by Peter Green
Chapter 27
The three generals sat, hot and dispirited, in Nicias’ tent on the shore before Rhegium in southern Italy. Looking out through the open flaps, brailed back to admit what little breeze there was, Alcibiades could see, fluid and uncertain in the shimmering air, the ships drawn up along the shore; the men sitting about in their shadow, moving a little from time to time as the sun crept round the sky; the high cliff at the top of which he had sat over ten years before. At the foot of this cliff a market had been set up by the inhabitants for the Athenian troops; but the doors of the town remained uncompromisingly barred.
It seemed to him that everything had happened before. He could feel himself being dragged unresistingly into a whirlpool of indecision, from which there would be no escape. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. Nicias and Lamachus were talking in low tones.
Nicias looked flier than, ever. The kidney disease to which he had been subject at periods for many years was now becoming acute. Why can’t he die? wondered Alcibiades. Then we might see some action. He won’t die, though. He’ll live if only to spite me. Yet he might as well be dead.
After the high hopes with which they had set out, their present position was almost ludicrous. At Corcyra they had divided the fleet into three squadrons, each under its own commander, in order to prevent congestion in the harbours they came to, or shortage of provisions and water. It had well symbolised, Alcibiades thought, the division of opinion existing between the three generals. The excuse was valid enough; but when he thought of the thirty vessels of corn which he had provided against such an emergency, the carpenters and masons, even the bakers he had enrolled to accompany the fleet, he could not but believe the move ill-judged. There had been quarrels about that, and many other things. It always came back to Nicias. He remembered the old man on the outward journey, sitting in the stern of his boat, always staring over the wake towards Athens, as if he wished he had never left her.
But worse was to come. When the fleet reached the heel of Italy, instead of welcoming allies they found everywhere barred and hostile fortresses, obstinately neutral, grudging this vast and terrible fleet even anchorage or fresh water. From Tarentum to Locri it had been the same. At last, weary and frustrated, they had reached Rhegium. They had been there now for two weeks; and all they had gained was the chance to stretch their legs, provisions—outside the walls—at ruinously high prices, and equivocal replies from the Rhegian government to their overtures. Deaf to the call to join the Athenians in freeing their kinsmen of Leontini, the Rhegian magistrates had prudently but infuriatingly stated that they would wait till they saw how the rest of the cities of southern Italy acted, and then follow their example.
After the disappointment and frustration the waiting had been worst. Day after day went by; nothing was achieved, time and money were wasted, opportunities were slipping away. Spies from Sicily had informed them that till the Athenian fleet actually docked at Rhegium the Syracusans had refused to believe they were coming; they brought a tempting report of untrained troops, a neglected fleet, a harbour ready to fall at the first blow.
Now it seemed, as if the initial advantage would be lost. The Syracusans began to make frantic preparations against the impending attack; and Nicias and his colleagues still sat wrangling at Rhegium. And still there was no ship from Athens; no news from Axiochus. The fear of the unknown, the underground action which might be taken against him at home, disturbed Alcibiades more deeply even than the deadlock in which the expedition now found itself.
‘Alcibiades!’ It was Nicias’ voice. Alcibiades turned to face him. Lamachus, alert now that strategy was in the air, sat on a camp-stool between them, his shrewd old eyes darting from one to the other.
Nicias said: ‘Lamachus and I are, unfortunately, at variance as to the best course to be pursued in our present circumstances.’ He spoke with difficulty, frequently wiping his lips. But his voice was as dry and precise as ever. ‘It therefore devolves upon me to ask you whether you favour either of the two plans we have conceived; or, failing this, whether you are prepared to suggest an alternative yourself. I much regret the necessity for this course. But fortunately I know where my duty lies.’
Even six months ago this ponderous and vicious snub would have roused Alcibiades to fury. Now he let it pass him by unmoved. There was no reason, no profit in losing one’s temper with this man; the only chance was to calmly press a point, and go on pressing it, come what might. If one had to fall from a precipice it was better to slip by accident then throw oneself off.
