by Peter Green
‘I see. Were you alone?’
‘No, sir. There was my brother, and Icesius the flute-player, and Meletus’ personal slave—’
‘Was Meletus there himself?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘The President made a note. Go on.’
‘Well, sir, there was a crowd of people there—slaves and citizens all together without distinction. There was a lot of drinking going on. Then—then they dressed up, and performed a ritual.’
‘Be more precise. To begin with, who officiated at this so-called ritual?’
‘Alcibiades was the High Priest—’
‘Do you recognise him here?’ asked the President. The boy pointed him out confidently. The President nodded to him to proceed.
‘—Theodorus was the Herald, and Pulytion himself the Torchbearer.’ An excited hum of conversation followed his words.
The President wrote again: then he raised his head and said: ‘You are prepared to swear, then, that this ritual was a parody of the Sacred Mysteries of Eleusis?’
The boy hesitated, swallowed, and then in a strangled voice said: ‘Yes, sir.’
The hubbub became louder than ever. Then Alcibiades himself; who had sat silent throughout this interrogation, rose to his feet. Instantly the voices died away.
‘May I be permitted to question this slave?’ he asked the President. He had regained his confidence; his voice had all its familiar silky arrogance.
The President bowed: Alcibiades looked at Andromachus and said: ‘Pythonicus stated before you came before us that you are not yourself an initiate of the Mysteries. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ The word was barely audible.
‘Thank you. Then might I inquire how you are entitled to swear that what you saw at Pulytion’s house was a parody of those same Mysteries—which you have never witnessed?’
For a full minute no one spoke. Then the boy muttered: ‘I told him exactly what I’d seen. He said there could be no doubt that—’
Alcibiades interrupted him sharply. ‘Who is “he”?’
‘P-Pythonicus.’
Alcibiades turned to the President in triumph. ‘You have heard what the boy said. I do not blame him. He has merely put forward what he was told to—what was put into his head by the very man who stands here to accuse me, and who, I doubt not, has his own good reasons for wishing to do so.’
The President stroked his beard. ‘Very well, Alcibiades,’ he observed reasonably: ‘if what Andromachus saw at Pulytion’s house was not a parody of the Mysteries, what was it?’
Alcibiades turned cold. To admit to being a follower of Cotytto was little better than the crime he actually stood accused of. While he hesitated, the President said:
‘You do not deny that you were present on the night in question?’
‘No, I do not deny it.’
‘Or that you took part in some kind of ceremony?’
‘No.’
‘Then I ask you again—what was it?’ A roar of approbation followed his words.
Alcibiades thought quickly. It was impossible to tell how much was known, and to what lengths his unknown adversaries were prepared to go. Clearly the truth could do him little good, and might implicate many of his friends who as yet were not under accusation. And if they had taken the trouble to teach this slave-boy his part, they clearly would not scruple to perjure themselves as far as it suited them. Better to be cautious: anything might happen in the next day or so.
‘I am not prepared to say,’ he declared firmly. ‘But I am willing to swear before you all that it had nothing whatsoever to do with the Mysteries.’
This was a shrewd move. There were many members of the Assembly who had themselves participated in the rites of the Thracian Goddess; and Alcibiades’ words were a plain enough hint to them of what had really occurred. In the animated and ill-controlled outburst which greeted his words he saw at once that some at least of those present were wavering.
The same thought, clearly, had struck home elsewhere. From the detached group a man strode quickly forward to face the crowd: a small, swarthy, dapper man, with quick movements and nervous, restless hands.
‘Androcles!’ said Alcibiades, half aloud. His time-saving manoeuvre had had a more drastic effect than he had hoped. His enemy had been forced to show himself.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the popular leader, in a scathing voice, ‘I think we have wasted quite enough time with these idle protestations. An innocent man does not need to conceal the truth. Alcibiades has admitted his guilt. And even if he had not, who could have doubted that this was the man responsible for such an indecent outrage?’ Androcles’ voice rose on the high note of the mob orator. ‘You know his history. From his earliest years he has set himself up against everything that we in this City hold most sacred. Will you take the word of a drunkard and a spendthrift, a general whose favourite haunt is the vilest brothel he can find, a man who has deceived his friends, his wife, and anyone with whom he has ever had dealings? Is such a one likely to respect the Gods any more than he does his fellow-men?
