by Peter Green
But if, however unwillingly, he admired Cleon, he had nothing but unbounded contempt for his chief henchman, and told the tanner so to his face. Hyperbolus the lamp-maker was a tall, lugubrious fellow, with a perpetual stoop and a slight squint. His antecedents gave the merciless Aristophanes every chance to make fun of him. He spoke with a marked accent; it was rumoured that he was no true Athenian, but a Syrian refugee. Certainly his mother sold bread (though, as he frequently and vehemently asserted, that was nothing to be ashamed of); and his father was a slave in the public Mint. This he found less easy to explain. Some malicious gossip-mongers in the pay of Axiochus put it about that he cheated his customers, mixing lead with bronze in the lamps he sold. One had been seen to melt, it was said, at a dinner-party. As might be expected, he was a touchy, sensitive person, ready to take offence at the least hint of an insult: the number and virulence of his law-suits were a by-word even in a city famed for its addiction to litigation. To cap all, he bore a faint but unmistakable resemblance to Nicias, which brought him into ridicule with friends and enemies alike.
He took the Sicilian adventure even more to heart than Cleon did; and scarcely a day passed during which he was not to be seen with a group of labourers or country-folk round him, talking in glowing terms of the country which he had never seen, and which he knew of only by the wildest hearsay. When Alcibiades protested to Cleon that the fellow could do nothing but bring his faction into disrepute, the tanner replied shortly that Hyperbolus was one of the people, and that they would listen to whatever he said; and added that for himself, he did not care a fig for the ill opinion of those he heartily despised. And there, for the moment, the matter rested.
• • • • •
Alcibiades and Axiochus walked together, slowly, along the course of the water conduit that Peisistratus had laid down over a hundred years before. Its stones were clustered about with lush green weeds; the faint babble of water formed an unnoticed background to their words.
Axiochus’ leathery face bore a worried expression. Alcibiades noticed for the first time that the bleached hair was turning grey at the temples. When his uncle spoke again it was almost to himself.
‘You’ve changed out of all recognition recently.’ He sat down on the stone coping, and trailed his fingers in the water. He did not look at Alcibiades. ‘We’ve never really seen eye to eye. That didn’t matter. A man’s entitled to his opinions. I could even forgive you for supporting Cleon in a way. If you believed in Pericles’ work it’s probably your only chance to go on with it.’ He suddenly swung round to face his nephew and said vehemently: ‘But now . . . now you don’t believe in anything at all—anything. You despise Cleon as much as I do, but you’ll climb on his shoulders. You’d use me if you thought it’d profit you, and if you didn’t know that I was very well aware of what you’re about. If you were younger I could understand it. The boys who are growing up now have no understanding of the old standards. With you it’s different. You were trained by Pericles himself. For all his faults, the Olympian was an honourable man. Once you were honourable yourself. Today you behave as if you had no loyalties, no heart even.’
Alcibiades stroked the pet quail he carried on his wrist and said, flushing; ‘I am loyal to Athens. Anything I may do is for the City.’
‘Are you? Do you care anything for the City except as a means to your own glory? You’re no better than Cleon. Worse, because there’s some excuse for him. He wants to achieve what he and his sort have never had before. There’s some kind of pride in that. But you . . . I’ve tried to make excuses for you. I thought you didn’t really know your own mind, that you’d settle to your bent sooner or later. But it’s not so. You know very well what you want, and you’re prepared to betray your friends and the class to which you belong to get it. If you can betray your friends, sooner or later you’ll betray your country. You may delude yourself into thinking you do it from fine motives; but you won’t delude anyone else. Think of it. Traitor. It’s not a pleasant word, is it?’
There was a nasty silence. Then Alcibiades said, breathing rather fast: ‘Your emotions are carrying you away.’ He laughed awkwardly. ‘And what is a traitor? A man who follows his beliefs against the majority—and fails. If he succeeds, he’s a great patriot. I have no intention of failing.’
