by Peter Green
For a moment he thought she would spring at him. Then she controlled herself and said: ‘No, Alcibiades. That was not the reason. You came to me because in some way I was like a shadow out of your past—’
He tried to silence her; but the words drummed in his ears: ‘Did you think I was so ignorant? You may have deceived yourself: but never me. When you held me in your arms—’ she faltered only for a second—‘it was a ghost you held, not me. It was—’
But his hand was over her mouth, shutting back the name. For an instant she strained against him with all her strength; then suddenly she relaxed, and her arms were about his neck. The tears bright in her eyes she murmured: ‘Even now I will not believe it. The Gods have granted me the one thing I prayed for. They will not turn you against me now . . .’
She was half-hysterical, babbling and weeping. He took her arms from about his neck and said: ‘Tell me, then.’
The sharp command seemed to bring her back to her senses. She drew herself up and said, looking steadily into his face: ‘I am with child by you.’
A long roll like thunder echoed in the air, and the ground trembled beneath their feet. Alcibiades said dazedly: ‘With child . . .?’ The anger had gone out of his voice, and he felt a violent upsurge of emotion. At that moment he could see nothing but the dark sullen face of the terrible son he had left in Athens. He took her in his arms with a tenderness he had never before known and stammered: ‘Forgive me . . .’
They stood close together, neither moving, conscious only of the peace that enfolded them. Then there was a crash that seemed to come from beneath their feet. The earth shook and quaked; and they were both thrown to the floor with the shock. The lamp fell from its bracket and went out.
He pulled her to her feet and said urgently: ‘The open—we must get out into the open.’ Another shock shook the ground; from the street outside came a confused clamour of voices. He heard her voice crying: ‘Wait . . .’ and heard the rustle of drapery. He suddenly realised she was stripping off her silken dress. He stood at the window in an agony of impatience. Then she was by his side, in a plain tunic, frantically wiping the cosmetics from her face. There was no need of words. He sprang lightly through the window; turned, and pulled her after him. They both sprawled on the cobbles. At that moment the earth seemed to tilt sideways, groaning and heaving. From all over the town came the crash of falling houses. Then the wall behind them buckled and split. He flung himself over her prone body as timber and mud bricks rained about them.
At last, cautiously, he raised his head. The tremors had died away somewhat. He had been half-stunned by a blow from a collapsing beam, and his skull ached abominably. He staggered to his feet, and dusted off what he could of the filth that covered him. Timaea, who was unhurt, but equally bewildered, stretched out a hand, and he pulled her up. She was smeared from head to foot with the dung that lay thick in the courtyard. Together they stumbled out through a corridor, unconscious of the scurrying slaves who gaped at them as they passed, till they emerged on the main street.
Here a scene of confusion met their eyes, visible only momentarily in the lightning flashes that followed the earthquake and heralded the coming storm. Tiles and timber lay in heaps across the road; at one point the earth had opened, and an ugly jagged gap blocked the way of those who came hurrying out of their houses. The street was crowded with people: officers, abruptly roused from their sleep, were trying to restore some kind of order. But this event was outside the normal sphere of Spartan discipline, and their shouted, contradictory commands only made the chaos more absolute.
Then a hand fell on Alcibiades’ shoulder, and he turned round. By the light of a storm lantern he saw the grim faces of two of the Ephors; and behind them was a detachment of the Secret Police. Two of them were leading the Queen away. She went submissively, without a backward glance, picking her way with dragging steps through the rubble.
Through the pain that raged in his head, Alcibiades tried to pull his wits together.
‘Perhaps you will explain what you are doing here,’ said the Chief Ephor. He spoke the words as if he neither sought nor expected any reply.
‘I came to ensure the Queen’s safety,’ said Alcibiades. A flash of light shot between his eyes, and he winced, putting up a hand to his head. ‘I am the King’s guest. It was the least I could do to fulfil my obligations to him.’
The Ephor stared at him with dark hostile eyes. ‘The Queen’s steward saw you come out with the Queen. He did not see you arrive. Your billet is at the other end of the town. You must have moved with remarkable speed.’
Alcibiades flushed with anger. ‘I am a stranger in your land,’ he said. ‘I cannot prevent you impugning my honour. But with the Queen it is another matter. I shall see to it that your words come to the King’s ears.’
Was there the faintest flicker of fear in that wolfish face? Alcibiades pressed home his advantage. ‘There is little surprise that the Queen’s steward did not see me,’ he observed tartly. ‘I crossed the town during the first tremor—when your brave soldiers were flocking about the streets like sheep. I found the Queen’s servants—those of them who were not on their bellies praying to the Gods to save them—too concerned with preserving their own skins either to notice me or look to their mistress. You would be better occupied using your authority to save those still buried in their houses than insulting a man who has saved your Queen’s life.’
‘Is this true?’
‘Why do you ask me? Ask the Queen. I take it you will not doubt her word.’ With a contemptuous gesture Alcibiades turned on his heel and was gone. The Ephor stared after him angrily; but he gave no sign to the young men who waited at his heels.
