Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  Hipponicus turned, disgust in his face. ‘Alcibiades is a rich man,’ he said. ‘What malicious gossip is this?’

  Babbling, half-incoherent, Callias cried, gripping the hem of his father’s cloak: ‘He was. But he’s not any longer. Everyone knows except you. His estates were ruined, and he sold them for what they would fetch. How much do you suppose he’s spent on horses, and women, and his debauched parties—’

  ‘At which you were a constant guest.’

  ‘Does that matter now? I tell you, he’s desperate. He’s heavily in debt. This marriage is his only way out. If you love your daughter at all—’

  ‘If I love my daughter!’ Hipponicus’ face darkened; the veins in his forehead swelled. He looked at his son, now cowering in front of him; and all the disappointment and resentment of twenty years rose inside his breast. He struck Callias savagely, again and again, till the young man crouched on the ground, his hands covering his head. Panting, Hipponicus said: ‘I am the judge of whom my daughter shall marry. Will you dare—you—to question my affection for her? You, with your vile ways and your traducer’s tongue? You make me ashamed, Callias: ashamed that I ever begot such a son. Now go, before. I do you a worse injury. May the Gods forgive me: but I had it in my heart to kill you.’

  Sick and shaking, he went to his private quarters. As he shut the door behind him, his pounding heart suddenly fluttered, hesitated. He fell across the bed, grey with fear, gasping for breath. It was only a minute or so before the spasm passed; but Hipponicus knew that Death had stretched out a hand and touched him.

  • • • • •

  The notary, his work done, collected his pens and writing materials and prepared to go. He had attended many betrothal feasts in a similar capacity; but he had never experienced one like this before. Only the prospective bride, he thought, had behaved as befitted the occasion. She sat silent beside her father, robed in pale blue and wearing a girdle of twisted gold. The single dark rose in her hair threw the pallor of her face into prominence. On her cheek-bones alone a faint spot of colour burnt; and the notary, who was experienced in such matters, knew that this was not due to cosmetics. Most of the time she kept her eyes modestly lowered; but from time to time she raised them for an instant to where Alcibiades sat on the opposite side of the table beside Callias, cracking nuts between his strong white teeth, and talking to his future father-in-law.

  When Hipponicus had told her she was to be betrothed to Alcibiades, for a moment she had not believed she had heard aright. Flushed and stammering, she had tried to find words to answer him; and Hipponicus, mistaking her confusion for maidenly distress, had taken her in his arms and comforted her, saying that Alcibiades was a fine man, and she would be happy in his care. Between laughter and tears she had said: ‘It shall be as you desire, sir. I shall obey you in all things. It may well be that I shall be happy’; but her heart was dancing with joy, and she had lain awake all that night.

  But as for the rest! thought the notary, who was an old-fashioned, pious man. Callias sat in moody silence, drinking with morose concentration, his eyes half-closed. He had not spoken more than half a dozen words all the evening. Alcibiades had been nervous on his arrival; he had greeted Hipponicus in formal fashion, and then knelt to kiss Hipparete’s hand. But for Callias he had nothing but a curt nod. Hipponicus also had been ill at ease; they both seemed eager to complete the formal signing of the documents relating to betrothal and dowry as quickly as possible. It was, reflected the notary, the largest dowry he had ever seen; perhaps it was not surprising that Hipponicus had inserted a clause guaranteeing that his son should honour its rather curious terms in the event of Hipponicus’ premature death. Certainly Callias had signed his affidavit with a very ill grace.

  But once the thing was done, and the deeds safely disposed of, Alcibiades seemed at once to become more confident; he laughed and joked freely, wine loosening his tongue, his lisp becoming more and more pronounced. He looked more like a young gallant than a man about to be wed: he wore an embroidered tunic of yellow silk, caught about the waist with a wide scarlet belt; his boots too were scarlet, of soft doeskin leather, and gold glittered plentifully about his person the great brooch at his shoulder, the ring on his left hand, the armlets which set off the thick muscles above his wrists. His hair and beard were freshly combed and scented.

