI swore by Apollo, yet I told the sick their gods were blameless.
Start the conversationI beat Rome twice and grew weaker—ask me why victory, to me, could be the shortest road to loss.
Start the conversationI lost more prizes than I won, yet my heroines still speak louder than our generals.
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