• • • • •
Endius came to see Alcibiades about noon the next day. The final tremors had ceased at dawn; but the tail end of the storm that followed it still rumbled ominously in the south. The Ephor found his guest in bed, a bloodstained bandage about his head, his face ashy white under its tan. He sat up as Endius came in, and gave a faint smile. But there was no answering welcome on Endius’ face.
‘I’ve just come from an emergency meeting of the Ephorate,’ he said crisply, without any preamble. He broke off and stared at Alcibiades. ‘You fool!’ he cried. ‘You fool! Why did you do it?’
Alcibiades had been waiting for this meeting all morning; he was ready with his answer.
‘I think the whole of Sparta must have gone mad,’ he said. ‘I do the one disinterested action that’s occurred to me for an extremely long time, and what happens? First I nearly get arrested by your Secret Police, and now you come here and call me a fool. I have no doubt that Agis will be more grateful than you when he returns.’
‘Will he?’ said Endius grimly. ‘Oh, I know they have no proof. Every word of your story might be true. Only I happen to know that it isn’t.’ In a way that brooked no contradiction he told Alcibiades, in highly circumstantial detail, the gist of his agent’s report. ‘Have you any answer to that?’ he asked.
Alcibiades was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘If what you say were true—though I do not admit it—and you had such proof as you have suggested to me, why did you not lay it before the Ephorate this morning?’
Endius visibly relaxed. ‘That’s another matter entirely. I’ve been honest with you so far. I’ll take the risk of being a little more honest still. I hold no great affection for Agis. What you have done, as far as I’m concerned, is entirely your own affair—as long as it remains unknown.’
Alcibiades thought of what Timaea had told him, and wisely kept silent.
‘There will be a great deal of suspicion, naturally. But as you know very well yourself; suspicion does not constitute proof. After a while, if you’re discreet, this affair will be forgotten. I have no intention of reminding people of it—as long as we understand each other satisfactorily.’
‘I see,’ said Alcibiades thoughtfully.
Endius leant over the bed and said: ‘This expedition to Ionia must sail,
whatever happens. And it is equally essential that you should go with it.’
Alcibiades’ mind worked rapidly. ‘I take it,’ he observed smoothly, ‘that if this move in the eastern Aegean is successful—if; to put it bluntly, Persia can be made to disgorge the gold Sparta needs so badly—you will receive a great deal of the credit for it? And, in consequence, that Agis’ unofficial moves will be viewed with rather more disapproval than might otherwise have been the case?’
Endius nodded.
‘And you accuse Athens of being addicted to intrigue,’ said Alcibiades, shaking his head. ‘Very well. I’ll do whatever you say. I seem to have no choice in the matter.’
‘None whatsoever,’ said. Endius lightly. But there was a veiled threat behind the words. ‘Your indiscretion, won’t make your position an easy one,’ he went on. ‘There may be a good deal of delay, however much I support you. I have no doubt, either, that your enemies here will ensure that Agis learns their version of the story before he returns. It will be in your own interests as much as mine, if I’m any judge, to get away from Sparta as soon as you possibly can.’
‘I must confess,’ said Alcibiades, ‘that I’m inclined to agree with you.’ He fell back wearily on the pillows.
‘I should get all the sleep you can,’ remarked. Endius, over his shoulder at the door: ‘you’re going to need it.’
He went out softly.
Chapter 32
The immediate results of the scandal at Sparta were much as Endius had predicted. The Council cancelled Alcibiades’ appointment as unofficial chief of staff to the squadron due to sail to Ionia. So nervous did they show themselves of his influence that they even appointed a new commander, suspecting that Alcibiades might have suborned the old one. They reduced the Spartan contribution to the fleet from ten vessels to five, and busied themselves during the early months of the year by sending emissaries to all their allies, commanding them to provide ships for them.
But from Alcibiades’ point of view, worse was to come. Agis, who had received reports both of the suspicion his own activities were arousing in the home government, and the liaison Alcibiades had contracted with his wife, took immediate and effective action. He rapidly abandoned his private intrigues with Pharnabazus, met the allies of Corinth, and declared himself ready not only to support the Spartan expedition to Chios, but to command it—a shrewd move which was calculated to oust Alcibiades completely from any participation in the venture. The Council ratified his position, and ordered all available ships north to join him. Faced with this doubly hostile front, Alcibiades prepared himself for the inevitable crisis.
Against all expectation, he was saved from it. Agis and his men were eager to sail at once; but the Corinthians, observing contemptuously that the Athenian navy was no longer a power to be reckoned with, insisted on postponing their departure till the Isthmian Games had been held. Agis, scenting his opportunity, offered to take command of their contingent, but met with a blank refusal. The Games were held.
