Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  After about twenty yards he turned. The plain was thick with running figures. He strained his eyes, trying to see what was happening on the right wing. Then the Corinthians were on him. He hacked and stabbed desperately. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Adeimantus beside him, and realised that he was supported by about half a dozen companions. A sudden exhilaration gripped him. His blade dipped under his opponent’s guard, and the point drove home. Then he felt an agonising stab of pain in his left shoulder, and almost in the same instant someone slashed him hard across the face. Sick and dizzy, he dropped to the ground. He was dimly aware of a sturdy figure straddling over him, beating off the last of his attackers. The pursuit was slackening. A hand helped him to his feet, and he saw that his rescuer was Socrates.

  The philosopher, panting, his face all dabbled with blood, caught Alcibiades by the arm and moved slowly across towards the west shore. The bulk of the Corinthian right wing was streaming on towards Olynthus, driving the Athenians before them.

  Socrates said: ‘Our right flank has done better.’ He pointed. Alcibiades saw the remains of the Potidaean force retreating towards the gates of the town. Even as he watched, the last of them passed through, and the heavy doors were hurriedly shut. The Athenian forces swirled uncertainly outside, then began to form up and retreat to get out of range of the arrows and sling-stones that came whirring from the walls.

  The two men stumbled across to join them, avoiding the bodies that lay tumbled in the grass. Alcibiades saw Adeimantus, apparently unharmed, his shield cut and dented, sitting on a boulder, and said, weakly: ‘Another debt to Socrates. The old satyr just saved my life.’ Then he fainted. Between them Adeimantus and Socrates stripped off his breastplate. Neither wound was serious. The spear had passed through the fleshy part of the shoulder beside the clavicle, but seemed not to have damaged the muscle badly. They bound up the gash with strips of linen. The cut on his face was deep, and bleeding heavily. It ran from chin to temple. As Socrates dabbed at it he looked up at Adeimantus and said: ‘I’m afraid this will spoil his beauty rather. But I think it was worth it. He did very well—very well indeed. I shall bring his conduct to the notice of the general.’

  Adeimantus said: ‘Callias is dead.’ A smile showed through the filth on his face. ‘Alcibiades said he’d only be satisfied with a death-or-glory charge. He was leading the attack by about ten yards. An archer got him from the walls.’

  A confused shouting suddenly arose. Aristeus and his Corinthian volunteers, having abandoned the pursuit on seeing what was happening behind them, were coming back. The Athenians massed their forces in front of the city gate to cut them off. Adeimantus abandoned Socrates and Alcibiades and ran off to join them. Aristeus, seeing the way blocked, led his troops down into the sea. They ran heavily in the shallows, throwing up great clouds of spray. As they passed under the city walls a shower of Athenian spears and arrows rained into them. Several dropped and lay in the water, but the rest fought on. Archestratus’ voice could be heard, holding the Athenians back from going after them. Very wise, thought Adeimantus. Once we were under that wall they’d massacre us. The splashing column vanished from sight, presumably to land on the far side of the town. As they did so, the Macedonian cavalry came riding in from Olynthus. They spread out in front of the city and vanished in a cloud of dust to round up stragglers. Presently Archestratus was seen, walking forward to the town gates with a herald and a flag of truce to arrange for the burial of the dead. The battle, it seemed, was over. Adeimantus made his way back to where he had left Alcibiades.

  • • • • •

  Two days later Alcibiades, still pale and shaken, received a summons to Archestratus’ tent. From all across the isthmus came the sounds of digging and hammering as the new fortifications arose, cutting the town off from the mainland.

  As he went in the General stood up and shook him by the hand. ‘Sit down,’ he said: you must be weak still.’ Thankfully, Alcibiades obeyed. Archestratus said: ‘Your conduct in the recent battle has been brought to my notice. You have distinguished yourself in a manner worthy of your family. I am therefore going to award you the military decoration for valour. The award will be made at this afternoon’s parade.’

  Alcibiades flushed, and stammered: ‘But I don’t deserve it. I only fought to save my own life, and I couldn’t even do that. The man who ought to be decorated is Socrates. He saved me.’

