The Road to Sardis

by Stephanie Plowman

  ‘I don’t think that they’re unaware of it,’ I said. ‘and I don’t think they’re all fools.’

  After that we were both silent. I have often wondered since what he was thinking of as we rode down to the camp together. Was he thinking of that other council of war in Sicily ten years before where he had sat with Nicias and Tydeus’ father? But I myself thought chiefly of an even earlier council of war, the council of war nearly a century ago, on the height overlooking Marathon, when ten men decided what use they would make of Athens’ only force, her army. Now her only force was the fleet drawn up on this muddy beach. If it were misused, Athens was as finished as if the Persians had won at Marathon. It would be the end of all the glories—and much else too. The end of everything.

  My cousin’s voice interrupted my train of thought. ‘Harking back to our conversation last night,’ he said, ‘do we need a password?’

  With a dreadful feeling of shock I realised that the moment of decision was almost on us. Amazed soldiers—such as remained; most of them, of course, had gone straggling off to Sestos—had come crowding up to stare at my startling visitor.

  We went into Conon’s tent. There was an odd feeling of quietness, though practically every man left in the camp was clamouring outside. Conon said curtly, ‘I’ve sent to the others; they’ll be here soon.’

  ‘You seem sure they’ll come,’ said my cousin easily, though there was a little nervous pulse beating at the corner of his mouth. Conon, I think, was as much taken aback by his changed appearance as I had been, for his tone was almost gentle, even if his words were uncompromising, as he replied, ‘Oh, they’ll come all right—they’ll be so damned anxious to do the equivalent of spitting in your face.’

  ‘They’ll have to listen,’ said Alcibiades stubbornly.

  I said, ‘Don’t be too hopeful, they haven’t listened to Conon.’

  He turned to Conon and said with something of his old smile, ‘I hope you won’t start changing your mind through sheer suspicion because I’m arguing along the same lines as you are.’

  Conon grinned and said, ‘Oh, I believe you want the Spartans smashed all right; if they finish us they’ll be your neighbours here, which is the last thing you want!’

  ‘My God!’ said my cousin fervently. ‘The moment Lysander sets his horny foot on this side of the Straits, I’ll be over the hills and far away.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Conon consideringly. ‘You were anxious enough to help twenty-four hours ago, and then, of course, you made a discovery that made you even keener.’ He jerked his head in my direction.

  Then in came the others.

  Only two of them did any talking—Tydeus and Adeimantus, of course.

  Tydeus opened the proceedings pleasantly by saying he had half a mind to arrest my cousin, and to arrest me too for introducing him into the camp. In which case, remarked Conon quietly, what about the person who had received Alcibiades in his tent? And if this person were arrested, the reactions of his crews might be violent—and it would be uncommonly stupid to provoke a mutiny in the only section of the fleet showing any sense of emergency.

  An amazing thing happened then. I saw Alcibiades trying to keep the peace. He said quickly that he had no doubt that when the other commanders heard what he had to say, they might alter their tactics, plunged into an account of the enemy ships that shadowed ours daily as they retired across the Straits, talked of the Thracian tribes he could raise against the Spartans, and then—

  ‘And then the Athenians will see all over again that they can’t get on without you?’ jeered Tydeus.

  Alcibiades replied with astonishing patience, ‘I don’t think they’ll get that idea; the victory at Arginusae showed what they could do left to themselves.’

  ‘So you’re making this great offer out of pure unselfish patriotism?’

  Still with that amazing patience he replied, ‘I should, of course, like to give up a life of exile and return to Athens, but—well, even if I couldn’t think of ever going back to the City again, don’t you realise what it will be like having to sit watching you being destroyed—and doing nothing?’

  Tydeus said with slow venom, ‘Yes, it would be a change for you, wouldn’t it? Every other time you’ve caused the destruction yourself.’

