Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  Endius dug his nails into his palms with fury. The unpremeditated remark, so baldly put, caused a certain amount of consternation. Even Agis felt it. He glanced quickly at the intent faces before replying. ‘Of course, we shall have to proceed cautiously,’ he said at length; and there was an almost audible sigh of relief. Then, seeing Alcibiades’ crestfallen face, he added: ‘I don’t think there can be any harm in sending a Spartan general to help our friends at Syracuse. That at least seems safe now.’ Heads were nodded.

  ‘And men?’ pursued Alcibiades. Agis fiddled with a knife. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we mustn’t be precipitate. The Syracusans have men. It is a good commander they lack. You pointed that out yourself . . . Yes, we shall, certainly send them a commander.’ He looked to the Ephors for approval, and got it. ‘Everything in due course,’ he said, and turned back to his food.

  • • • • •

  Against all expectation, Nicias slowly recovered from the more violent effects of his illness. He was still a sick man, and his parchment-like skull and bilious eyes gave him a shocking appearance; but he could go about his duties once more. As if to compensate him for his personal sufferings, the campaign seemed to be taking a turn for the better. The news that Syracuse was completely invested had an admirable effect on the attitude of the Sicilians. Men and supplies began to pour in; all the cities were anxious to swim with the tide. There were even three ships from Italy. And now that the siege was practically at a deadlock, he could indulge in his own brand of intrigue, which was more to his taste than open warfare. He began to have secret discussions with some of the Syracusan leaders, who in their present desperate position were only too willing to do anything that might secure their personal safety. As Nicias had anticipated, rumours of these moves got about, with the result that no one in the Syracusan government trusted his neighbour. As it would have been imprudent for the magistrates to attack each other, they vented their anger on their unlucky generals: there was a regular crop of dismissals on charges of treachery and incompetence. Nicias kept a firm finger on the pulse of this dissension, and grew daily more optimistic; so optimistic, in fact, that after a while he became a little careless.

  • • • • •

  The man the Ephors had chosen to send to Syracuse was a senior captain named Gylippus. They had ratified Agis’ proposal grudgingly, raising endless objections, complaining that it would be better to wait on events before making such an overt move. When at length they capitulated, they only allowed the mission to take two ships, and the man they chose was one they were glad to see out of the way.

  Gylippus had, in fact, several of Agis’ own more disturbing characteristics. His dour, heavy appearance and somewhat brutish appetites concealed a quick and independent brain. He was much given to acting in the field without orders. To this, more than anything else, he owed the fact that hitherto he had never been given a responsible command. He was also inordinately ambitious; but was wise enough to keep this trait well hidden. Nevertheless, when he had been offered his two ships, and a seemingly impossible task, he accepted with alacrity.

  When he left the Peloponnese, he sailed, not directly to Sparta, but round into the Gulf to Corinth, where he acquired two more ships and a Corinthian lieutenant. From here the little squadron made its way to the island of Leucas on the west coast of Greece, and waited. In due course it was augmented by ten further ships from Corinth, two from Leucas itself, and three from Ambracia on the mainland opposite, which Gylippus extracted from the natives by a combination of threats and bribes. Nineteen vessels: the situation was beginning to look a little more promising.

  But the news that continually reached Gylippus from Sicily was anything but promising. Merchantmen calling in at the little port where his fleet rode at anchor all told the same story. Syracuse would fall in a matter of days; after that all Sicily would go over to the Athenians. Gylippus decided that his only chance was to save Italy. With two of his own ships and two Corinthian galleys he sailed across to Tarentum. Nicias received a report of his approach; but, taking the number of ships he brought into account, decided this was a mere piratical expedition, and forgot all about it.