  The notary pursed his lips disapprovingly, and bowing, took his leave, his fee safely stowed in his wallet. As he went through the door he took a last glance at the scene. Alcibiades and Hipponicus were talking politics in animated voices, with eyes for none but each other; Callias’ head had fallen forward on his breast, and he would clearly in a few minutes be under the table. Hipparete was quite alone, her hands clasped together, her eyes on the marjoram and whitethorn with which the table was strewn, her wine untouched.

  ‘This armistice was dictated from Sparta,’ Alcibiades was saying heatedly. ‘It solves nothing—nothing at all. We keep the forts in the Peloponnese. Brasidas remains in Thrace to stir up trouble. And for a year we shall have ambassadors arguing about the Pylos prisoners, and disputing territory, and coming to no decision. This is all Nicias’ doing. He’s always been pro-Spartan and this proves it—’

  ‘I seem to remember,’ said Callias, suddenly waking up, ‘that unless rumour is false, you yourself were disposed to favour the Spartans not so long ago.’

  There was an awkward silence. Then Hipponicus said: ‘There’s no use in wrangling. This armistice was inevitable. I agree it could have come at a better time. We had the chance after Pylos, and it was not Nicias’ fault that we didn’t take it then.’ This was a direct hit at Cleon. Alcibiades wisely said nothing. Hipponicus went on: ‘Since then we’ve suffered some ugly defeats. Delium. Amphipolis. The people aren’t as optimistic as they were a year ago. Those who favour a continuation of the war—I put it no more strongly than that—have lost their more persuasive arguments. Before, Sparta wanted peace, and we did not. Now we both need it equally. As you were saying, Alcibiades, we hold the Peloponnesian forts and some important Spartan prisoners. But on the other hand Brasidas is in control of our gold and timber in Thrace, and Boeotia has become a power to be reckoned with. We have reached a deadlock: an armistice is the only answer.’

  Alcibiades was tapping on the table with his fingers during this speech. When it was finished he burst out: ‘But we shall gain nothing! We’ve fought for nine years. We’ve lost the best of our men, spent nearly all the money in the Treasury. And now we shall have no more than we did at the beginning; perhaps much less.’

  Callias said in a thick drunken voice: ‘That means goodbye to all your golden opportunities of glory, doesn’t it? You and your friend the tanner. You were to be a general, weren’t you? Restore your fallen fortunes in Sicily, be a second Pericles.’ He hiccoughed and put his hand in front of his mouth. ‘Well, you don’t need to worry now . . . You’ve got your money, signed and sealed. And a wife into the bargain. I should make haste and pay your debts before she—’

  Alcibiades was on his feet, his face flushed. His chair fell to the ground with a crash behind him. Before he could move Hipponicus said, in a dignified and authoritative voice: ‘Stay where you are. I will not have my house turned into a tavern. Hipparete: please go to your room.’ Pale and trembling, the girl bent her head before her father and Alcibiades; then went out quickly. In the stillness the rustle of her skirts in the passage sounded unnaturally loud. Callias swayed where he sat, dropped his wine-cup, and collapsed face downwards among the dishes on the table. Without a word Alcibiades picked him up and unceremoniously dropped him on a couch, where he lay snoring and twitching.

  ‘I must offer you my apologies for this unpardonable insult,’ said Hipponicus quietly. ‘You must know that Callias is not . . . always himself. I hope you will forget what has been said. Please believe that my feelings towards you remain unchanged. I know that over many things we differ. That is not important. I shall be proud to have you as a son.’ He stretched out his han
d, and Alcibiades took it. ‘We are all tired, Alcibiades. We need peace. We have been chasing a dream. I know that if Pericles were alive today, he would speak as I do now.’

  Alcibiades said: ‘There has been too much hatred for peace to come easily. We shall see what happens in this year of truce. For myself, I cannot trust Sparta. I may be wrong. But . . . but—one cannot end a war thus with a stroke of a pen. Not this war. It is like an ulcer half-discharged; while the core remains it will swell and eat into the flesh. And only the sword can pierce to that core. Greece cannot contain both Athens and Sparta.’

  ‘These are bitter words,’ said Hipponicus. He gave a tired smile. ‘At least you will be wed in time of peace.’ They went out silently. Callias lay alone on the couch, the flickering candles patterning his ravaged and swollen face. A wind blew through the open window and gently stirred the flowers that lay on the table.