‘I see,’ said Axiochus. ‘You’re an apt pupil of Socrates. I wonder what he’d say to the use his logic is put to by such people as you? Even supposing you honestly mean what you say—and I very much doubt it—look at the matter practically for a moment. You stand alone. You trust nobody. What can you do by yourself? If you truly believe in your aims try to persuade others to join you. Form another party. You’ve got youth, brains, an attractive personality. But don’t use men for your own ends and then discard them.’ He paused and then went on: ‘I know it must seem curious for me to be talking to you like this. I’m not fit to fight, all I can do is drink—and talk. Well, I’m not attacking you for your private life. That’s your own affair. Strange as it may seem, I’m very fond of you still, and I don’t want to see you ruin yourself.’
Alcibiades said stiffly; ‘I’m most grateful to you for your advice. Is that all you have to tell me?’
Axiochus nodded. His face was once more bland and sardonic. ‘I’m going down to the gymnasium,’ he said. ‘Would you care to accompany me? You haven’t been seen there for some time now.’
‘Perhaps I shall join you later,’ said Alcibiades. He had no intention of doing so; his only wish was to disembarrass himself of his uncle’s company. Much of what Axiochus had said had touched him more nearly than he would have cared to admit.
‘I look forward to the pleasure of your company,’ Axiochus said, in a flat and formal voice, and took his leave. Alcibiades looked after him irresolutely for a moment; then began to walk towards the rocky hill where the Assembly met. From the hum of conversation carried to him on the breeze it seemed that something was afoot. He heard Cleon’s raucous voice raised in exhortation, but was unable to distinguish the words, which were drowned in. bursts of applause.
He found a large crowd gathered below the speaker’s platform; but it was clearly not a debate that was going on. He saw Cleon up there (he had apparently just finished speaking) and several officials from the Treasury. As he watched, a citizen mounted the rostrum. He did not speak, but conferred with the officials in whispers. A scribe wrote something down in his notebooks; and a herald shouted out ‘Two talents!’ Another ripple of applause ran through the crowd.
Puzzled, Alcibiades inquired of a bystander what it all meant.
‘Don’t you know?’ The man, a carpenter by his appearance, looked scornfully at Alcibiades’ extravagant clothes. ‘Cleon, is calling on all true Athenian citizens to make voluntary contributions to the Treasury for the War Fund. If you gave something yourself, master, instead of strutting around idle in that finery, we might win the sooner.’ He, turned his back rudely as soon as he had spoken.
Alcibiades pushed his way through the crowd till he reached the base of the platform. Cleon was on his feet again, calling on all to give freely for the sake of the cause. It occurred to Alcibiades that he would like to see Cleon himself in the line of battle for once.
‘Alcibiades, son of Cleinias,’ he called out to the scribe in a clear voice. ‘Three talents.’ He caught Cleon’s eye as he spoke, and the demagogue nodded.
The crowd roared their approval. Alcibiades was fast becoming one of their favourites. He smiled and waved, and began to climb down again. As he did so he stumbled slightly, and his pet quail, which had remained peaceably under his arm for some time, fluttered free and ran squawking and flapping along the ground. It provided a welcome diversion. Alcibiades, in some vexation, ran after it; but he was hampered by the throng. Several men tried to stop it without success. Then came a cry of ‘He’s got it! Well done, Antiochus!’ and a big burly man of about thirty came up to Alcibiades, the quail held firmly in an enormous fist. He was deeply tanned, with a heavy drooping bl
ond moustache, and his arms were tattooed with serpents and mermaids and other strange devices.
‘At your service, sir,’ he said in a deep, cheerful voice. His brown eyes twinkled, and it was apparent that he was more than a little drunk.
A sailor, thought Alcibiades. Antiochus sketched a bow. ‘I am honoured to be of help to Cleinias’ son,’ he said, and handed the quail over. Alcibiades took it and put it back under his robe.
‘Thank you,’ said Alcibiades; ‘I am most grateful to you. Perhaps you will do me the honour of dining with me tonight?’
