Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  ‘Alcibiades!’ The voice was affectionate, but without a hint of passion. He turned in the doorway. Aspasia had re-arranged her dress and was combing out her hair. She was quite composed. The events of the last few moments might never have taken place. ‘Come here and sit down,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  The boy sat down on a low stool facing her. Aspasia said, as if to herself: ‘You’re seventeen, and a good-looking Athenian boy. You spend the day talking or wrestling with your friends in the gymnasium. Men want to make love to you, and say that this is a more noble love than that between man and woman. When you are full-grown you’ll marry to breed sons. Your wife—if you can call her a wife—will remain in her quarters, look after your household affairs, mourn her dead, and put up with your unfaithfulness.’

  Alcibiades said: ‘But—but what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Why do I look at it in a different way? you mean. Because, thank God, I’m an Ionian, not an Athenian. Because in Miletus and the Islands our women are free and equal with our men. Because I believe in human dignity—not merely male vanity.’

  ‘Is that what old Amycla meant when she talked to me about Milesian ways?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose she told you I was a whore?’

  Alcibiades said nothing.

  ‘I thought so. For a woman to be free and have a mind of her own in this city is an admission of prostitution. Yet your men can’t do without us. “Companions” is a nice euphemism, isn’t it? We can play and sing to them, dance for them, drink with them, sleep with them. Some of us are clever enough to beat them at their own quick-wittedness. But we have to be careful how we do it. A man always must think he’s cleverer here. If we let him, we can do what we like with him. Because in the last resort he can’t do without us.’ She stared at the wall. ‘Athenian men,’ she said at last. ‘Their affections go to their boys, their urge to prolong the line to their wives, and their foreign harlots are left with their spare lust and their argumentativeness . . .’

  Alcibiades looked at her and said: ‘But it’s different in this house.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aspasia, ‘it’s very different in this house. I wonder if you realise how different? I’m not married to Pericles; and because of the laws of this city, which he is responsible for upholding, our son will never be an Athenian citizen. They shake their heads over that. Do they think for a minute of the boy? But the greatest difference is over this matter of love. Alcibiades, do you know what love is? Or are you satisfied with the nonsense the philosophers talk about it in the market-place?’

  Alcibiades said: ‘Some say it is a dart, a sting of madness, a consuming flame of desire. Others—’and here he stumbled over his words—‘think of it as an ascent through sensation and physical desire to the intangible.’

  ‘Have you been listening to that ugly little fellow Socrates?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Do you think I stay in this room like a wife? If I am to be a mistress, I might as well have a mistress’s privileges. Yes, I know Socrates. I’ve argued with him. I also know his wife. She’s a bitter woman and a damned shrew, though I don’t know that I altogether blame her. But that’s neither here nor there. The thing is that you think of love as any other Athenian would. You’re not made for that kind of life. It’s not in your bones. But you haven’t the sense to understand what’s been going on under your nose for years.’

  ‘You mean—you and Pericles?’ To talk of his guardian at this moment somehow outraged the boy’s sense of proprieties.

  ‘Who else? Listen, my dear, and try to understand. I’ve lived with Pericles for nearly thirteen years now. During that time we’ve both had all the happiness that any two people could have living together. Till he took me he was incomplete. He was a successful politician. So have many been. He had a dream and a vision. Many others have done so. I made him more than a politician; I made him a great statesman; and I turned his dreams into reality.’ She walked to the window and pointed through it to where the marble of the Acropolis gleamed on the hill. ‘There is the proof,’ she said.

  ‘But—I thought you hated Athens.’

  ‘No. That’s the odd part of it. I’m proud of the City. Pericles’ dream has become mine as well. For me it’s bound up with him, personally, in a way that I suppose no man could understand. If he died—’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘But in all events it would have been worth it. I’ve had with him the relationship that your philosophers and lovers of boys say only a man can give. And I’ve given what they could never hope to. They say I’m his mistress, or his political adviser. They’re right and wrong. I’m both and neither. If I slept with another man’—she looked directly at the boy—‘it wouldn’t alter that relationship at all.’

