Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  He found the old man still working, even though he had already spent a long day at the Council Chambers. Nicias greeted him guardedly. He looked worn and ill. Alcibiades noticed a phial of medicine at his elbow.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, in his most official voice.

  Alcibiades began to speak of Plataea. Nicias cut him short. ‘Plataea is finished,’ he said. ‘There is nothing we can do for her now. I always credited you with a practical mind, Alcibiades.’ He smiled sourly. ‘The whole of Greece is split into two hostile camps, and every dissatisfied minority invokes Athens or Sparta. I can see a time coming when honour will mean nothing, when cleverness at intrigue, superior craft, will be the only criterion of success. For the oppressed or unpopular, this comes as their great chance—’ He broke off, conscious of having said too much to a young man whom he had no real reason to trust. He looked wrily at Alcibiades. ‘Now perhaps you will understand why I am not very troubled about Plataea. After a while one becomes hardened to treachery and dishonour. The only thing left to do is to work for the moment and hope against hope.’ He stood up. ‘If there is nothing else . . . I have a great deal to do.’

  Alcibiades went out considerably chagrined.

  • • • • •

  It was not unnatural that Alcibiades should now turn to Cleon. He had seen little of the latter since the Mitylenean affair, and was by no means certain whether his collusion with Nicias had not reached the popular leader’s ears. But Cleon greeted him kindly enough; if he had any suspicions he kept them to himself. Alcibiades was a useful agent, and it would not do to alienate him openly.

  ‘I suppose you must be pretty tired of sitting around doing nothing,’ he said. ‘Politics isn’t really a satisfactory occupation for a young fellow like you. Leave it to older folk.’ He looked at Alcibiades speculatively. The young man nodded and waited. Cleon went on: ‘Now there’s something you might do which would be most useful to us. You’ll get all the action you want, and you’ll be able to use your brains as well. Does the idea appeal to you?’

  At this moment Alcibiades would have agreed to anything that offered the remotest prospect of change. ‘Very much,’ he said. ‘What do you propose?’

  Cleon leaned close to him and lowered his voice: ‘A long time ago Pericles had the notion of carrying the war into the west. Well, times and ideas have changed. I’m told now that we haven’t got the men or the money to do it. But I’m not sure that it wouldn’t bet the best way of getting more of both. To start with, there’s a good reason. In fact, two good reasons. A public and a private one. I’ll deal with the public first. Did you know that there was a war going on in Sicily?’

  Alcibiades shook his head.

  ‘Well, there is. Not much of a one, but a war nevertheless. And as you might expect, it’s between the Ionian and Dorian cities. From the latest reports it seems that the Ionians are getting the worst of it. At any rate, they’re sending an embassy to ask for our help.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Officially only Leontini. But that makes no difference. Their ambassador, incidentally, is Gorgias.’

  ‘Pericles’ friend?’

  ‘Yes. That ought to weigh with the Assembly. And there’s a ready-made excuse for our helping them.’

  ‘That wouldn’t influence Nicias much with things as they are. We’ve hardly got enough troops to maintain the fronts that are open already.’

  Cleon laid a finger along his nose. ‘Money talks,’ he observed cryptically. ‘I haven’t come to my private reason yet. Don’t you see that if we put a fleet into the western seas it would cut off the Sicilian supply of corn to the Peloponnese?’

  ‘I see. Do you think that’ll be sufficient inducement?’

  ‘If we don’t put our demands too high, I see no reason why not. But that’s not the real point.’ Cleon spoke now with barely suppressed excitement. ‘Pericles wanted to open up trade. We could do more. Sicily is the richest country of the west. If Athens possessed her, it could be the turning-point of the war. Of our history. And it needn’t stop at Sicily. Sicily is only a stepping-stone— to Carthage and the ports of the Western Ocean, Italy . . . There’s no knowing where it might lead us. A new and even greater empire . . .’ His voice died away. Both of them were silent for a while, conjuring up in their minds visions of unbelievable wealth, of an Athens powerful beyond their wildest dreams. It was Cleon who brought them back to earth again.