‘I shall be very glad to. I have heard good reports of your table. And of your entertainment,’ he added, with a grin. He bowed again, and thrust his way out through the crowd. Alcibiades made as if to follow him, then changed his mind. Behind him the bidding for the City’s favour had begun again. Tiring of such a monotonous form of entertainment, he too made his way out to the street which led to the Market, elbowing and pushing. As he reached the fringes of the crowd, he became aware of a man staring at him with peculiar intensity. Alcibiades returned the stare boldly. He saw a big, fat man of about forty, dressed in the red cloak of a resident alien. He had a dark, fleshy face and a strongly hooked nose. A Syrian, he thought, and took no more notice. But he was aware that when he had gone some fifty yards further the man still had his eyes fastened on him.
By the evening he had forgotten about this encounter. He was busy giving orders for his dinner with Antiochus. Slaves were strewing the floor with fine scented herbs, and polishing the gold and silver plate he had bought at some expense on his return from Sicily. In the centre of the table stood a great carved wine-bowl, a gift from one of the chiefs of Leontini. It was of ivy-wood, and lacquered a dark blue. Round the rim ran a pattern of acanthus-leaves. He looked at it approvingly. A faint waxy sheen was visible on its polished surface.
‘See that the wine is strong and plentiful,’ he said to his steward. ‘This Antiochus is a great drinker by the look of him.’
‘Antiochus?’ repeated the steward. He was a Thracian by birth, but had lived many years in Athens; and he and his master understood one another extremely well. ‘I know that Antiochus. He’s a Shipman, a big tattooed fellow?’
‘That’s the man.’
‘After your own heart, sir. He drinks all right—more than any man I’ve ever seen, and he’s travelled, too. He’s a great teller of tales. I’ve heard him down in the taverns. They fill up his cup all night to listen to him. And as for women!’
‘I see . . . Well, I leave the choice of dancing-girls to you. You seem to know his tastes.’
There came a knock at the outer door. ‘That should be the man himself,’ said Alcibiades. The steward hurried out. A moment later he was back again.
‘It’s not Antiochus, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s . . . a Syrian. I’ve never seen him before. He said he particularly wanted to see you.’
‘A Syrian?’ Alcibiades’ brow contracted. How much did he give you to let him in?’ The steward spread his hands deprecatingly. ‘Oh, all right, see him.’
It was the man who had stared, at Alcibiades at the Assembly in the morning. He came into the room with a soft tread. Alcibiades detected a faint musk-like scent clinging about him. He had large dark eyes and smooth hairless cheeks. In one hand he carried a small bag, knotted with a scarlet cord.
‘Good evening,’ said Alcibiades pleasantly. ‘What can I do for you?’
The Syrian seemed slightly embarrassed. ‘May I sit down?’ he asked. His voice was gentle and purring. The general impression he conveyed was of a sleek, well-fed cat.
‘Some wine?’
‘Thank you.’ He held the cup pensively in his hands. His fingers were plump, and bore witness to scrupulous manicuring. ‘Your health,’ he said, and drank.
Alcibiades, who knew something of the slowness with which Orientals were wont to come to the point, sipped his wine and said nothing.
‘My name is Pulytion,’ said the Syrian at length. ‘I came to Athens a month ago.’
‘You are a merchant?’
Pulytion waved his free hand. ‘In a small way only. I hope to trade here. There are many things in Syria which Athens would be glad to have.’
Was there a hidden meaning in the words? Alcibiades, looking at the rich robe and sandals, and studying the man himself, felt inclined to doubt any claims he might make towards poverty.
‘Why have you come to me?’ he asked at length. ‘Do you wish to sell something to me?’
A faint smile crossed the Syrian’s impassive face. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Rather I desire to buy something of you,’ He picked up the bag and opened it. A pile of gold coins cascaded on to the table. ‘There are a hundred staters there,’ he remarked.
‘A respectable sum. Is it horses you wish to buy? I have an excellent stud, and it is well known.’
The Syrian appeared to find this remark amusing. He chuckled. ‘No, not horses,’ he said. ‘I am a man of business. I believe that everything—and everyone—can be bought for a price. I have heard that you are of the same mind.’
Alcibiades paused, his wine-cup half-way to his mouth. But he said nothing.
