Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  Pericles inclined his head. ‘Yes. In addition to the factors we have already considered, we should remember that Corcyra has a by no means negligible navy.’

  He looked round the table. ‘Are we, then, agreed on this point?’

  Phormio nodded vigorously. Nicias hesitated a moment, then said: ‘If we do not commit ourselves too far, I think what you suggest seems a reasonable course.’

  ‘Good. And you, Hagnon?’

  The grey-haired general paused. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that I would like a word with you in private, if I May.’

  ‘Very well. In that case, I think we may consider the meeting adjourned.’

  Phormio and Nicias rose, nodded to Pericles, and went out together. Hagnon paced round the room, twisting his fingers nervously.

  At last he said: ‘Pericles, you and I are old friends. You are as much a soldier as I am. You know what war would mean—especially war with Sparta. Land against sea: you said so yourself. We shall have to play a holding game. Do you think you can control the people through that? Do you think they’ll let you keep them in Athens while Sparta burns their crops and destroys their olives?’

  Pericles said: ‘Would you rather that we gave up now? We have the chance—and the right—to be the greatest power in Greece. I have the power and the duty to ensure that we are. Am I to betray that duty? His voice had risen, and there was a hard light in his eyes.

  Hagnon said: ‘There are some things that are worth more than power. Happiness, peace—if you don’t want them for yourself you might at least think of those who do. In aiming for power—I know you don’t want that for yourself—you may bring untold misery where you hoped for glory.’

  ‘I’ve thought of every possible contingency. Do you think this is a sudden whim? It’s what I’ve planned and dreamed of for twenty years. And you tell me to abandon it because you don’t like the idea of fighting!’

  Hagnon shook his head. ‘You should know better than any that I’m not afraid of war—or responsibility. But this is different. I’ve watched you for ten years now. You’ve changed beyond recognition. Oh no: you haven’t seen it yourself, and you haven’t been able to avoid it. It was inevitable. What was the logical result of all your dreams? An empire. Pericles, you can’t have an empire and keep your ideals. Once you started you couldn’t stop. I’ve seen you do things you never would have dreamed of once. The expedition to Samos was only one of them.’

  Pericles looked through the window to where the Parthenon gleamed in the afternoon light.

  ‘There are some things that are greater than personal safety or individual satisfaction. In the end I shall stand justified.’

  Hagnon said, almost desperately: ‘If this war comes, it won’t be a border skirmish, over in a season. It’ll go on for year after year. And are you so sure that we would win?’

  ‘You talk like Nicias. Oracles are cheap in Athens: you should go and buy yourself a favourable prediction. If they know who you are you’re sure to get what you want.’

  ‘If you go on,’ said Hagnon, ‘you will destroy yourself and all of us.’

  ‘If I could avoid war I would. But there’s no way. I can see it rising from the Peloponnese like a cloud. And if it is to come, we must be prepared. Why else do you think there are three thousand talents stored in Athene’s temple? For incense?’ He laughed shortly. ‘And the other gods are getting their due as well. Oh yes: all the surplus is being devoted to their attention. And when the time comes, we must . . . defend our gods, mustn’t we? In five years there should be six thousand talents to do it with.’

  Hagnon was shocked in a way for which he could not find words. He said: ‘So you’ve had it all planned for years. Did you foresee a war even then?’

  ‘Hagnon, don’t behave like a child. Can you ask me that, knowing what Sparta has been to us for these fifty years past?’

  ‘I suppose I should have seen. All I ask you is not to—put duties on me that I could not well support.’

  ‘Are you deserting me?’

  ‘No. You should know me better than that. And to whom should I turn if I were? Thucydides’ party? Or the charcoal-burners and farmers? Thucydides wants the power to do exactly what you aim to do; and if I have to choose between you, I would stay where I am. The others want peace at any price; and there are some prices that not even I am prepared to pay. Oh no; you’ll keep your supporters, if only because the point has been reached where we’re all committed as deeply as you are.’