  ‘Why did you come to Athens in the first place?’ asked Alcibiades.

  ‘That’s hard to answer. The poets say I was run out of a brothel in Miletus.’ She laughed. ‘It wasn’t anything so—picturesque. I wanted a change of scene. They said there was something in Athens that could be found nowhere else. And they were right. They said that there was a man in Athens like no other man in Greece. They were right over that, too.’ She gazed abstractedly at the pattern of light and shade on the hillside.

  Alcibiades rose, awkwardly, not knowing how to take his leave. Aspasia put her arm round his shoulders. ‘You aren’t to worry,’ she said. ‘You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of. If I’d been a man,’ she added bitterly, ‘you’d have gone round telling your friends how clever you were. As you do about Demostratus and Anytus.’

  ‘How did you know about Demostratus and Anytus?’

  ‘I’m not a recluse. It’s very amusing. You certainly choose carefully. They must have as much money between them as Hipponicus. There’s a mercenary streak in your character I find rather engaging. And that reminds me: I haven’t forgotten about your horse.’ She kissed him gently, and went out of the room.

  • • • • •

  Adeimantus found Alcibiades with Demostratus in the powdering room of the gymnasium. Demostratus was big and in excellent physical condition. His chest and arms were covered with hair. He treated Alcibiades as though he were a rather fragile vase; and seemed rather more pleased to see Adeimantus than Alcibiades did.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you’re just in time. I was about to show Alcibiades some of the rudiments of boxing. Come along with us, young fellow.’ He had a bluff, hearty voice. Rubbing his hands, he led the way to a curtained-off room where a dozen punch-bags hung from the ceiling. He found a vacant one and postured in front of it, prancing on his toes and feinting at an imaginary enemy.

  ‘Now watch carefully,’ he said. He gave a spirited display of shadow-boxing. He seemed more at ease when using his hands. His neat lefts and rights were interspersed with a breathless running commentary: ‘Remember to—keep up—your guard, even—when you’re attacking—so. Keep moving on your feet—’ It was quite a long display. At the end Adeimantus applauded, and threw the now sweating Demostratus a winning smile.

  Alcibiades stood leaning negligently against the wall, saying nothing. Demostratus called to him. Alcibiades said, with an exaggerated lisp: ‘I don’t think I care very much for boxing. A vulgar sport. I should be much happier if you would wrestle with me.’

  Demostratus hesitated for the fraction of a second between the two of them. Then he said: ‘Why, of course, my dear. Wrestling it shall be.’ They walked off arm-in-arm to the sanded arena, where already a dozen or two couples were practising throws. Adeimantus sighed, shrugged, and went in search of other acquaintances.

  • • • • •

  Demostratus said reproachfully: ‘I’m afraid you’ll never make a good wrestler.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Alcibiades. He towelled himself briskly. Demostratus thought that his naked body was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. ‘If I’m in trouble I can always bite. You know why they call me the Little Lion, don’t you?’

  Demostratus frowned. ‘I can’t understand yo
u. At times I think you’re laughing at me—at all of us.’

  Alcibiades said, mischievously: ‘I give up a great deal of my time to you; I wrestle with you, and let you throw me round the floor and cover me with bruises; I come to your supper parties. What more do you want?’

  ‘You play with my favours like a harlot. You know I want you as my lover.’

  Alcibiades felt an irrepressible revulsion. He said, lightly: ‘Will you do me a favour?

  ‘Of course. You know I will. Anything.’

  The great fool, thought Alcibiades. Aloud he said: ‘My guardian is giving me a horse. I would be proud if when I rode it I could say, “Demostratus gave me the trappings for this horse.” Otherwise my friends will say: “No one cares for Alcibiades. Only his guardian will give him presents.” ’

  ‘Alcibiades, you know that’s not true. Those sandals you are wearing, and your new cloak, and that gold brooch—’

  ‘Ah, but people don’t notice things like that. Now, fine scarlet trappings for a horse, with perhaps a thread or two of gold—’

  ‘Alcibiades, will you have supper with me tonight? Just the two of us together? There’s so much I want to discuss with you.’