Nicias was speaking again. ‘I will give you my own opinions first.’ He blinked angrily at Lamachus, who flushed and snorted. Good, thought Alcibiades. He’s upset him. With any luck . . . He listened carefully.
‘The main object of this expedition is to help Segesta. I see no point in deviating from it. If the Segestans can provide the requisite money, all is well. If not, they can be called upon to supply provisions for the sixty ships they promised. When we have settled Segesta’s affairs, I advise that the whole fleet cruise round the island, displaying Athens’ power and—er—making a clear demonstration of our loyalty to our allies. We should refrain from endangering the State by . . . ah, wasting the resources entrusted to us. In fact, we should, in my opinion, at once return to Athens after fulfilling our obligations.’ He looked round defiantly when he had finished. Alcibiades and Lamachus stared at him incredulously.
‘Let me remind you,’ Said Alcibiades at length, ‘that we didn’t come out here with the largest fleet we ever put to sea to impress a dozen Sicilian cities by running away at the first sign of trouble. Furthermore, you should know as well as I do that the terms of the expedition provided for the reduction of the whole island, Syracuse in particular.’ He was about to say more; but checked himself.
‘I anticipated your reactions,’ observed Nicias biliously. ‘I have said what I have said. You had better listen to Lamachus.’
Alcibiades turned an inquiring eye to the old general, who had listened to Nicias’ apologia with disgust written all over his face. His expression softened as he addressed Alcibiades. Here was a young fellow who would not let him down. Not like this miserable old dotard who ought never to have left home . . . He wiped an intrusive mosquito from his nose and said:
‘There’s no doubt what we should do. Forget all this political nonsense. Our job is to capture this island. Correct? Very well. We all know that Syracuse is the key to the whole situation. Capture Syracuse, and you won’t have these damned country ports shutting their doors in our faces. The longer we delay, the more difficult it’ll be. The Syracusans know all about us now. But they’re still not ready. One assault could carry Syracuse, Grand Harbour and all. In my opinion, the sooner we do it, the better.’ He relapsed into silence, his heavy face congested by the necessity for such a long speech.
There we have it, thought Alcibiades. And for the first time he found his mind wavering alarmingly. What Nicias says is impossible. It’d be the surest way to get me condemned. What would Athens say if I went home now? But to assault Syracuse . . . It was too decisive; it left no loopholes for escape. Supposing the attack was a failure, what then? There was much in what Lamachus said. But it was not certain. For an instant wild and impractical notions flashed through his mind—an alliance with Syracuse against the rest of Sicily, and behind this, only half-acknowledged, the chance of a safe retreat if the summons he constantly dreaded were to come. For the first time in his life, he found himself driven, against his own instincts, into the role of the advocate of caution, the postponer of the fatal and irrevocable decision. Yet he knew, better than either of the two men who now waited for his words, that delay could be fatal; knew too that he was at the very cross-roads of his career, where one mistake could be the last. It was in an unusually hesitant voice that he said:
‘There is much in what both of you say.’ Both Nicias and Lamachus gaped in astonishment. ‘I propose something midway between your suggestions. It would be disgraceful f
or such a great expedition to sail away without doing anything. On the other hand, I doubt the possibility of an immediate attack on Syracuse. It is true they are not prepared. But with those fortifications they have little need to be.’ He went on smoothly: ‘I believe there is much, we can do by diplomacy. Our record here in this respect has left much to be desired in the past. We should send envoys, not troops, to every city except Selinus and Syracuse. It should not be hard to sow dissension among these quarrelsome states. The two immediate things we need most are corn and a good harbour. If you win over the native Sicels of the interior you’ll get the first; and if you can procure the allegiance of Messana in the Straits you’ll have the second. After that we can think of moving against Syracuse or Selinus with some real chance of success.’
There was a considerable silence while Nicias and Lamachus digested this. Then Nicias said, trying to conceal the surprise in his voice: ‘I don’t like it much. I do not think Alcibiades has raised any valid objection to my own proposals, and I abide by them . . .’ His voice tailed away. Then he roused himself with an effort, and said: ‘Lamachus?’