  Pericles remained silent, not looking at Hagnon, his fingers tapping on the table in front of him. After a moment Hagnon threw his cloak about his shoulders and went out quickly; and Pericles, without any change in his expression, turned back to his pile of unopened dispatches.

  • • • • •

  Hiero, Nicias’ secretary and confidential adviser, was a lean little man of uncertain age, with rounded shoulders and an insinuating manner. He had been brought up in Nicias’ house after the death of his parents, and Nicias, who was conscientious in his obligations, had given him an excellent literary education. This had had rather curious effects. It had produced in Hiero an undying gratitude to his benefactor; but it had also aroused untold ambitions in Hiero himself. The little man gave himself airs. He manufactured a totally fictitious genealogy for himself. People laughed at his absurd pretensions behind his back, but had not the heart to confront him with them.

  His physical stature—he was nearly a dwarf—and his poor health made it impossible for him to be a soldier; and however hard he tried he was incapable of writing even a mildly effective poem. But all the time his ambitions and desires seethed impotently. Then, through doing one or two confidential jobs for Nicias in the management of his estate, he discovered in himself an unsuspected talent for political and business intrigue. At once the solution to all his problems became obvious. He set himself; with immense cunning and patience, to build up his master into the chief figure of the Athenian government.

  It was by no means an easy task, and nothing but such fanatical devotion and persistence could ever have accomplished it. Nicias was nervous, self-conscious and hypochondriac. He was also pathologically afraid of any kind of heavenly portent or omen, and consequently kept a private diviner in his house whom he consulted daily. The wags of the town suggested that most of his consultations were about his mining investments at Laurium. The profits from these were large, but the risks correspondingly great. The miners—most of them slaves convicted of murder or felony—worked ten-hour shifts in the galleries with only oil-lamps to guide them: the system of props was inadequate, and disasters frequent. The average life of a miner was two years, and the veins of silver were uneven. This side of the matter made no impression on Nicias, whose piety was of a different stamp, and largely associated with his personal well-being. Lastly, his nervousness and diffidence concealed a deep streak of personal cowardice: being ill-equipped to judge men’s characters he was mortally scared of any kind of informer, and frittered away his money liberally on the spongers who waited at his door, not knowing whether they were friends or enemies.

  This was the unpromising material that Hiero had to deal with, and a lesser man might have given up in despair. But it was clear that Nicias’ enormous income was the starting-point of any campaign and Hiero set himself to divert it into more profitable channels.

  He saw at once that it was impossible to gloss over Nicias’ more patent shortcomings: they were too well known. The answer seemed to be to convert them into virtues. He started with this somewhat tiresome superstitiousness. He had not an ounce of religious conviction in his own make-up, and was accordingly well qualified to gauge the susceptibilities of those who had. He began by making friends with the house-diviner, who turned out to be an astute businessman very much after his own kidney. Between them they gained control of all the seers and prophets that Nicias frequented, and briefed them on all relevant subjects in advance. This turned out so well for the master of the house that he raised their salaries consid
erably.

  Next, Hiero suggested that such a pious man as Nicias should signalise his convictions to the people by making contributions to the service of the Gods worthy of his high position. During the next few years Nicias’ choirs, and the festivals he financed, and the gifts he presented to the temples, became a byword; and people forgot to laugh at his superstitious tricks. Once the idea had been put into his head there was no holding him. His choruses outdid in costliness and elegance any that were remembered in the City; and he took the trouble to have them well trained, so that they were never defeated. He began to learn the trick of catching public approbation. In one of his choral festivals a beautiful fair young Thracian slave of his appeared in the costume of Dionysus. The audience stamped and applauded, calling the boy back again and again. At last Nicias rose in his seat, swallowing nervously, and declared in his cracked voice that it was an impious thing that one who had been acclaimed as a god should remain a slave. He thereupon gave the slave his immediate freedom. The audience cheered louder than ever, and this time the cheers were for Nicias. Hiero, unnoticed but content, sat happily contemplating his handiwork.