‘Look at him, men of Athens! Is this a time for laughter? Can you not see that here is a man who is utterly shameless in his iniquity?’ Then he addressed himself to Alcibiades. ‘You have little reason for confidence, my friend,’ he said. ‘Deny if you can that you are the leader of a secret political club whose purpose is to overthrow the democracy. It is true, gentlemen. My agents have done their work well. I can name every one of his associates.’
At this supreme revelation the Assembly remained in a stunned silence. Alcibiades had gone white. Here was more than he had bargained for. Androcles watched him narrowly.
‘Do I touch you more nearly now?’ he asked. ‘Let me tell you something of this club, gentlemen. Their own leader did not trust them. He had to bind them to him by complicity in. his own guilt: and so he produced a dead man whom he claimed to have murdered—whether his claim be true or not I leave to your decision and his conscience—and made his associates swear, not only to assist him in his treacherous plans, but to conceal the fact of this capital crime he alleged he had committed. Here was a true criminal conspiracy.’
Stung out of silence, Alcibiades leapt to his feet. ‘That is a lie,’ he cried.
‘Ah? And the rest, I assume, you admit to be true? But I have this statement on excellent authority, gentlemen. None other than that of Alcibiades’ own brother-in-law—who went in fear of his life from this monster till he willed his fortune to the Athenian people. Can you deny, Alcibiades, that it was your threats which drove Callias to protect himself by taking the steps he did? Can you deny that you were desperately in debt, and that this seemed the only way of gaining the money you needed to continue in your dissolute way of life?’
Alcibiades made no reply. Every thoughtless action, every uncalculated idiocy he had ever been responsible for seemed to be arrayed against him. But the perjury of Callias—worthless, drunken, cowardly Callias—struck deeper than anything else.
‘Your silence speaks for itself,’ said Androcles. He turned back to the intent gathering. ‘You have heard the story of this shameful secret oath. Does it not suggest to you a yet more shameful possibility? In a week Athens has been the victim, not of one instance of religious sacrilege, but two. Not only have the sacred Mysteries been vilely outraged by this blasphemous loose-liver; another and equally shocking crime of the same sort has been perpetrated, though till this moment the guilty have escaped the punishment they so richly deserved. You have set up a commission to discover who it was that dared to mutilate your guardian deities. Need you look further? There stands the man. I denounce Alcibiades as an impious traitor, and demand that he pay the fullest penalty that the law can exact.’
Now that the blow had fallen, Alcibiades was conscious of something approaching relief. At least he now knew what he had to expect. But these proceedings, instead of fully revealing the motives behind the events of the past ten days, had only complicated them further. It was clear that t
he accusation relating to the Mysteries was either a genuine misunderstanding, or a trumped-up charge brought by Androcles to rob him of his command. Yet it was impossible that Androcles should also have been responsible for the defacing of the Herms. Whoever had done that clearly wanted to prevent the expedition sailing at all costs; and the popular leader was the last person to destroy the venture on which his own hopes, and that of his party, rested. Therefore he must have merely used it as a golden opportunity to strengthen the charge against Alcibiades, and simultaneously, by the revelation of the supposed culprit, to remove sonic of the stigma which might have prejudiced the departure of the fleet. But if he and his supporters were not responsible, who was? The whole problem seemed insoluble. Through the angry hum of the crowd he once again heard the President’s voice.
‘In view of the gravity of these charges,’ he pronounced, it appears to be my duty to declare that those who stand impeached of such weighty crimes should be brought to immediate trial. Before we proceed further, I will ask the witness who has already given evidence to furnish the Assembly with a full list of those who participated in the parody of the Mysteries . . .’