  Gylippus meanwhile had used his agents to rather better effect. It became clear that there still was a way into Syracuse, overland by the heights of Epipolae. The whole situation abruptly changed. He sailed up through the straits of Messana, and put in at Himera on the north coast of Sicily to raise troops among the native Sicels. The four ships that Nicias had finally sent to Italy to intercept him came back with the news that he was gone. About the same time, unbeknown to Nicias, Gylippus had raised a force of some two thousand men from the district around Himera, and was marching on Syracuse itself. Nicias’ outposts were so careless that the Spartan managed to get his whole army up on to Epipolae, between the Athenian camp and the town, without the loss of a single man.

  • • • • •

  ‘The Spartan Gylippus,’ wrote Nicias in his dispatch to the Council, ‘has forced us into a position where we are hard put to it to defend our own lines, let alone carry out the attack we intended against the city of Syracuse.’ He put down his pen, shivering a little with the cold, and pressed his hands to his eyes. For three days he had been prostrated by another attack; and the setbacks he had suffered during the last two months had robbed him of any resistance he might have had. All he dreamed of now was to rest in peace in his bed. His back ached horribly: he could only summon up enough energy to write a sentence or two at a time.

  ‘They have carried their wall past our lines. Their strength of cavalry prevents us recapturing this wall, or even foraging in the country. The besiegers have become the besieged.’

  His hand began to tremble so much that he had to stop. He closed his eyes and prayed for a fresh commander to relieve him. But he saw the grim faces of the Council, far away from the battlefront, concerned only with the impalpables of politics; and he knew that his death warrant had already been signed, that he would never be allowed to give up his command. Tears of rage and weakness and self-pity ran down his withered cheeks. Yet the attempt, the gesture must be made.

  ‘Gylippus is getting reinforcements from the Peloponnese, and all the cities of Sicily are going over to him. He is intending to attack us both by sea and land. We cannot resist him. This may sound inexplicable to you.’

  How could the easy men sitting at home, with memories of the great and invincible fleet that had sailed away from the Piraeus—how could they ever understand what had happened?

  ‘Our ships have been in commission too long. In our position we cannot haul them ashore and careen them without exposing ourselves to attack. The timbers are rotten, and the crews mutinous. And now the enemy have a more powerful fleet than ours.

  ‘It is hard to get supplies through their blockade. If we relax our grip at all it will become impossible. We have already lost too many men to keep the lines fully open. They are cut off by Syracusan cavalry when going out to forage or fetch water. Our slaves and mercenaries are deserting. We have no means of making good these losses. Naxos and Catana, our only remaining Sicilian allies, have no more men to give us. The only further blow we could suffer would be the loss of our Italian markets. And if a relief force is not sent, Italy too will desert us, and Syracuse end the war without a blow being struck.’

  He smiled grimly and added: ‘I could have given you more agreeable news than this, but the truth will be more useful. And, I think, safer. The Athenian loves to have his hopes raised; then, if the results fail to justify his expectations, he turns on his informer. This, then, is the real state of affairs.’

  Was that too strong? he wondered, his natural caution asserting itself once more. He drew his sheepskin cloak round his thin shoulders. After all, what did it matter now?

  ‘I do not want you to think’—the hollow platitude slipped from his pen unbidden—‘that either your troops or the men who command them have deteriorated to the point where they are no longer a match for the enemy. But you mu
st face the facts.’ He drew a deep breath. This would be the most difficult part. ‘An immediate decision in Athens is vital. You must either recall the expedition, or send out at least as large a force again to reinforce us.’ I tried that threat once before, and it failed, he thought. Will it fail again? They could never raise such a fleet—especially now, when it looks as if Sparta will march against them. They’ll have to defend the City. Yet—have they the courage to admit failure? He picked up his pen again.

  ‘We are also desperately short of money,’ he wrote, ‘a fact which has largely contributed to the many desertions we have suffered. The men must be paid.

  ‘Lastly, it is most urgent that a successor should be found for me in my command. The disease I have long suffered from has now reached the point where I am unfit to carry out my duties. I naturally hesitate to ask this favour, though you will agree, I think, that I have done the State good service in the past; and, had the situation been different, I should have by this time retired from office with some honour. Yet it is not only my own comfort I have in mind, but the safety, the lives even, of all those who are serving under me.