  ‘Why can’t we discuss it here? There’s plenty of time. Besides, you haven’t answered my question—’

  ‘All right: you shall have the trappings—’

  ‘Do you promise?’

  ‘Yes, I swear it. Now will you have supper with me?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alcibiades, his head on one side, his lisp more pronounced than ever: ‘I’m having supper with. Anytus.’ He pulled on his tunic and fled.

  • • • • •

  You’re late,” said Anytus, plaintively. He was podgy and blond, and his hair was thinning. His supper table was set with a fabulous collection of gold plate. This plate was a standing joke. Rumour had it that his grandfather had been a pirate, and had won it from a treasure-ship in an engagement off Crete. Alcibiades glanced at it and raised his eyebrows. ‘How many are we?’ he inquired sweetly.

  Anytus looked offended. ‘Just the two of us. I brought it out specially to please you. I do think you might make an effort to appreciate it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alcibiades. ‘It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like it before.’ He sat down, and Anytus poured him out wine. He leant just a little too close as he did so.

  Alcibiades raised the gold cup to his lips. ‘I presume,’ he said, ‘that you make up for the luxury of your table by the absence of your servants, my dear Anytus. To have my wine poured by the master of the house! A rare honour.’

  Anytus clapped his hands, and two slaves silently brought in the first course.

  It was a difficult meal. There was a small but persistent devil lurking in Alcibiades that would not be repressed. It was exacerbated by the arch compliments and thinly-veiled suggestions that were his host’s substitute for an intelligent discussion. He drank a good deal of wine very fast. Anytus, noting this, encouraged him, refilling his goblet the moment was empty. By the time the last dish had been cleared away, Alcibiades was very drunk indeed.

  Anytus said to the slaves: ‘You may go now. I do not wish to be disturbed on any excuse whatsoever for the rest of the evening.’ They bowed and withdrew, shutting the doors behind them.

  Anytus’ face was congested with the wine he had drunk, and his wreath had slipped away and hung tipsily over one ear. Alcibiades stood up, swaying.

  ‘Anytus,’ he heard himself saying, thickly, his tongue slurring the syllables, ‘I must thank you for a most r-royal entertainment. I am deeply honoured. But now I must leave you.’ He made a motion to go. Anytus said, furiously, ‘Leave? Now? After all this? What do you think I am?’ He lurched forward and grasped Alcibiades by the sleeve.

  ‘Let go of me, you drunken sot.’ Alcibiades could hardly get the words out. ‘Do you call yourself a man? And do you think me a common whore, to be bought with a good dinner?’ He choked. How nearly it was true, he thought. Anytus said nothing; he staggered to a chair, sat down, put his head in his hands and began to cry. Strands of hair fell down over his fingers, revealing a ludicrous pink bald patch. Alcibiades went quickly to the door and let himself out. As he went he took one last look back. Anytus was still sitting in the same position, his plump shoulders shaking with sobs.

  The night air was cool and fresh. Alcibiades set off at a steady pace down the deserted lane, through patches of shadow and moonlight. From somewhere came the tinkle of water from a fountain. A cloud passed slowly across the moon.

  Never again, said the boy out loud to the silent houses, never again. I have no right to inflict this absurd and grotesque suffering, even on such a creature as Anytus. Aspasia was right. As he thought of Aspasia, his whole body broke out in a warm glow, and his pulses raced. Never again, he repeated. As he walked up the broad street that led to Pericles’ house he began to sing.

  Chapter 4

  Pericles looked round the table and said: ‘I think perhaps none of you realise how grave the situation is.’ His gaze rested on each of them in turn. Hagnon, lean and scarred, was contemplating the tips of his fingers. Phormio was shifting restlessly in his seat, as if eager to speak. His tanned, florid face stood out in sharp contrast to those of his companions. The fourth man, whose name was Nicias, sat rigid and upright, his eyes fixed unwinkingly on Pericles. They were yellowish in colour, as if he had recently recovered from jaundice. His skin was sallow and grained, and the hairs round his bald head were prematurely grey. One long hand played nervously with the hem of his gown. It was he who broke the silence.