  ‘We’ll think about that when the time comes,’ he said. ‘In the meanwhile, I don’t think there’s any need to keep the idea a strict secret. Drop a hint here and there. Get people talking. Give them something to hope for. Don’t come out into the open with details. Just enough to whet their appetites. If they get it into their heads that something like this is afoot, they may change their minds at next year’s elections.’

  Alcibiades grinned cynically at Cleon’s abrupt change of mood. ‘Is that all you want me to do?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s nothing. Just a way of keeping you out of mischief for a month or two. Your real task will be something more . . . confidential. I have been preparing the ground for the reception of Gorgias and his colleagues. There is little doubt that a small expedition will be sent to Sicily this autumn. I am going to arrange for you to go with it.’

  ‘And keep my eyes open for the lie of the land?’

  ‘Exactly. Anything that you might consider useful. Quality of troops, the wealth of the various cities, who the influential leaders are, which of them are well disposed towards us. I leave the matter entirely in your hands. All I ask for is a comprehensive report. I’m not particular about what way you may see fit to elicit your information.’ And Cleon, who was by now in an exceedingly good humour, gave the ghost of a wink.

  Alcibiades shook his head. ‘Poor Nicias. I’m almost beginning to feel sorry for him. He never should have taken up a public life at all.’

  Cleon stared at him, uncomprehending.

  Chapter 16

  About the turn of the year the rains came again. For over three months the steady downpour continued, hissing off the sodden roofs, pouring through the choked and muddy gutters. Every day Athens woke to a. grey unbroken sky, to the swiftly falling lances of water that bore the faint salty tang of the sea with them. Nicias and Cleon, at one in this common emergency, and remembering too well what such weather had brought two years before, sent all the country population out of the city, back to their burnt and ruined farms. For days the streets echoed to the grinding of wheels, the jingle of harness, the shouts and curses of labourers trying to free wheels stuck fast in the mud that choked every lane and alley.

  Nicias said, surveying the scene of desolation: ‘When we have leisure for such things, we must see to the City’s drainage. I remember a traveller once told me of the old cities of Crete. Walking among their ruins, he found such conduits as he said Athens had never known. I remember laughing at him at the time. . . It seemed such a curious thing to notice . . . Now I think he was in the right of it.’

  Cleon, suspecting a joke at his expense, said curtly: ‘Crete fell for all its drains. We have more important things to think about,’ and went out in a huff. Ill and tired as he was, Nicias could not help laughing.

  But his words were only too trite. The water poured down into the low-lying regions between the City and the Piraeus; and finding no outlet, collected in stagnant pools till the whole area was one vast swamp. Then, at last, the spring weather burst on the sodden land, and the rains died away and presently ceased altogether. A violent sun blazed down; and soon men began to pray for the rain again. For that year the annual north-west winds failed to blow. Athens sweltered in a damp and humid heat; and the marshy land began to give off such foul fumes and vapours that the very air seemed to be corrupted. The few crops that survived were rotten with the soaking they had received through the winter, and bread was poor and hard to come by. More than ever the City depended on the grain-ships that came in from the Black Sea. And after a while the fear
that had been in all hearts was justified: the Plague returned to Athens. Another November had come before it had run its course; and by then fourteen thousand more citizens had succumbed to its ravages, including over four thousand of Athens’ finest remaining troops.

  • • • • •

  On an autumn afternoon Alcibiades sat on the harbour wall of the southern Italian town of Rhegium, writing his long-delayed report to Cleon. A mile or two away across the straits rose the yellow cliffs of Sicily; looking towards the north he could see smoke drifting up from the houses of the great port of Messana. Below him fishermen sat on the foreshore repairing their nets; the water slapped and knocked monotonously against the rocky bastion that rose round the bay. A donkey, laden down with two heavy panniers full of market produce, toiled slowly up the winding path to the town, its owner trudging along in the dust behind it. Brown urchins scuttled about in the dust, splashing each other in the fountain that stood close to the sea. The water was green near the shore; as the bottom shelved away into the middle distance it turned to a deep grape-like purple. The scene was one of unbroken peace; the warm southern air hummed like a top.