  ‘Whatever help you send must be sent at once: at the latest by next spring. If you delay beyond that point, both the Sicilian and Spartan troops will have reached Syracuse before you: and if this were to happen, it would be too late to save us.’

  When Nicias had finished writing, he re-read his words carefully, and sealed up the dispatch. Then he summoned the courier he had appointed to take it to Athens.

  ‘I have given as true a picture as I can of our condition,’ he said wearily. ‘Whether the Council will believe me, or act on my advice even if they do, I cannot tell.’ He looked up at the tall, silent man standing rigidly at attention in front of him. ‘I give you full permission to add your own persuasions to mine. They must understand what is happening. If they fail to act, we are all lost.’ He coughed violently, holding his hand before his mouth.

  The courier looked at him, strangely moved. Nicias had never been a popular general. But in defeat he had acquired a dignity he had never achieved in more successful days.

  ‘I will do all I can, sir. I promise you that.’ But even as he said the words he knew how hopeless his task was.

  • • • • •

  Nicias’ prophecies proved only too true. It was too much to hope for a withdrawal; the government would have cut its own throat even if it had had the courage to suggest it. The courier argued in vain. Money was running dangerously low; and it seemed better to stake all that was left on a chance of ultimate success than to cut what were already desperately heavy losses.

  So it was that a month later Nicias learnt that he had been confirmed in his command, with two of his own junior officers as temporary colleagues. Shortly afterwards his old friend Eurymedon sailed in and joined him, with ten ships into which he had packed two thousand troops. He brought, too, the news that another expedition was being fitted out, and that Demosthenes—the brilliant, wayward Demosthenes, the victor of Pylos—would be in command of it. ‘All we need to do now,’ said Eurymedon, vigorous and optimistic, ‘is to hold our position till he arrives.’

  Nicias smiled faintly. At unbelievable cost, he had held out for over a year. Three months should make little difference after that.

  ‘The morale of your troops seems to be very low,’ said Eurymedon. ‘It seems there’s a good deal to be done here. I intend no criticism of you personally, of course.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Nicias. He began to try and explain how matters lay; then he looked at Eurymedon’s energetic face and changed his mind. ‘There is, as you say, a good deal to be done . . . Please forgive me. I’m not very well.’

  Chapter 30

  Slowly, maddeningly slowly, but with increasing vigour as time went on, the Spartans once more began to equip themselves for war. The Ephors presented their plans to the Council, the Council summoned the Assembly: and towards the end of March Alcibiades’ plans were at last put into action. Agis himself took the whole of the Spartan army into Attica, and fortified the outpost of Decelea, twelve miles from Athens; while a picked force of Helots, some six hundred strong, sailed for Sicily. To Alcibiades himself these events brought little satisfaction. He had spent more than a year now in Sparta, his position undefined, a guest without real freedom. The delay, the uncertainty, the suspicion with which he was still regarded, the long periods during which he had nothing to do—all this had preyed cruelly on his nerves. He had hunted, feasted, wrestled with Spartan nobles, been continually charming and pliable: always alert for the least suggestion of hostility, quick to adapt himself, to smooth out differences, tirelessly working on Endius and Agis to admit him to the role of trusted counsellor. But somehow all his efforts ended in failure. He was treated with unfailing politeness; he was invited everywhere as a welcome guest; but no more. As always, he chafed at inaction: and now to his natural restlessness was added the burden of an inflamed conscience. What he had to do should have been done in hot blood. This interminable waiting was slowly sapping his strength of mind. And behind it all lay his desire for the one woman whose complaisance would destroy him as surely as his own countrymen: a desire conceived unknowingly, crystallised in a brief moment of physical proximity, hardened and magnified by its very impossibility.

