The gates of the Aristophon estate were made of bronze. Old bronze, dark with age, engraved with patterns that Theron didn't have time to study because a guard was already waving the crowd forward.
"Line up. Single file. Move."
Thirty-seven people shuffled into a neat column. Theron ended up near the middle. He kept his head down and his expression neutral. The last thing he needed was for one of the estate guards to recognize his face.
None of them did. It had been two years. He'd been younger then, thinner, with longer hair. Now he kept it short. Different enough.
The line moved through the gates and into a wide courtyard paved with flat stone. Servants were setting up tables along one wall. A fountain bubbled quietly in the center. And standing in front of it all, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else in the world, was an old man in a plain brown robe.
"That's Philippos," someone whispered behind Theron. "The librarian."
Philippos let them stand in silence for a full minute before he spoke.
"Most of you are going to waste my time," he said. His voice was dry, flat, completely unimpressed. "I don't care about your family name. I don't care if your father was a citizen or a slave. I care about one thing."
He held up a single finger.
"Can you read? Can you think? If the answer to either question is no, leave now and save us both the trouble."
Nobody left. But a few people shifted uncomfortably.
Philippos nodded like he expected that.
"Good. We'll find out soon enough."
The first test was reading.
A servant handed each applicant a scroll. It was a passage from an old philosophical text — dense language, archaic grammar, the kind of writing that made most people's eyes glaze over after three lines.
"Read it aloud when I point to you," Philippos said. "Clearly. Correctly. Go."
He pointed to the first person in line. A young citizen, well-dressed, confident. The man opened his mouth and stumbled immediately. The archaic verb forms tripped him up. He stammered through two sentences before Philippos held up a hand.
"Next."
The next person was worse. She couldn't even pronounce half the words.
"Next."
One by one, Philippos worked through the line. Some did better than others. A few managed the full passage without error. But most failed within the first few sentences, and each time they did, Philippos simply said "Next" and moved on. No sympathy. No encouragement. Just efficiency.
When Theron's turn came, he took the scroll, read it from start to finish without stopping, and handed it back.
Philippos didn't react. He just pointed to the next person.
But Theron noticed something. The old man's eyes had lingered on him for half a second longer than on anyone else. A flicker of interest, quickly hidden.
By the end of the reading test, twenty-three people remained.
The second test was penmanship.
Fresh parchment. Quality ink. A reed pen for each applicant. Philippos placed a text in front of them — a different passage, longer this time — and gave them one instruction.
"Copy it exactly. Speed and accuracy both matter. Begin."
Theron dipped his pen and started writing.
He'd been a scribe for three years. His hand was fast and steady. The pen moved across the parchment in clean, even strokes, each letter precise. He didn't rush. Rushing caused errors, and errors meant starting over.
Around him, he could hear the scratching of other pens. Some fast, some slow. Some already making mistakes — he could tell by the way certain writers paused, then carefully scratched out a word and rewrote it.
Theron finished first.
He set his pen down and waited. Philippos walked along the row of tables, examining each person's work. He spent three seconds on most of them. On Theron's, he spent fifteen.
"Adequate," he said, and moved on.
Fifteen more people were dismissed after this round. Eight remained.
The third test was knowledge.
Philippos gathered the remaining eight applicants and held up the text they'd copied.
"Tell me what this passage is arguing," he said. "One at a time. Clearly."
The first applicant — a citizen, broad-shouldered, the kind of man who looked like he belonged in a gymnasium rather than a library — cleared his throat and gave a long, confident answer.
It was completely wrong.
Not just wrong. It missed the entire point of the passage. The man had clearly read the words without understanding a single one of them.
Philippos didn't correct him. He just moved to the next person.
The answers continued. Some were better. One woman gave a decent summary — correct enough, but shallow. She didn't dig into the reasoning behind the argument. She just restated what was on the surface.
Then it was Theron's turn.
He took a breath.
"The passage argues that knowledge obtained through observation is more reliable than knowledge obtained through authority," he said. "Xenocles is making the case that what you can see and measure yourself is worth more than what a teacher tells you to believe."
Philippos nodded slowly. "Go on."
Theron hesitated for one second. Then he said it.
"But his argument has a flaw. In the third paragraph, he claims that all observed truths are self-evident. That's not true. Some observations require interpretation. Two people can watch the same event and draw different conclusions. So observation alone isn't enough either. You also need a method for evaluating what you observe."
The room went quiet.
The other seven applicants stared at him. One of them — the citizen who'd given the wrong answer — actually took a step back, like Theron had drawn a weapon.
Philippos studied him for a long moment.
"You corrected Xenocles," he said.
"I corrected the logic," Theron said. "Not the philosopher."
Another silence.
Then Philippos turned to the other seven applicants.
"You're all dismissed," he said.
The citizen sputtered. "But — we're citizens. He's a metic. Surely —"
"I need someone who can think," Philippos said, not even looking at him. "Not someone with a good family name. Out."
The seven filed out, some angry, some confused, one openly glaring at Theron as he passed.
Philippos turned back to Theron.
"You start tomorrow. Dawn. Don't be late."
Theron nodded. "Thank you, sir."
"Don't thank me. Thank your brain. It's the only useful thing about you from what I can tell." Philippos waved a hand. "Go. Eat something. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in weeks."
He was right about that too.
Theron walked out through the bronze gates and into the street. The afternoon sun was warm on his face. He stood there for a moment, letting it sink in.
He was inside. He had access to the library. To the estate. To everything he needed.
Now the real work could begin.
End of Chapter Four