  A faint frown crossed Archestratus’ face. ‘Come,’ he said: ‘you mustn’t be so modest. There is no doubt as to the bravery of your conduct. Of course, I shall see that Socrates is properly thanked for his part in rescuing you. But there can be no doubt where the true merit lies.’ He smiled genially.

  I see, thought Alcibiades, disgustedly. He remembered that Archestratus was an aristocrat and an oligarch by conviction. Distinguished conduct of one of our more notable citizens. How well it’ll sound at Athens. They can do with this kind of encouragement at the moment. Distinguished conduct of a rather eccentric philosopher isn’t the same thing at all, is it? More of a joke for the theatre. He said nothing. ‘I’ve also brought your conduct to the notice of the Council in my dispatch,’ Archestratus concluded. ‘Well, I think that’s all. I shall see you on parade this afternoon.’

  Somewhat dazed, Alcibiades stumbled out into the sunshine. Then he remembered who would almost certainly read Archestratus’ dispatch besides Pericles, and a deep glow of pride and happiness spread through his tired body. He returned to his tent and fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 10

  The room was a large one, high-raftered and sparsely furnished with narrow wooden beds. A hanging hide served as a door; the two windows were open to the air. A Helot in leather jerkin and dogskin cap was filling a great jar in one corner with water.

  The envoys looked round them nervously. There were nine of them in the room: two were Aeginetans, big silent islanders, who were patently ill at ease; two Megarians, and the remainder from Corinth. By common agreement they had arrived in Sparta on the same day; but none of them knew each other, and the circumstances in which they had come together did not breed easy familiarity.

  The Helot completed his task and withdrew. The awkward silence persisted. The three nationalities separated into small groups and began to converse in whispers. This was their first visit to Sparta, and what they had seen so far apparently disturbed them. At length the senior member of the Corinthian delegation cleared his throat rather loudly and said:

  ‘I feel we ought to come to some kind of an understanding before we face the Spartan Assembly tomorrow. We all have deep grounds for complaint against Athens. Megara is being slowly starved. Aegina is deprived of the independence she was granted in her treaty of alliance, and her tribute has been gratuitously doubled. As for ourselves, there is no need to remind you of what has happened at Epidamnus and Potidaea.’ He paused. ‘But there is one thing we should remember,’ he said. ‘Alone, none of us, none of us I repeat, can do anything against Athens. One state cannot break an empire. It is absolutely vital that Sparta should be persuaded to declare for us, and quickly. And not Sparta alone, but the whole of the Peloponnesian Confederacy. We are fighting for our very lives, gentlemen.’

  He went to the door and looked out quickly. Reassured, he came back. ‘Now it’s no use pretending our task will be easy. Our agents are well informed about public opinion here. The Spartans, despite their militarism, are incredibly cautious. The elder of their two Kings, Archidamus, is an old man of eighty, with all of an old man’s ingrained love of peace. He will be hard to move. On the other hand, I gather we shall have support from the chief Ephor, Sthenelaidas.’

  ‘Ephor?’ said one of the Aeginetans, in a puzzled voice.

  God save us from these island peasants, thought the Corinthian irritably. Aloud he said, with infinite patience: ‘They are special magistrates, five of them. They are the most powerful men in Sparta.’

  An uneasy silence fell upon the group of envoys. Most of them had heard tales of these E
phors: their secret authority, before which even the Kings were powerless; their arbitrary judicial powers, their dreaded Secret Police. At the time this had merely seemed a manifestation of a most salutary discipline. Here in Sparta itself it took on another colour.

  ‘Well,’ said the Corinthian, breaking the silence with a note of forced briskness, ‘I think that’s all. We are dining in the King’s mess tonight. Watch your words. It would be most inadvisable to discuss the reasons for our visit openly. Do not be put off by . . . their brusqueness. It does not imply hostility. They speak seldom, and when they do they speak their minds.’

  At this moment the Helot reappeared, bowed, and motioned them to follow him. The party made its way between orderly rows of huts to the slightly larger building that was the King’s quarters. One of the Megarians said, looking round him: ‘it’s no better than a country village. Squalid houses . . . not even town walls . . .’

  ‘I suppose they think they don’t need them.’