Alcibiades heard Andromachus’ voice reciting a list of names. Some were known to him; others unfamiliar: ‘Alcibiades, Pulytion, Theodorus, Niciades, Meletus, Panaetius, Archebiades, Archippus, Diogenes . . .’ His mind was working furiously. The one clear fact was that both the charges were false,. and that neither in fact seemed to have any connection with the other. The events were recent, and might well be disproved in the harsh light of a trial. By no means all the population were hostile to him. The troops who were about to sail for Sicily knew that their own hopes of glory rested with him; he alone was the author of the project. Lamachus was nothing but a professional soldier, and Nicias had been opposed to the whole scheme from the beginning. Better still, the allies from Argos and Mantinea had publicly stated that their allegiance was to Alcibiades, and that they would refuse to serve under any other leader. It occurred to him that an immediate trial was the best thing, in the circumstances, that could possibly happen. He realised that the President was addressing him.
‘Alcibiades: you have heard the charges which have been brought against you and your associates. Have you anything to say?’
He rose calmly to his feet. ‘To protest my innocence,’ he said, ‘in the face of such perjured and lying accusations, would clearly be waste of breath; nor would it free me of the stigma which such slanders, however ill-deserved, will undoubtedly bring upon me. My only desire is to see that justice is done. This is a simple matter, and you’—he looked straight at the President—‘have pointed the way to its accomplishment. I am willing to stand immediate trial. More than that: I demand it. I hold a high position of authority among you. You have entrusted to me and my associates the command of an expedition which is the greatest ever to sail forth from Athens. With such unsubstantiated charges hanging over my head my position is intolerable. Bring your charges to court. If I am found guilty, I am willing to accept whatever punishment the Athenian people see fit to impose on me. If I am acquitted, I demand my immediate confirmation as general, and a guarantee of protection against any further malicious charges which my enemies may try to bring against me in my absence. From your own point of view it would be the height of folly to send me to Sicily with so serious a charge still undecided.’
‘That is honestly spoken,’ said the President. ‘Will any other citizen speak before we proceed to a vote on the matter?’
Alcibiades, watching Androcles closely, saw the anxiety on his face. But then, another unknown man got up—Androcles seemed to have provided against every possible contingency—and said: ‘I appreciate the offer that Alcibiades has just made. It shows a finer spirit than we might have expected from a man in his position. But consider the situation in another way, gentlemen. Are we to waste precious time now, when surprise is a vital element in our calculations? I hold no brief for delay as regards those other men whose names have been read out before you. Bring them to trial when you like. But I submit that this is a special case, and demands special conditions. Let Alcibiades sail with the fleet. He can make his defence on his return: the laws will be the same then as they are now.’
It was in vain that Alcibiades argued and protested. The more he asserted his rights to immediate justice, the more hostile the Assembly grew. The voting, when it came, was a mere formality. The conspirators named by Andromachus, all but Alcibiades, were to be arrested and brought to trial. Alcibiades himself was to sail to Sicily, and to answer before a tribunal on his return.
He walked down to the quayside and stood staring out into the harbour. He was half-dazed, yet at the same time acutely aware of a myriad tiny things: the rounded pressure of the cobbles through the soles of his sandals, the sun beating down on the back of his neck and sparkling on the surface of the water, the gulls screaming and fighting over scraps of offal. I could have defied them, he thought. If they hadn’t been scared of the army backing me, they’d never have prevented my trial. I could still do it. They think I’m aiming at tyranny. After today I’d be justified if I were. The envious devils. The mean-spirited, ungrateful lying fools. Between them they’ll cripple this expedition more effectively than any Sicilian army could do, with their indecisions and vindictiveness, their party squabbles and private feuds. The people. The many-headed, no-brained rabble. Sweaty shopkeepers, screaming demagogues, tight-pursed landowners; rash and cowardly by turn, squealing and stampeding after any leader like a drove of swine. And this is the Athens that Pericles strove to make supreme!