  He saw her every day. In Agis’ house, in the streets, in the countryside, at swimming or wrestling, everywhere. If he went out of his way to meet her, he did not do so consciously. He never saw her alone; he could not have done so even if he had so wished. The spies of the Ephorate, the secret police, the glare of publicity which shone on every well-known person in Sparta: these he might have circumvented. But the King himself was another matter. It was not, thought Alcibiades in the fury of his frustration, as if Agis had either love or respect for his wife. But he watched her as some gaoler might watch a valuable prisoner: with a kind of gloating fear. And Agis, more than Endius, was the only man who could protect him—he writhed with shame at the thought—from the ill-concealed hostility of the Ephors and Elders.

  The crisis came to its head on the day before Agis was to leave for Attica. Six months earlier Alcibiades would have hesitated before the last desperate step of taking the field against his own countrymen; now, seeing any hold he might ever have had on the Spartan King slipping away, he knew that this was the only thing that could save him. In the evening he went to Agis’ house and asked for a private audience.

  The King kept him waiting a long time; and when at last he received him, in the raftered hall where they had dined so many times together, he was clearly in an ill-humour. He sat at the bare table on the dais, piles of muster-lists spread out before him, a great hound curled in the rushes at his feet. When Alcibiades came in, walking alone up the long room, Agis did not look up from his work. But the hound half-rose to its feet, and growled threateningly.

  At last Agis raised his head, and stared at Alcibiades in cold appraisal. ‘Well?’ he said.

  There was a short pause. ‘Have you lost your tongue, man?’ asked the King. With his broad shoulders and thick congested neck he looked like an angry bull. ‘I have a great deal of work to do before tomorrow.’ His fingers clenched and unclenched impatiently. ‘Say what you have to say, and have done.’

  Clearly any subtlety would not only be inappropriate but disastrous. Alcibiades looked steadily into those dark choleric eyes. He said:

  ‘Tomorrow—on my advice—you are marching for Decelea. I am an Athenian. I know the ways of my countrymen. Yet once again I am to be left here. What use am I to you in Sparta? Take me with you to Decelea. I do not ask now for power or authority: merely to serve you as best I can.’

  Agis looked for a long time at Alcibiades after this outburst without saying a word. Then slowly a smile broke out on his powerful face. It was the smile of a man who can afford to take his time, who is complete master of the situation; and it was more frightening than any threat.

  ‘I don’t think you fully understand y
our position here,’ said the King. ‘You wrote promising us certain information. That information you duly delivered to us, and we are about to act on it. I very much doubt whether there is anything else you could tell us which would help us more than our own intelligence in the field.’

  Alcibiades stared at him in dismay. Agis went on: ‘It is hardly necessary to point out to you that Sparta is under no obligation to you whatsoever. We sent for you on your own suggestion—with, I may add, considerable misgivings. Are you asking us to commit the incredible folly of entrusting our men to a renegade? Even if you were the finest general in Greece the Council would never allow it.’ He rose to his feet. ‘And that,’ he said, with some emphasis, ‘you are not—whatever your own opinion of yourself. You’ve made a remarkable attempt since you’ve been here to impress us with your Spartan ways. You may have deceived some of us. But not many. I know you better than you know yourself. I know your duplicity and your faithlessness. You’d betray your own father if he were alive and you had a profitable reason to do so. Take you to Decelea?’ he said contemptuously: ‘I’d sooner hand myself over to the enemy and have done with it. I knew you for a knave; now it occurs to me that you’re also a fool. You think friendship can be bought with a few gifts, that charm and fine words are a guarantee of safety. You mistake your men. Your only strength in Sparta has been what you had to give that no one else could; the capacity to bargain. It should be plain to you by now that you have nothing left to bargain with.’

  There was nothing to say, no argument that would not be the merest sophistry, Alcibiades replied, almost unconcernedly, ‘Thank you. I would be glad to know what is to become of me.’

  Perhaps Agis had not expected such honesty; at any rate, he hesitated a moment before replying. When he did, it was in an almost friendly voice. Now that the game was won, he could afford to be generous.