Lamachus was looking at Alcibiades with hurt and puzzled eyes. ‘I’m surprised at you, young man. I thought you had more spirit in you. I’ll believe we can’t storm those fortifications when we’ve tried. Still, you don’t leave me any choice. Unless we’re to sit here for ever, we must have a majority decision. I accept your proposals. With considerable misgivings, I may say, but I accept them.’
‘Thank you, Lamachus.’ Alcibiades turned to Nicias. He was breathing as if he had just run a race. ‘There are two of us opposed to you,’ he said quietly. ‘Will you accept our decision?’
Nicias looked at Alcibiades with a curious expression. There almost seemed to be an element of triumph, in it. ‘Yes,’ he said, in the same grating voice, ‘I accept your decision.’
‘In that case,’ Alcibiades remarked, ‘I shall take my own flagship and sail to Messana at once.’ Now the decision had been taken, the prospect of definite action began to appeal to him once more.
‘I see,’ said Nicias. ‘The diplomat will show his talents.’
For a moment they stood eyeing each other. Then Alcibiades swung impatiently out into the sunshine, leaving Lamachus to argue as he would. The heat struck down on him with blinding force; midday lethargy had sent the bulk of the vast force scattered along the beach to their tents or the scanty shelter afforded by the ships. Alcibiades walked down to his own flagship, his feet crunching among the stones.
Nothing communicated itself to troops so quickly as dissension among their commanders. Grumbling, rare at first, had become chronic. Food supplies were poor, and their own rations had to be carefully conserved. Above all, the spirit of adventure and excitement with which they had set out had been snuffed by this first setback, and in its place a weary inertia reigned. His gaze wandered upward to the walls of Rhegium, the barred gates and the silent fortifications. You can’t blame them, he thought. You can’t blame anybody. The faint sea-breeze came to his nostrils mingled with the smell of sweat and leather and dung, of burning wood and drying linen and cooking food. All along the beach men were lazily preparing their midday meal. He leant back, his energy dissolving, against the hull of his vessel. But the woodwork was uncomfortably hot, and the tar was beginning to melt in the seams. It was five minutes before he could summon up the energy to find Adeimantus and tell him to have the crew make ready to put to sea; and by that time any enthusiasm he had originally conceived for his new plan had entirely vanished.
• • • • •
Alcibiades’ visit to Messana was not a success. The inhabitants had apparently heard what had been done at Rhegium, since they offered him the same terms: a market outside the town, but no entry into it. He tried charm, flattery, threats; they remained obdurate. This personal defeat did more to discourage him than almost anything else. Grimly he sailed back to Rhegium to face Nicias’ mocking greetings; and more and more he felt that the old man knew something which he refused to reveal. It was Lamachus who brought a breath of sanity into the depressed atmosphere.
‘We were sent to Sicily,’ he said, ‘and to Sicily, by the Gods, we’ll go. If we sit in an Italian port waiting for the heavens to fall we might as well take your advice, Nicias, and sail home. What I suggest is this. Two of us can take a limited force—say sixty ships—and try and establish ourselves somewhere on the east coast above Syracuse.’
Lamachus and Alcibiades looked at Nicias. The old man shuffled and prevaricated for a while; but Lamachus, with more shrewdness than Alcibiades had credited him with, had given him his loophole; and after a while he agreed to the scheme, on condition that he himself should remain at Rhegium. As this was exactly what Lamachus had intended, everyone was tolerably well-content.
• • • • •
Alcibiades, whose ship was leading the column, stood in the bows looking towards the harbour of Catana. Its alliance was the one tangible thing he had achieved. Soon they would be back; and what would they have to show for it? The sea was smooth and blue; the vessel slid through the water before the lightest of following winds. The September sun shone down pleasantly; and occasionally shoals of flying fishes would break the surface in glittering parabolas, hovering and darting beside them before diving down into the depths once more.
But Alcibiades had no mind for any of these things. His eyes were on the harbour, where beside Nicias’ flagship (now at last in a Sicilian port) a second Athenian trireme lay at anchor. It was another half hour before he could make out the pennant fluttering from her mast-head; and when he did, a cold fear struck him.