  ‘I think I speak for all of us,’ he said, in a harsh, thin voice, ‘if I say that we would be grateful for any possible information you may be able to give us, Pericles.’

  ‘I have received a dispatch today’—Pericles tapped a soiled scroll on the table in front of him—‘that tells me Corinth has sent her fleet up the north-west coast to Epidamnus and attacked the Corcyrean navy.’ He paused to let the effect of the statement sink in. ‘Fortunately,’ he went on drily, ‘the Corinthians were defeated with the loss of fifteen vessels. I may add that they disregarded the herald sent them by the Corcyreans warning them not to attack.’

  ‘Now, gentlemen: as to our possible part in this affair. It is not entirely a matter of soldiery. You remember that two years ago I spent some time in Thrace? Well, perhaps you were not aware that during that time Phormio was doing a little investigating on my behalf.’ Phormio smiled. He had the appearance of having just woken up.

  ‘Phormio went on—shall we call it an unofficial military and economic mission? He cruised up the west coast on a sightseeing tour. Among other places he touched in at Corcyra and Epidamnus. The sympathy they displayed towards Athens—the only major power besides Corinth who had intervened in their affairs—was interesting and suggestive. It confirmed me in what I had already been planning.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Nicias.

  ‘Tell him, Phormio.’

  ‘An open trade route to Sicily and the West,’ said Phormio briskly. Hagnon. blinked.

  ‘You now see Corinth’s anxiety,’ Pericles went on. If she loses access to Corcyra’s harbours, you, at any rate, Phormio, hardly need to be told as a sailor that her trade to Italy is completely crippled.’

  ‘Are we to take it,’ asked Nicias in his precise voice, ‘that Corinth will prefer war with us to—ah—a slow attrition of trade?’

  Pericles hesitated before replying. Then he said: ‘I think it should be understood clearly that whatever is said here should not go beyond these four walls.’

  ‘After what has been said already,’ observed Nicias drily, ‘that would seem fairly obvious.’

  ‘Very well, then. If we are to maintain our position, we must expand our trade. We have steadily increasing commitments, and very limited assets at home. There should be no difficulties in this plan. Corinth is peculiarly vulnerable. It seems both a safe and a logical course to take.’

&nbs
p; ‘I would not like you to infer,’ said Nicias hastily, ‘that I am unreservedly in favour of this—scheme. I feel we should be most circumspect in coming to any irrevocable decisions. I must say that I am strongly in favour of caution.’

  Phormio chuckled and stroked his beard. ‘We were aware of that,’ he said.

  ‘It’s no laughing, matter. You and Pericles appear to be treating Corinth as if she were incapable of raising allies. If her position becomes intolerable she is certain to appeal to Sparta. If we’re not careful this could lead to a general war.’

  Pericles raised his eyebrows and said blandly: ‘Of course I had envisaged that. If we are to continue on our chosen course there can be little doubt that war will become inevitable. It is simply a matter of choosing our own time and conditions. And the time is not yet. Greece cannot sustain two empires. We have to choose between Sparta and ourselves: between land and sea.’

  ‘And between Dorian and Ionian,’ said Hagnon. There was another silence.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Pericles resumed, ‘our task at the moment is to decide on our own immediate policy. There can be little doubt that soon—perhaps not this year, nor even the next, but soon—we shall be asked to arbitrate between Corinth and Corcyra. Perhaps more. The Corcyreans have said that they must find their allies where they have no inclination to do so. That can only mean one thing. Their natural alliance, through Corinth, is with Sparta. Sooner or later they will turn to us.’

  ‘We are to take it, then,’ said Nicias, ‘that when this moment comes you are in favour of supporting Corcyra?’