  A season’s leisurely campaigning and open-air life had largely erased politics from Alcibiades’ mind. He was surprised after a month or so to find that the problems which appeared so pressing in Athens here faded into insignificance. He began, in a simple and animal fashion, to enjoy himself. Occasionally he had twinges of conscience, which he firmly shrugged aside, at the way in which he was fulfilling his mission. But sooner or later the thing had to be done; and now he sat in the sun, his writing materials on a board on his knees, chewing his pen and wondering how to begin.

  Pleasantly tired after the strenuous days he had recently passed, he watched the dancing water, sparkling with sunlight, fade into autumn haze down the rugged coastline. Presently a ship came into sight from the south, and turned north into the straits, making for Rhegium. It was followed by another and another, till there were five of them, moving in close formation, their sails flecks of white against the blue of sea and sky. He narrowed his eyes and stared at them closely. There was no mistaking the long narrow hulls, the flash of metal that occasionally shone out from them. They were Athenian warships. Alcibiades gathered up his writing materials, and went down to the camp, striding quickly over the cobbles, to break the news.

  • • • • •

  Adeimantus threw his pack into a corner of the tent, and sat down facing Alcibiades. His squadron had docked half an hour previously; and Alcibiades, watching the throng of faces as they came ashore, had spotted the familiar hooked nose and short heavy figure through the crowd of hucksters and touts that clamoured round the ships, and drawn him away by narrow winding paths to the camp on the headland. As they walked he gave Adeimantus a brief account of his doings during the past year, impatiently, for he was eager for news himself.

  Adeimantus stared out to sea, the breeze ruffling his thick dark hair. His swarthy face was strained. ‘I don’t mind telling you,’ he said, ‘I’m glad to be out of Athens.’

  ‘Why in particular?’

  ‘I’d forgotten. Of course, you wouldn’t have heard.’ He told Alcibiades of the fresh outbreak of plague. ‘It’s dying down now, and they knew better how to deal with it this time. But it was like . . . having had a bad dream, and then waking up to find it was true. The same scene all over again. The cries and the awful stench of bodies. They threw themselves into the cisterns, however hard the guards tried to prevent it. The water was fouled. We’ve been very short of water all summer.’ He hesitated awkwardly, and then looked at Alcibiades and said: ‘Aspasia is dead.’

  The gulls wheeled screaming over the harbour, diving for refuse, bobbing on the water beside the ships. In the haze the black cone of Etna rose in the distance above the Sicilian hills. Alcibiades looked at the scene steadily for a while, his face expressionless. Twenty yards away a hare lolloped across the turf, a wary eye on the two motionless figures.

  The last strand had been severed; far away the old world was dying quietly. On this sunlit promontory it was impossible to conceive that it had ever existed: the nexus of action and faith, the hope and the high endeavour. Alcibiades twisted a strand of grass between his fingers and said: ‘I think it was merciful. We are moving into strange ways, a new kind of life. It was not for her.’

  ‘Is it for us? Or our sons, if we ever have sons?’

  Alcibiades smiled. ‘It’s what we were born to,’ he said. ‘The world’s not ended.’ But as he spoke he knew that something of himself had died as well. The grass snapped abruptly, and he threw it away.

  Adeimantus, who knew most of Alcibiades’ moods, and was aware of what must be passing through his mind, talked on casually for some time about happenings at home: how Nicias had planned an attack on Melos, but had failed to reduce it; how he had landed in Boeotia on his way home, but had only had a limited success there. Now he was launching a scheme to purify the sacred island of Delos to restore some of his lost reputation. ‘And that,’ Adeimantus observed, ‘is something more to his taste. They didn’t elect him to the Board of Generals this spring, and if he goes on like this they’re not likely to. Perhaps it was a pity.’

  ‘Why, in God’s name?’

  ‘There was a Spartan embassy in Athens in March. They wanted an armistice. Cleon and Lamachus between them got the proposal rejected.’

  ‘And quite rightly so. We’ve lost a lot in this war. We have it in our power to retrieve it all now. And more, much more . . .’