  My cousin had been pale enough when I met him; now every trace of blood ebbed away from his face, leaving it the greyish mask of a dying man, lips drawn back from the clenched teeth. He stood motionless, voiceless; I said with murder in my own face and voice, ‘You yourself shouldn’t be so quick to mention Syracuse, Tydeus. If anyone has the right to speak for those ghosts, I’m the man, and I say Alcibiades is right. And if you must drag in Syracuse, remember this—we could get ships together eight years ago, but we can’t do it again. This is our only fleet. If we’re defeated the City’s finished. We could live without Sicily; we can’t manage without the Black Sea corn-routes.’

  ‘Even if we don’t take up Alcibiades’ offer,’ said Conon doggedly, ‘we must move to Sestos.’

  ‘We can’t watch Lysander from Sestos. That’s what we’re here to do—to keep him in sight and force an action as soon as possible.’

  ‘He’s not exactly playing your game, is he?’ said Alcibiades. Some colour had returned to his cheeks, and if his smile had little humour in it, at least it was not the deathly grin of a few moments before. ‘Whereas I’m not so sure that you’re not playing his.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ piped up Adeimantus shrilly for the first time. ‘Although,’ he added with a sneer, ‘I admit there’s no one as fitted as you are to talk about winning the war for the Spartans.’

  But for him, I think Alcibiades would have gone on showing that remarkable, uncharacteristic patience, but the gibe from Adeimantus, of all people, was too much. He squared his shoulders and his eyes glinted. ‘At least,’ he said dangerously, ‘when I turned traitor I did it openly.’

  Adeimantus recoiled, his face the colour of whey. ‘Meaning what?’ he stuttered.

  ‘Meaning what they’ll say in Athens when they hear what you’re playing at. If the generals were executed after winning Arginusae, hemlock’s going to be too straightforward for—’

  Philocles blundered in, Philocles who obviously hadn’t the least idea what people were talking about. I forget what he said—I was too interested in watching the faces of Adeimantus and Tydeus. In a dreamy voice I said to Tydeus, ‘And to think Lamachus fathered you!’

  Alcibiades was doing his best to persuade Philocles. ‘About harbouring at Sestos,’ he was saying slowly, ‘there are such things as scouts and interception, you know. But even if you won’t give up this base, for God’s sake do something about discipline. The only bit of regularity you manage is the daily duty call on Lysander; after that . . .’

  Tydeus by this time had his second wind. He bawled, ‘Get out! Get out before you’re cut down! Who in the hell do you think you are? You’re an outlaw—carrion! We are the generals here!’

  ‘He goes free and safe,’ said Conon, his jaw jutting. ‘He came here of his own accord to give us advice.’

  ‘More likely to spy out the land for his Spartan friends,’ said Philocles, who had belatedly gathered that accusations of treachery had been flying about.

  Alcibiades gazed at him wide-eyed for a moment; then he said briefly, ‘Lysander may have all Cyrus’ resources at his disposal, but he’s close-fisted Spartan enough not to spend money unnecessarily.’

  ‘What does he mean by that?’ Philocles was saying peevishly as we went out of the tent, leaving Conon behind to get rid of his visitors as best as he could.

  ‘I’ll come with you to the point where I met you,’ I said in a low voice.

  ‘For God’s sake come up to the fort there—for four or five days at least, till I can get the Thracians moving.’

  ‘I can’t leave Paralus, you know that.’

  ‘But do you want to have your throat cut in that company?’ he was beginning, and then we were surrounded by curious sailors and
soldiers, and every word we exchanged could be overheard. ‘Tell me about the comedies this year,’ he said lightly, as we swung ourselves into our saddles. ‘Did Aristophanes present a play? Is he still in form?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he got first prize; in fact the play was so popular he had to give a repeat performance.’

  ‘Tell me about it. What was it about?’

  ‘Dionysus is so wretched over Euripides’ death—’ I was beginning, but he interrupted with unexpected, uncharacteristic consideration, ‘No, don’t bother. If he’s still making fun of Euripides, you couldn’t relish—’

  ‘No, I didn’t really mind, once I got over the shock of seeing the mask—well, the whole thing was so clever and funny even I couldn’t help laughing. Dionysus goes down to Hell with a comic slave, and there’s a kind of contest between Aeschylus and Euripides—’

  ‘Poetry?’