‘I have also heard many things about you yourself. Your courage, your shrewdness in the affairs of your City’—Alcibiades, not displeased, smiled openly at this naive flattery—‘and . . . your beauty.’ He paused and added, in an intense voice: ‘The last quality, indeed, rumour has done less than justice to.’
A vast bubble of laughter. formed somewhere in Alcibiades’ belly and resolutely forced its way upwards. He knew now what it was the Syrian wished to buy. As his gaze turned from Pulytion’s face to the winking pile of gold on the table, the bubble burst. Alcibiades laughed till he nearly cried. Then he wiped his eyes and said: ‘You must forgive me, my friend. I did not mean to offend you. It seems that Syrian customs are different from ours. I am no beardless stripling in search of a lover, nor am I so poor that I need to sell myself.’ He drained his wine. The Syrian sat motionless. Alcibiades said:
‘Come, don’t be angry with me. You have, after all, paid me a high compliment, and though I must needs decline your offer, I accept it as such.’ His eyes still on the gold, he added: ‘Perhaps you will stay and dine with me? I should be glad to number you among my friends, and I may be able to be of service to you.’ Already an idea was forming in his mind. This Syrian was clearly a man of parts; and whether he spoke the truth or not when he declared himself a poor man, in a few years, if all went well, he would be very rich indeed. Alcibiades had seen the success of too many Orientals in a city where foreigners largely controlled the trade to be deceived over this. Generosity now might reap a handsome dividend.
At this moment the steward announced Antiochus. The Syrian made as if to rise. ‘If you already have company—’ he murmured.
Before Alcibiades could reply, Antiochus swept into the room. He wore a clean white robe and a wreath of violets. He greeted Alcibiades warmly. Then his eye fell on Pulytion.
‘I remember you, Syrian,’ he said. ‘I shipped you over from Ephesus a month ago. I am glad to see you here.’
Pulytion bowed. ‘You honour me, sir.’ He turned to Alcibiades. ‘Your friend Antiochus is a most notable pilot. There’s not a creek or channel on the whole Greek mainland that he doesn’t know as well as the Piraeus; and most of the Ionian coast as well.’
Alcibiades poured out wine for the newcomer; and pledged him. ‘I see we must become better acquainted,’ he said. ‘Men like you are useful to us.’
Antiochus sat down and drank deeply. ‘I am a master shipman, not a galley slave. What is the war to me? Why should I pull at an oar when there are merchant ships to steer?’
‘And fat profits to, be made from them; no doubt,’ said Alcibiades, grinning. ‘I wouldn’t argue with you on that for a moment. But I might be able to put you in the way of more rewarding ventures.’ The steward came in with several slaves bearing smoking dishes, and the conversation for a while turned into more cas
ual channels. All through the meal Antiochus proved that what the steward had said of him was by no means exaggerated. To Alcibiades’ surprise, the Syrian proved himself almost as good a raconteur; and for an hour or more, while the dishes came and went and the wine passed round, the host sat silent while his two guests capped one another’s stories of scandal and intrigue. When Antiochus was in the middle of a confused and rambling tale involving one of the priestesses of Artemis at Ephesus, the dancing-girls came in; not inappropriately, as Pulytion remarked.
The Syrian himself took no interest in them; so they devoted their attention to Antiochus, whom they apparently knew already. After a while Pulytion rose and made his excuses to Alcibiades. He stepped out into the night, twirling his bag of gold pieces round his finger as he walked. From behind him a solitary flute played a derisive trill.
Chapter 18
Those who disliked him—and they were not a few—used to assert that Demosthenes, Aspasia’s favourite general, was not of true Athenian blood. Some said he was born of a Thracian mother; and his reddish hair and long, lanky limbs lent some colour to the suggestion. Others declared that he was kin to the Messenians: those dour, taciturn men who inhabited the west of the Peloponnese, and had for generations been under Spartan domination. Certainly during his tour of duty in the Gulf he had placed great confidence in the Messenian troops he had raised, and appeared to command a singular degree of loyalty among them. Occasionally he would disappear up-country for a week at a time, into Messenia itself, risking Spartan patrols, for no ascertainable reason.