But he knew—though he did not admit it to himself in so many words—that he would never turn his hand to open revolution. All that Pericles had bequeathed to the City was intangible: an idea, a way of life, and above all the laws that six generations had hammered out. Yet whichever way he looked, he could see nothing but treachery and uncertainty. In ten short days the power he had so laboriously built up had been shaken to its very foundations.
Slowly, with head bent in thought, he walked away to find Axiochus. Several curious dock-workers paused in their work to watch him pass. One of them spat on his hands reflectively and then said to no one in particular: ‘Look at him. Who’d be a general in Athens? If you win, well and good; but if you lose . . .’ he drew a finger across his throat. ‘I wouldn’t be in command of that lot’—he jerked his head towards the harbour—‘if they offered me all the money in the Treasury . . .’ He bent once more to pick up the heavy coils of tarred rope in front of him.
• • • • •
The Assembly had moved fast; but not fast enough. When, early the next morning, they sent out guards to arrest those whom they had impeached, they found that all except one of them had left Athens. This unfortunate individual was made the summary victim of the crowd’s resentment: he was subjected to a hasty mockery of a trial and executed the same day.
But the next development was unexpected. A message reached the Council from a certain stone-mason named Teucer, who had fled from Athens and was in hiding at Megara. In it he announced that he had himself been involved in the supposed profanation of the Mysteries; and that if he were granted immunity, he was prepared to reveal, not only the names of his accomplices, but also further information concerning the mutilation of the Herms. The Council readily gave him the immunity he asked for, and sent a commission post-haste to Megara, armed with a written guarantee to convince him he could return to Athens in safety.
His deposition caused a mild sensation. On the count of the Mysteries, he denounced eleven men, including himself. None of these were among those accused by the slave-boy Andromachus; and one of them was Nicias’ own brother, who was actually a member of the commission hearing Teucer’s statement. Teucer denied having taken part in the mutilations, about which his information seemed less certain; but he furnished the Council with eighteen more names of those whom he declared to have been involved. Among them were two who had already been denounced by Andromachus.
Of the rest, those that could make their escape did so; those who could not were rounded up and put to death.
As soon as he obtained all the details, Alcibiades went straight to Axiochus. Together they went over the lists of names.
‘I thought I understood intrigue,’ said Axiochus, pushing his long bleached locks back from his forehead, ‘but this . . . At any rate, there’s one thing. He hasn’t incriminated you. Or any of your friends.’
‘That won’t make any difference once I’ve gone. Androcles is out for blood. I must say, this business will worry him quite a bit, though. He obviously wasn’t expecting any rival informers. I wonder if this stone-mason had a grudge against him? Consider. He admits to having taken part in a parody of the Mysteries. To the best of my knowledge, no such thing ever took place. Therefore he’s either making a simple mistake—for all I know he might have been there and taken the ritual for the Eleusinian one—or else he’s establishing his good faith over the one crime in order to be able to give genuine information on the other.’
‘That sounds reasonable enough.’ Axiochus ran his finger down the list relating to the Herms. ‘Let’s see who he’s aiming at. Euctemon, Glaucippus, Eurymachus . . . Pherecles, Chaeredemus, Euphiletus—’
‘Euphiletus?’
‘Yes. What about him?’
‘Don’t you remember? He was one of the men who saw Nicias. I had him on my list. There was another man with him—Andocides—’
‘He’s not here,’ said Axiochus after a moment. ‘But it certainly looks as if this fellow Teucer might be telling the truth . . . In the name of the Gods, though, what’s behind it all? What’s the sense in it? It clearly wasn’t aimed at you, even if Androcles did—’
‘Wait a minute.’ Alcibiades gripped his uncle by the shoulder. ‘Let’s suppose that Teucer is right. How he got his information is another matter . . But look at these names again. None of them are well known politically. What have they all got in common?’