  ‘Well, it seemed to get a little out of hand there. They started off with poetry, but at the end they were giving political advice . . .’ Suddenly my voice trailed away.

  The bright blue eyes met mine. ‘Did I come into it? You may as well tell me what was said—otherwise, until I get hold of a copy of the play, I’ll imagine it all to be even worse than it was.’ The ghost of the old smile returned. ‘In any case you should know I’d prefer them saying anything about me in Athens, than to be forgotten!’

  So I told him. How Dionysus had asked what was to be done with Alcibiades—‘Our citizens love him, loathe him, want him back.’ Euripides had said he hated a citizen slow to serve the State, quick to harm it, always self-seeking—to the public danger. Aeschylus had said a lion’s whelp should not be brought up in the City, but since it had been, the people must learn to live with it. ‘And at this,’ I said, ‘there was a great outburst of cheering.’

  We were beyond the camp now. He turned to me and said, ‘You were always very close to Euripides; do you think I’d still go on being a—a public menace?’

  I said slowly, ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Almost I said, ‘If Euripides could see you now, I don’t believe he would think so either.’ Almost I said, ‘And Euripides would write a tragedy about you as no one else could do.’ Only Euripides could do it, Euripides who in his Electra had shown Clytemnestra tired, middle-aged (how old was my cousin? Forty-five? He looked older.), showing patience and self-control, anxious to rouse as little antagonism as possible.

  He met my eyes again and said, ‘If they recalled me to Athens and put me in the saddle again, I’d probably be my old self and you’d find me entirely detestable.’

  ‘Talking of saddles,’ I said, ‘I’d better get out of this, and back to Paralus.’

  ‘Come with me until I get things moving.’

  ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must move fast. If I can get the Thracians putting in an attack within—’ He broke off suddenly. ‘I’ll be watching,’ he said abruptly, ‘but anything may happen. Probably this is the last time we’ll talk together. I hope it’s a good last memory of me. If, on the other hand, things turn out well, and I eventually get back to Athens, it would be good if we could serve together. Would you mind that?’

  I grinned suddenly. ‘The comedown would be all yours,’ I said. ‘You’ve served alongside Socrates. I only get Nicias and Tydeus.’

  ‘That’s settled then; I shan’t even bear you a grudge because now you’ll turn more of the girls’ heads than I shall. And tell Conon I’ll do what I can.’

  We did not embrace; he merely raised his hand in salute, then galloped away. As they had done in our first meeting, so the rays of the setting sun fell about him on this our last.

  For of course, Lysander did not give us the four or five days’ grace we needed to save the City.

  I have thought since that someone in our camp that night sent him speedy warning of what Alcibiades proposed to do—at any rate, he stopped playing his waiting game quickly enough.

  Another dawn had come.

  Adeimantus was wearing a magnificent new ring.

  Conon told his people in a low voice to be prepared for anything.

  Dawn rising above the greyish river flowing sluggishly between the sun-baked beaches. Sea birds screaming. Bread soaked in wine, a handful of olives. Conon’s cloak was wet with dew; he had slept on board his ship last night, not in his tent. We were ready in our ships long before the other crews came down the beach, some grumbling, bleary-eyed, the younger men laughing and sky-larking, planning what they would do that afternoon in Sestos.

  We sailed across the Straits till the white walls and houses of Lampsacus were clear, defined, and so were the Spartan ships that showed no sign of life. After mid-day, we turned back for our stretch of beach, followed by a couple of small enemy ships, seeing us safely home after our duty call, as always, then going back to report to Lysander that as far as the Athenians were concerned, the war was over for the day.

  Only this time they did not go back.

  I do not know if any of the poor doomed wretches on the beach ever knew what happened, or if Alcibiades watching miles away, could see the details, but I saw, and Conon saw, a flash of light from one of the attendant enemy ships in midstrait.

  Someone had hoisted a brazen shield on the prow.

  We—because every sense was alert—heard, very faintly, the sound of a trumpet echoing across that narrow stretch of water. I don’t think any of the others did.