  So far, so good, thought Hiero. But there was much to be done. He gradually assumed the position of intermediary between Nicias and the crowd of hangers-on who waited at his door: sorted out the useful ones, and sent the rest, about their business. He began to turn Nicias’ natural aloofness to good account, encouraging him to cut himself off from social intercourse rather than pursue it. When friends called, it was Hiero who would receive them with gentle regret, begging them to be indulgent with his master, as he was busy with work of national importance. He never specified what the work was. In the market-place he never lost an opportunity for enlarging on this theme, till it began to gain almost universal belief, and Nicias emerged as a strong, silent statesman, a generous pillar of the community, a far-seeing and self-sacrificing gentleman. Hiero noted the change in the tide of opinion, and was well content. Then he made his next move, and encouraged Nicias to improve his acquaintance with Pericles. Soon the rumour began to get round that Nicias was Pericles’ destined successor. Unlike most of the other rumours, this one was substantially true.

  Nevertheless, Hiero viewed the political developments of this year with something approaching alarm. He knew only too well the limitations of his master; how one resounding reverse would destroy the whole careful edifice he had built up. He had envisaged Nicias taking over the control of the City in an era of firmly-established peace, when he could continue the policy Pericles had hammered out without being required to show any startling qualities of courage or leadership. Now he, as well as Pericles, saw the cloud of war drifting up over the horizon, and dreaded it. He had also taken note of the remarkable boy who was growing up in Pericles’ house. Alcibiades, it was distressingly clear, had all the qualities that Nicias lacked. Moreover, he had the continual ear of his guardian, and was reputed to be in high favour with that redoubtable woman Aspasia. In a few years he would be in a position to constitute a serious menace to Hiero’s plans. Unless . . . The dwarf sat silent for a moment, his high parchment-like forehead furrowed in thought. Then he went in search of the house-diviner. To him he gave certain detailed and explicit instructions; and for several days a new diviner attended to Nicias’ needs. Hiero explained that the regular one was sick with a fever.

  • • • • •

  When Nicias came in he looked tired and worried. Hiero said nothing at first, hurrying the house-slaves with water for the bath and a fresh change of clothes. It was not till Nicias had had his frugal supper (he suffered from a complaint of the kidneys, and could not eat much) that Hiero ventured to inquire how the conference had gone.

  Nicias brushed the crumbs from his beard, still chewing slowly and carefully, took a sip of wine and said: ‘I don’t like the look of things at all.’ He gave a brief account of the progress of the afternoon’s events.

  Hiero shook his head. ‘That’s bad,’ he said. He waited.

  Nicias went on: ‘If anyone else had proposed this plan I could have fought it by every means in my power. But Pericles . . . He’s been nursing it for years. It’s not something new.’

  Hiero said: ‘Who else knows about this?’

  ‘Phormio and Hagnon. They were there with me.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Don’t forget Pericles’ own household. I can see Aspasia’s hand in this. Everything he’s done in the last ten years and more has originated front her. I think we must assume that the boy Alcibiades knows as well. Living in that house he can hardly have avoided doing so. He’s very precocious in . . . several ways. This is just the sort of thing that would fire his imagination.’

  ‘I haven’t seen much of the young man,’ said Nicias. From what I have, he seems to be more occupied with a new horse he’s been given than politics. I suppose it’s only natural at his age. And he’s taken to pursuing that ugly little philosopher—what’s his name?—Socrates, in what I gather is a—er—most shameless way. Really, Hiero, I think you’re disturbing yourself needlessly. I admit you may be right about Aspasia. But she is a woman of discretion.’ His pale face momentarily took on a curious dusky glow; if the thought had not been too absurd, one would have said that Nicias was blushing.

  Hiero said, with excitement in his voice: ‘Did you say he had been given a horse? By whom?’