  • • • • •

  Despite her great age, Pyrrha had insisted on accompanying the slave-girls to the fountain of Callirrhoe to bring back the water for Hipparete’s bridal bath; and on this occasion, at least, the young girl could not deny her old nurse the right to prepare her. She stood bemused and trembling while Pyrrha washed her, and put myrrh in her hair, and with deft fingers wrapped the purple bridal robe about her. Her wandering mind recalled a picture she had once seen of Iphigeneia at Aulis, fainting upon the altar, her father’s hand uplifted with the sacrificial knife ready to strike her down. Her throat was dry; she was unbearably excited and frightened at once. She said, stammering: ‘Pyrrha . . . I think. I shall faint.’

  The old woman took Hipparete in her arms and rocked her gently. ‘There, my lamb,’ she murmured, ‘it’ll soon be over. You might have had a worse husband. Submit to all his wishes, and you will be well . . .’

  ‘I’m not afraid of him . . . He is the one man I could have wished to marry. Ever since I saw him that day—’ She stopped abruptly; and Pyrrha was wise enough not to question her. Then Hipparete said in a small voice: ‘It is myself I fear. I know nothing. I have seen nothing. I shall be . . . clumsy. I listened to him talk at the betrothal feast. He is so sure of himself. He has done so much . . . he will be impatient with my stupidity.’

  Pyrrha sighed and said: ‘So it is always. So it was with me. You will learn; and he, the Gods willing, will be patient.’ She looked out of the window. The sun had already set; the blue of the sky was beginning to deepen. Soon the appearance of the Evening Star would herald the approach of the bridegroom. She arranged the long saffron veil over Hipparete’s face, and bound the saffron sandals on her feet. She lingered over this task, performing it with slow ritual reverence. Then she clasped a great golden necklace about her neck, and the snake-armlets of thin beaten gold round her wrists: lastly on Hipparete’s head, above the veil, she placed a garland of quince-blossom. Then the two of them stood in silence, their breath coming short, waiting; till Pyrrha said: ‘I had almost forgotten. Your mother is dead, rest her soul; so it must be I who kindle your first bridal torch.’ She hobbled over to a corner and took out the flambeau she had fashioned with such loving care the day before; binding the withes about the tinder, soaking it in sweet-smelling oil. In the centre of the room the charcoal in the brazier flickered uncertainly.

  Slowly the sky darkened. It had been a cloudless day, and now an unbroken pellucid bowl arched over. the City. Then, a faint point at first, but quickly swelling as night drew on, the single Star shone out; bright and steady, above the dark outline of Hymettus. And even as the two women watched it, there came from the distance the sound of many voices, both, men’s and women’s, raised in the marriage hymn. Moving as if in a dream, Hipparete went, with Pyrrha following her, to the door of the house to await them.

  Far away down the road rang out the tramp of feet, and the clip-clop of mules’ hooves: In the still air the scent of whitethorn and jessamine, with which the lintels of the door were wreathed, came clean and sweet to her nostrils. She stood motionless, longing for what was to come, yet half-clinging, like a child, to the old life she was leaving. Her clothes and trinkets were folded and packed in the heavy cypress-wood coffers that stood in the court. They would be all she had to remind her of the past. There would be a new house, new servants, unfamiliar ways. And overshadowing them all, the man—strange, powerful, scarcely understood—who was to shape her future.

  When the mule-car halted in front of her it was his hands she saw; strong brown hands, that held whip and reins lightly, almost carelessly, yet with complete control; He was dressed in a tunic of soft white wool; the cloak above it was white also, without any purple border. This was his bridal garb. His sandals were of white leather, with crimson thongs and clasps of gold; and on his heady was the chaplet of intertwined myrtles and violets. Beside him, as bridegroom’s friend, was Adeimantus, his dark heavy profile in sharp contrast to Alcibiades’ fair hair and thin handsome features. Behind them stretched a long procession of relatives and friends, carrying unlit torches of pine-wood; and with them singers and flute-players, young boys and girls, their instruments and voices silent now at this ritual moment.