  Everybody has said since that Lysander’s fleet came across the Strait at a tremendous rate; that, of course, must be true, but to me, who had been seeing this very thing happening every day and night since we took up this cursed station, the enemy ships seemed to come almost slowly. I suppose I had suffered so many nightmares about this very thing, that when it actually happened, I could not believe it—until the foul taste that fear brings to the mouth made me know it was real enough.

  Otherwise the sights and sounds were what in my imagination I had seen and heard in the hot, airless nights, the blistering, endless afternoons—the harsh Spartan war cries growing ever louder, a spattering of shrill shouts from our encampment, mingling and growing louder as the panic spread, spreading from beach to tents, to the distant figures trudging off to Sestos. Above all, rose Conon’s voice, Conon yelling like a madman, ‘Back to the ships! Fight, or the City’s finished

  He wasn’t shouting to his own men; they, like my crew, had not quitted their rowing-benches. He was shouting to those poor deluded fools, who came stumbling from their tents, rubbing their eyes as they cursed friends for playing a trick on them, to the doomed wretches running like madmen back across the sun-baked stretch of sand leading to Sestos, falling over each other in their frantic haste, trampling over any comrades who fell, like the terrified animals they were. There is nothing so brutish as men in the grip of panic; as Paralus put out to sea we could hear their shouts, but we could not distinguish words; they gesticulated wildly with their hands, their mouths were distorted, trying in vain to speak, but the words they made were inarticulate, like beasts’ noises, and their eyes were the blank, expressionless eyes of beasts.

  I looked away, and my eyes met Ariston’s and his gaze bore the same message as my own—This, too, we have seen before, when doomed Athenians became animals outside Syracuse.

  Conon’s eight ships and little Paralus were all that remained of the fleets of Athens. Men sobbed as they bent to their oars, cursed, prayed that some of the swine would try to intercept us, so that some of Athens’ last fleet might fight and take Spartans down to hell with them. But the Spartans were not so obliging, of course; they were not going to risk loss of life and ship taking on an enemy desperate and dangerous as a cornered boar, when before them twenty times that number writhed panic-stricken and helpless as sheep.

  There was nothing, it seemed, to salve the agony of flight for us, nothing to make us deaf to the beat of the racing enemy oars flailing the sea, the harsh Spartan cries, and then the long-drawn out grinding crash as the Spartan ships reached ou
r lines.

  We did not hear much after that; not only were we drawing away as fast as we could go, but owing to the dispositions of our generals there were, of course, singularly few of the usual battle sounds to come over the water to us. Scarcely one of the ships was manned, scarcely one of the thousands running aimlessly up and down the beach, mindless with fear, had taken his weapons with him when, whistling cheerfully, he had left the vessel at midday to stroll to Sestos, or lounge on the shore, or snatch an afternoon nap in his tent. Some wretches, I believe, were actually killed in their sleep.

  It wasn’t a battle. That is the dreadful shame of the event which was the end of Athens—it wasn’t a battle.

  The Spartans took one hundred and seventy-one war ships, and their crews; it takes two hundred men to man a trireme. There was no resistance at all, no one fought for his life, though a few men ran for it. They did not run far, because Lysander sent his land forces marching along the coast and what the fleet missed the army scooped up.

  The whole action, they say, took just one hour. Then the prisoners were herded aboard what had been their ships, and Lysander sailed back to Lampsacus to the sound of triumphant flute music. Behind him what had been the Athenian camp went up in flames.

  Next day he called a general assembly to decide the fate of his prisoners. No time was wasted; all Athenians—with certain exceptions—were to be put to death, but, being superstitious, Spartans must of course make everything seem lawful. Twenty-two years before they had found a ‘justification’ for murdering Plataea; now they said that in a council of war a few days before, Philocles and his captains had proposed to cut off the right hands of all enemy prisoners taken. That pattern of heroic humanity, Adeimantus, had opposed; Tydeus and Menander had been curiously mute. If it comes to that, they were equally inconspicuous at the ‘trial’, making in fact no appearance at all. The Spartans said they must be among those fugitives who had taken refuge in ‘local forts’; since the only local fort belonged to my cousin it is hardly likely that the missing generals sought sanctuary there. My guess is that they made their way inland to link up with Spartan land forces.