  One of the Aeginetans said: ‘I saw an extraordinary sight as we arrived. There was a crowd of boys and girls exercising together. They were all stark naked, and the girls had cropped hair, while the boys’ was long . . .’

  ‘They’re all afraid,’ said the Megarian unexpectedly. ‘And they’ve got good reason to be. Do you know how many Helots there are to every free Spartan? Not to mention the Messenians and the rest of their subject peoples. Why do you think they remain an armed camp all the time? They’ve had two major revolts already. It seems odd to think of them as the biggest fighting power in Greece. They can hardly control their own country . . .’

  ‘Don’t say that where anyone can hear you,’ remarked the Corinthian.’ Of course,’ he added in a lower voice, ‘what you say is quite true. It’s one of the reasons they’re so suspicious of all foreigners.’ He looked out over the darkening countryside. It was as if the night were full of huge unknown beasts, waiting to spring.

  The King’s quarters were similar to the barn-like building they had just left. Down the room ran plain wooden benches and tables; four torches burnt in sconces on the walls. Although the air was chilly, there was no sign of a fire. The Corinthian shivered. He was used to good living.

  Some of the benches were already filled, mostly by old men whom the envoys took to be the members of the Council. They were fierce and taciturn, with brown weatherbeaten skins and large gnarled hands. Many of them bore old scars. As the envoys came in they regarded them in silence, with black expressionless eyes.

  At the head of the room, in the seats of honour, were three men. The central one was immediately recognisable as King Archidamus. He was at least eighty years old, with a thick mane of white hair and, surprisingly, bright blue eyes. When he spoke his voice was soft and gentle. On his right sat a short broad man of about forty, bull-necked and immensely strong, with heavy decisive features and an ill-tempered expression. The remaining dignitary was younger, not more than thirty. He had a shrewd, intelligent face; and a comparison with Archidamus made it clear that they must be related.

  As the envoys approached, King Archidamus rose and greeted them with dignity. ‘You are most welcome to our board,’ he said. ‘You will find our fare rough but wholesome. This’—he gestured to his right—‘is my colleague, King Pausanias.’ The ill-tempered man nodded briefly. ‘And this is my son Agis, who will succeed to my place.’ The young man smiled. ‘Please be seated.’ The King ran his eye over them. ‘I see by your dress that you are islanders,’ he said to the Aeginetans. ‘Perhaps you will do me the honour of sitting by me?’ The Corinthian frowned to himself. Places were found for all of them. When they were seated Archidamus remarked: ‘We have other guests tonight. Their errand is . . . a different one from yours. I hope their presence will not cause you any embarrassment.’ The envoys looked at each other. At this moment there was a stir at the doorway. Three more guests came in; and a glance at their dress, and the golden brooches gleaming on their shoulders, was enough to inform the Corinthian ambassador that they were Athenians. There was an awkward pause. Then Archidamus introduced them, in an almost studiedly casual voice. They sat down together at the far end of the table. The situation was saved by the entrance of slaves bearing dishes and flagons of wine.

  The visitors found Spartan dining customs curious. Each guest was served separately; there was no dipping in a communal dish. Also, instead of a wine-bowl being passed round the table, a fixed measure for each diner was placed on a side-table; and when he wished to replenish his goblet he had to catch the eye of a server. The Corinthians and Megarians were confused; the Athenians barely disguised their contempt, especially when the main dish appeared and proved to be boiled pork. Then a slave went round the table with a huge bowl and a ladle. From the bowl rose an odd pungent smell; and a dark liquid was poured out for each guest.

  Agis said: ‘This, gentlemen, is the famous Spartan broth you have heard so much about. It is for strong stomachs, and is an acquired taste. But our elders prefer it to all else.’ This seemed to be true; both Archidamus and the old men ranged down the table took the broth alone. Pausanias whispered to a server, and the slave unexpectedly placed a second portion of meat before the senior Megarian delegate, who looked up in some surprise. Pausanias bowed and observed drily: ‘Eat, my friend. It is my gift.’ He paused, and added: ‘I should have thought you would have been hungry enough.’