It was the Salaminia, the Government’s official State galley.
As he stepped ashore an officer whom he did not know came up to him and saluted. Alcibiades nerved his voice to steadiness and said: ‘You are from the Salaminia?’
The officer looked at him oddly. ‘Yes, General. I have a letter for you. I was ordered to deliver it to you in person.’ He held out a bulky roll, heavily sealed. As he did so, he glanced over his shoulder to where at the end of the quay Nicias was conversing with a group of men. Alcibiades followed his gaze, putting the letter safely away as he did so.
‘Tell me, Captain,’ he asked softly, knowing the answer even as he spoke, ‘has the Salaminia come for me?’
‘Yes, General.’ Their eyes met: then the officer saluted once more, and walked quickly away. Alcibiades turned to find Adeimantus at his elbow.
‘You heard?’
Adeimantus nodded.
‘See to the docking of the ship. Then come to my tent. This letter will be from my uncle. Its contents may concern you as well as myself. If Nicias wants me, as I have no doubt he will, tell him that I will be at his service in an hour’s time.’
Adeimantus half opened his mouth to ask a question; then he looked at Alcibiades’ face and thought better of it. He saluted formally, and went back to the ship. Alcibiades walked quickly away towards the camp.
When he reached the seclusion of his tent he sat down, and with clumsy fingers slit open the seals of the letters. He at once recognised his uncle’s sprawling handwriting. He sat with it in his hand for a moment, not daring to read. Then, with an abrupt gesture, he unrolled it and spread it out on his knee. He realised that he was sweating; under the breastplate he still wore his heart pounded furiously.
‘When you read this,’ wrote Axiochus, ‘—if you ever do read it—I shall have left Athens with a price on my head. Now I know all I need, my last task is to inform you. I am only sorry I could not do so earlier. But I hardly dared to move. I have bribed a friend of mine who is an officer on the Salaminia to get this letter to you. I have no guarantee he will not betray me. It was the best I could do.
‘First things first. If you do read these lines, you will know that you are in immediate danger of arrest. I do not know how successful your Sicilian venture has been, and neither do the commissioners who have been sent to bring you back to Athens. I pray the Gods
you can confront them with evidence of victories already achieved, and the promise of more to come. Little else will save you. They have been ordered not to arrest you publicly; merely to request you to accompany them in your own ship, with several of your friends who have also been implicated in recent denunciations. But whatever you do, you must not come back now to stand your trial. The situation is very different from what it was when you left, and I doubt if you would even get a fair hearing. If you have the support of your men, refuse to come. If not—the terms laid on the commissioners give you considerable scope. Follow them, and give them the slip as and when you can. You have obeyed the laws of Athens more scrupulously than I expected. To do so any longer would be suicidal.
‘If the results were not so tragic, I could almost laugh at the course events have taken here. They tickled my sense of irony. But my comments will wait.
‘About a fortnight after you sailed, there was a fresh denunciation, of a very different kind. The commission of inquiry had been remarkably zealous all the time; you will gather what I mean when I tell you that every time they met, the entire population vanished from the Market and hid in their houses. This informer, Diocleides, declared he had been out and about on the night of the mutilation—some nonsensical story about having to see a slave of his who was working in the mines. At any rate, he swore he had run into the conspirators near the Theatre of Dionysus, and had recognised a good number of them. He put the total at about three hundred, and gave forty-two names before the commission.
‘This caused a real panic. His denunciation—which was accepted without question—made it look as if the whole affair was an oligarchic plot. Among those he accused were two members of the commission, Mantitheos and Apsephion (this particular gambit seems to be becoming a regular habit), and the rest were all well-known aristocrats. Then someone put about the rumour that the Spartans and Boeotians were marching on Athens, and the whole citizen body kept watch all night. It must have been a rare sight for anyone not involved. Diocleides, incidentally, was given a public feast in the City Hall. That gives a pretty clear pointer to what the public attitude is to the oligarchs, doesn’t it?