  Adeimantus looked sad. ‘A year ago I should have said the same thing. Now I’m not so sure. You haven’t lived in Athens all this time as I have. This second attack of plague . . . it had more effect than the mere loss of life. The people are getting desperate. They’re tired and frightened. They want to win back everything they’ve lost at one stroke.’

  ‘I think they will. Adeimantus, I’ve never heard you talk like this before.’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . You remember how we used to play at knucklebones? You always played double or quits. It was in your nature, wasn’t it? And how many times did you win?’

  Alcibiades remained silent.

  ‘That’s how it is in Athens today. They’ve got a Board of young fighting Generals. They expect miracles . . .’ He lay on his back, looking at the sky, and said: ‘Sometimes I think this war will never end. The Gods forbid I should ever be an Athenian general. It’s bad enough to fight the enemy. When you have to contend with the Assembly at home as well . . .’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘The mood of the people suits Cleon very well,’ he went on after a moment. ‘He’s making inflammatory speeches about new conquests. And there’s a rumour that he’s going to double the jury-fee. Where he’s going to get the money from I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Cleon isn’t altogether a fool,’ said Alcibiades. ‘If he does that he’ll get six thousand sure voters at one stroke. After which the money can take care of itself. He’ll be a general himself soon, and I for one shan’t be sorry. You said just now that you wondered if the war would ever end. It’ll end quicker with Cleon in command than with Nicias.’

  ‘But perhaps in a somewhat different way . . . By the way, I forgot to tell you—the most important piece of news of all. You’re recalled home yourself.’

  Chapter 17

  By the time Alcibiades returned to Athens winter was closing in, with sudden hailstorms and days of fleeting beauty, when the rainy clouds from the Aegean scudded across a still-blue sky, and outside the City the frogs croaked ceaselessly in the marshes. By November the last case of plague had run its course, and Athens could breathe freely again. Yet this second visitation had wrought more change than Aspasia’s death, as Alcibiades had half-realised on that sunny headland two months before. He found a city of hard and desperate men, amazed to be alive at all, and ruthlessly clinging to what they had left. Athens had fallen openly into two hostile camps, whose mutual bitterness was only increased by the view each held of the war. The
rich farmers and landowners, who had seen their property whittled away by seven years of invasion and taxes, who had never believed in the war from the day it was declared, who only wanted the chance to prosper in quietness, were openly campaigning for an early peace at any price. The popular party, led by Cleon and his lieutenant Hyperbolus, and augmented by ambitious malcontents of all classes, clamoured for action and yet more action, for a crushing and unanswerable victory. Between these parties there could be no reconciliation. And Nicias, who almost against his will had been re-elected to supreme office, his heart with the peace-makers yet fearing the vengeance of the mob, steered a central course as well as he might between the two.

  • • • • •

  Cleon knew, better than any man, that the war had given him and his fellows their supreme chance. Death and destruction had broken down the old barriers of caste and tradition, weakened the hold of religion, bred a new lawless generation, quick-witted, ruthless, with no respect for persons or ideals. The inarticulate mass of citizens, so long clay for Pericles’ masterful hands to mould, had discovered their own powers. As the old aristocracy was thinned out and the war bit deep into the heart of the people like a cancer, Cleon poured salt in the open wound, fomented ambition and discontent, forged from this heterogeneous mass a new and terrible weapon.

  All the time his eyes remained on the west. Alcibiades’ somewhat lukewarm report had not disturbed him. When the young soldier, the dust of travel still on him, had told his story, Cleon had laughed and said: ‘An incompetent general or two doesn’t matter. We can find others. You’ve told me all I wanted to know. The treasure-house of Sicily will be ours when we have the strength to take it’; and then indulged in one of his rare prophecies of wealth, power, fame: the shadows of greatness that only a man born without possessions could pursue so relentlessly. Alcibiades had been amused and mildly contemptuous; but he had held his peace. The time was coming when, as Aspasia had foretold many years before, he must make his choice. Cleon might be ignoble, vain, self-seeking, a vulgar braggart and little better than a common criminal, but it was only through him that power could be won. When Alcibiades looked at his uncle’s pathetic idealism, the fierce yet impractical conservatism of the country folk and their mouthpiece Aristophanes, he knew where, for the moment at any rate, his course lay.