  ‘Not one of his lovers, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Pericles gave it him himself. I’ve never known Pericles give his own children anything, let alone . . . Why do you ask, anyway?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter . . . Just idle curiosity.’ Hiero could hardly keep his hands from trembling. So his shot in the dark had been right after all.

  He said: ‘If the boy keeps himself occupied with the allures of philosophy, I don’t think he’ll come to much harm. I take it that the situation at the moment offers no chance of action?’

  Nicias shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do until either Corinth or Corcyra make some open move.’

  ‘Quite so. And that may not be for some time, I gather?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But we can’t be sure.’

  ‘Presumably Pericles has a plan of campaign ready if war should come?’

  ‘Yes. He would bring all the population in from the surrounding countryside, and fortify the City. He won’t risk a pitched battle.’

  ‘And let the enemy ravage the farms and vineyards?’

  ‘I think he plans to raid the Peloponnese himself to prevent too much complaint at home. Clearly our whole defence will rest on the fleet.’

  Hiero reflected. This holding policy would suit Nicias’ character admirably. Things, it seemed, could have been much worse.

  ‘Then, if I might make the suggestion’—the polite phrase had by now become a formula which both recognised for what it was—‘it would be desirable to let it be known that you are strongly in support of Pericles. Whether war comes or not, your position with his party should be assured—as it strongly deserves to be. I shall take care of public opinion to the best of my ability.’

  Nicias sighed. There were times when his latent desire for peace and quiet almost got the better of him. He had, indeed, a dogged sense of duty; but he knew only too well how much responsibility he could have avoided if it had not been for Hiero’s constant advice. But it was difficult to escape from this bland persuasion, the flattery, the promise of great things to come. In the end he let himself go with the stream. But it was very tiring.

  With bent shoulders he prepared to retire. As he was going Hiero said: ‘Don’t forget your medicine. The physician left it this morning. You should take it every night before going to bed. It will relieve your cramps.’

  Reluctantly Nicias took the proffered cup. The mixture tasted abominable.

  • • • • •

  ‘And what have you been doing with yourself today?’ asked Pericles. Alcibiades raised his eyes from his food. ‘Riding.’
>
  Aspasia said: ‘I think I shall have to take a hand in his education. You either ignore him, or teach him politics, which he hears enough about in the gymnasium, anyway. Alcibiades, what have you read?’

  ‘Homer, of course.’

  ‘You love Homer, don’t you?’

  ‘Indeed yes. More, I fancy, than the schoolmasters do.’

  Her eyes met his for an instant. ‘Have you ever heard of Sappho?’

  ‘Of course I have. She lived on Lesbos and fell in love with young girls.’

  ‘I won’t argue with that. Have you read her poetry?’

  ‘No. No one teaches it, and I haven’t been bothered with books for ages now. There are so many other things to do.’

  ‘Well,’ said Aspasia, ‘I’m going to lend you her works. Don’t go losing the book or giving it away. When you look at it you’ll see why.’ She went out and came back with a scroll in her hand. Alcibiades saw that it was not new: it was turning brown and beginning to dry and crack. He examined it carefully.

  ‘Look for the scribe’s name,’ said Aspasia.

  ‘Why, it’s . . . she wrote this copy herself! How did you come by it?’

  ‘One day I’ll tell you that, perhaps. Look at the poems.’

  Alcibiades opened the scroll at random; and then suddenly the magic words came singing and thundering from the page in his head. He read out loud, in a voice he hardly recognised as his own:

  Equal to the immortals seems to me that

  Man who in thy presence sitteth face to

  Face before thee, who near at hand can hear thy

  Sweet-sounding converse—

  He stumbled and hesitated, his tongue slurring over the dialect, his finger tracing the blackened graceful script with its fine flourishes. He looked up, and Aspasia’s face swam in front of him, quivering in the lamplight, her eyes two brilliant points of fire that held him as if in a trance. Hardly of his own volition he went on:

  And thy yearning laughter, that once stirred my

  Heart in the breast of me to wild confusion,