  With quick yet dignified movements Alcibiades descended from the car and took his veiled bride by the hand, leading her to her place between him and Adeimantus, who kissed her hand and took a sprig from her garland for good luck. At this moment Pyrrha lit the first bridal torch, and thrust it flaming into the hands of Hipponicus, who now came out from the inner apartments of the house to lead the procession. At once he applied it to the torch of Axiochus, who stood beside him; Axiochus in his turn passed it on; and in less than a minute the night was crimson with a long line of tossing flames. Then the flutes struck up, skirling shrilly, and everyone began to sing. As the first notes rang out Alcibiades, who stood immobile, looking neither to left nor right, gave the reins a gentle shake; and the procession moved slowly forward at a walking pace, the guests marching in time to the music.

  To Hipparete the journey to Alcibiades’ house was like a dream on the borderland of waking. The ceaseless singing rang in her ears; the crowds that lined the streets, cheering and gesticulating, glowed brick-red in the smoky light of the torches, unreal denizens of a strange alien world. But when Alcibiades lifted her down from the mule-car, and carried her over the threshold of her new home, she felt truly a wife; and all her fears left her. Blinking in the blaze of light from hundreds of lamps, she glanced shyly up at her husband. He smiled back at her; but his eyes quickly turned to the large banqueting chamber they were entering, glancing round sharply to see that all was as it should be. His steward was there to greet them, and bowed low before the new mistress of the house. Alcibiades set her down lightly, and she looked around her.

  The chamber was arranged for the bridal dinner. Down each side of the room ran a line of couches, with low tables in front of them, where women and men would feast separately. The tables were laden with wine and food; especially in evidence were the little round cakes of sesame, symbolical of fertility. But before she could look further the guests poured in singing, showering sweets and grain over her and her husband. Then the women led her, still veiled, to her seat at the head of the topmost table; and the banquet began.

  As the wine flowed, and the guests talked and laughed, Hipparete stole an occasional glance from behind her veil; sometimes at Alcibiades, who sat in the same place on the other side of the room, Adeimantus on his right hand and Axiochus on his left; sometimes at the rest of the company. She recognised Nicias, prim even in his wedding garments, sipping fastidiously at his wine; but most of those she saw were unknown to her. Her eye fell on a broad-shouldered swarthy man near the bottom of the room, who was eating fast, cramming the food into his mouth with big thick fingers. She asked the woman who sat immediately below her who he was. The woman took a quick look and frowned.

  ‘It would have been better if he had not come,’ she said, disdain on her face.

  ‘But who—?’

  ‘Cleon.’

  Hipparete shivered
; she turned away quickly to watch her father, below Adeimantus, his red cheeks crinkling with laughter. It was the only face she knew well. But her eyes were compelled away from him to where Alcibiades sat, a goblet of wine in his hand, his face flushed, his fair hair falling over his forehead. He pushed it back with a careless gesture; and, once again Hipparete was fascinated by the strength and grace of his hands. Then she remembered that in a short while she and he would be utterly alone, in the darkness and fire of their bridal bed; and despite herself, she felt cold and afraid.

  When the moment came. Alcibiades nodded to the women; and twelve young girls escorted Hipparete from the banqueting hall to the door of another room, where olive branches hung twined above the lintel. She heard rather than saw her husband approach, his uncle and Adeimantus accompanying him; then he took her by the hand, and with a single decisive gesture drew her inside with him, and shut the door behind them. Cheers and laughter echoed from outside; and the maidens began to sing, in their pure clear voices,

  Hymen, O Hymenaeus!

  Come Hymen, come Hymenaeus!

  She heard nothing but her own heart; she saw nothing but the great wide bed, lit by a single lamp, that smelt of lavender and myrrh. The man standing beside her in the shadow she did not see, but rather felt; a dark motionless figure, that in an instant would possess her like a god.

  But the seconds passed, and he did not move. Light as air, scarce knowing what she did, she moved to the bed. With hands that trembled ceaselessly she took off the wreath of flowers and laid them on the coverlet as Pyrrha had taught her; she let fall cloak and tunic, and kicked off each sandal with a small, frightened movement, and stood white and naked, the flame of the lamp turning her flesh the colour of honey. One by one, she took out the golden pins that held her hair, till it tumbled about her shoulders in a dark mass, washed and scented, and lay warm and thick upon her bare back. As she moved, so did her husband. She heard the rustle of his cloak, the faint clink as he unclipped his belt. Then, without knowing how, she was lying between the cool sheets, waiting.