  The Megarian flushed a deep red, and the Athenians were startled out of their polite indifference. Pausanias, apparently oblivious that he had said anything out of the ordinary, devoted himself to gnawing a large knuckle of pork. The Corinthian said, rapidly, ‘I would be interested to know the composition of this broth. Many of our cooks try to make it, but they miss its . . . full flavour.’ It was, in fact, all that he could do to bring himself to swallow it.

  Archidamus replied: ‘It is made from broiled pork, cooked in bull’s blood, and flavoured with salt and vinegar.’ One of the Athenians seemed on the point of making a comment, but checked himself in time.

  The Aeginetan next to the King had apparently been repeating his story of the naked women gymnasts: because Archidamus’ next audible remark was: ‘Nothing surprising at all in that, my friend. It is a custom of the country. Our women have to rear a race of warriors. Can they do that if they are weak, puling creatures locked away from the light? They do all things within reason that a man does.’

  The Athenian who had barely restrained himself over the black broth looked up at this and said: ‘Do your women participate in affairs of state? Are they members of your government?’

  Archidamus seemed slightly put out. ‘No,’ he said: ‘that is not a woman’s business.’

  ‘Exactly. In Athens we believe that it is not a woman’s business to be an athlete, either.’ He went on: ‘I don’t think there is any question of right and wrong about it. It is a different way of life—even a different race. Dorian and Ionian have little in common. The most they can do is to respect each others’ independence.’ He took a deep draught of wine. It was clearly not his first. The question went unanswered; and as if by common consent conversation drifted into safer channels.

  The dessert was brought round on earthen dishes, accompanied by a huge barley-cake for each guest. When the party broke up the Corinthian knew that the next day’s debate, the one subject which no one had mentioned, was lying heavy in the air. He foresaw trouble: not least because of the unexpected presence of the Athenians.

  The envoys made their way back to their quarters in silence, groping and stumbling in the dark. Pausanias had said, with a hint of mockery in his voice: ‘It is the custom in Sparta for no man of military age,’—his eye travelled over their civilian dress as he spoke—‘to use a torch in the dark. It is an excellent safeguard against drunkenness. As guests and foreigners, you are of course welcome to them if you wish.’ The envoys protested their indifference to such womanish aids to comfort. As they felt their way in the dark, they heard the Athenian delegate, obviously the worse (or the better)
for wine, claiming his right to them. ‘We are not cats,’ he observed; ‘we are used to civilised amenities. Yes, thank you, three will be quite enough.’ One of the Aeginetans tumbled over a boulder and swore loudly. A lazy laugh followed them out of the darkness.

  When they reached the hut they saw a light glimmering inside. On entering they found a remarkable-looking man sitting on one of the beds. He got up as they came in. He was very tall, and moved with sinuous, cat-like movements. He had a long narrow face, with strong cheek-bones. His hands were never still; they strayed from his tunic to his hair, and he illustrated all his spoken remarks with them. An impression of power emanated from him; his voice, when he spoke, was clipped and metallic.

  ‘My name is Sthenelaidas,’ he observed; ‘I am the chief Ephor of the Spartans.’ They stood still and examined him cautiously, as one might a boar tracked to his lair. He watched their reactions with sardonic amusement. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said: ‘I have no . . . unfriendly intentions towards you. Quite the contrary. You come at a very opportune time, and for a good purpose. Please be seated.’ He had them completely under his control. ‘How did you enjoy your dinner?’ he inquired. Without waiting for an answer, he went on: ‘Of course, our black broth is better appreciated after a dip in the Eurotas. But I understand that it is not your custom to swim at this time of year.’ He stretched himself, exposing a pair of brown legs, thick with hair and heavily roped with muscle. ‘Now you have made the acquaintance of our Kings, I hope you realise the problems you will have to face tomorrow.’ He frowned. ‘Old men do not always see things in their true perspective,’ he said. ‘They grow weak. All they want to do is to sit by the fire and tell tales of long-dead campaigns. When Agis comes to the throne we will be a fortunate people. He is a great leader. Perhaps a little headstrong. But that is a good fault.’ The group of envoys remained silent. ‘He has just married.’ The word marriage sounded oddly in this macabre, predominantly male atmosphere. ‘A noble girl. Her name is Timaea. She will breed him valiant sons.’