In this spirit of careless optimism no attempt was made to keep the expedition secret; and the Athenian agents who listened to it being freely discussed hurried home with full details of what was in the wind. When Agis and his fleet finally left Corinth, the fact was known in the Piraeus; and much to his surprise (having with considerable labour hauled all his ships across the Isthmus to save time) he was caught by an Athenian squadron while still in the Saronic Gulf and forced ashore at a deserted inlet on the coast of the Argolid not far from Epidaurus. It appeared that Athens still had some resources left after all.
• • • • •
This setback caused consternation at Sparta. It looked as if the expedition was doomed almost before it had begun. But to the desperate Alcibiades it could not have come at a more opportune moment. As soon as he heard the news he went in search of Endius.
He found the Ephor in his house, poring dejectedly over the official report which had come in that morning from the stranded fleet. He greeted Alcibiades with scant enthusiasm..
‘You lose heart too easily,’ said Alcibiades. He sat down on the other side of the table, and leant back lazily, crossing his long legs. He was clearly in an excellent humour. Endius stared at him in surprise.
‘This business may turn out to be the best thing that could have happened for both of us,’ remarked Alcibiades, ‘if not for Sparta’s immediate comfort. Consider. Your credit depends on the successful engineering of an Ionian revolt. A revolt can’t succeed without Tissaphernes’ support. I am the only man here who can get it. I won’t argue the point: we both know it’s so. Can’t you see this is the chance we’ve been waiting for? If you can induce the Council to reappoint me, and let the Spartan contingent sail before the news of this defeat reaches Chios—’
‘I believe you’re right,’ said Endius. He rose to his feet and paced round the room, frowning heavily. ‘It’s a forlorn hope,’ he muttered at length. ‘Thanks to our colleagues here you’ll only have five ships. Five ships, to start a revolution! And there’s no guarantee that the news won’t get there before you—’
‘That’s a risk that’s got to be taken. Speed is all-important. We must sail today—as soon as you can force a vote from the Council.’ Alcibiades looked at Endius and added: ‘If all goes well, I may effect by diplomacy what Agis intends to achieve with force. How long it’ll be before he breaks out of that blockade I don’t know. But if I do his work for him before then, you’ll have the entire credit for the decision. It’ll be you who sent me. You’ve got a chance to steal Agis’ prestige. Can you afford to let it go?’
Endius pondered in an agony of indecision, while Alcibiades sat hanging on his words. Finally he said with a grim smile: ‘Very well. I’ll see the Ephors and the Council at once. But make no mistake: I’m under no delusion as to which of us is taking the bigger risk. If you fail, Sparta’s arm may well prove longer than you think.’
‘I shan’t fail,’ said Alcibiades confidently. But he was by no means certain.
• • • • •
The scheme succeeded beyond Alcibiades’ wildest hopes: Chios welcomed them with tumultuous enthusiasm. But Chios was only a beginning, the example for which every other city and island down the Ionian coast had been waiting. Alcibiades, moving quickly from port to port, his ears stunned by the deafening cheers of men who felt freedom within their grasp for the first time in living memory, was, despite his triumph, appalled at the concentrated hatred in which Athens was held throughout her eastern empire.
The news of Chios’ revolt caused consternation at Athens. But when a small emergency squadron of Athenian ships finally appeared in Ionian waters, Alcibiades and his Spartan colleague Chalcideus, now with a fleet of sixty Chian ships at their backs, chased them into harbour at Samos, the one island on the coast that still remained faithful to Athens.
Alcibiades might have rested now; but there was a bigger prize in view. Secret dispatches poured in to him from his friends in Miletus, the richest and most powerful town on the whole coastline.
He did not spare himself, and he could not afford to. It was not only the gauntlet of the Athenian squadron at Samos he had to run; rumours were coming in that Agis and his fleet had broken out of the depleted blockade near, Epidaurus, and were sailing as fast as they might to be in at the kill.
Alcibiades had fulfilled the first of his promises to Endius. The second, the Persian alliance, was yet to be won: and he had no intention of letting Agis reach Miletus before him. He ate little and slept not at all. The Athenians sighted him as he raced down past the west coast of Samos, and came out in hot pursuit; but he sailed triumphantly into Miletus harbour five miles ahead of them: and when they arrived, half-fainting over their oars in the blazing midday sun, it was to find the city and harbour shut against them, and a Spartan fleet riding at anchor in the roads. They withdrew to the little island of Lade that lay a mile or two out to westward, and set up a fresh blockade. But it was a poor second-best.
• • • • •
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One of the finest houses in Miletus had been put at the disposal of Alcibiades and Chalcideus by the grateful Milesian authorities. The homespun Spartan was ill at ease amid such luxury: but on Alcibiades himself this abrupt change of climate had a different and more subtle effect. The relaxation of the emotional and physical tensions he had suffered in Sparta made him peculiarly vulnerable. From the isolated patriarchal valley of the Eurotas he had been carried in a week or two to the threshold of the Orient with its luxury, squalor, and intrigue. He spent hours, as so often in Athens, down at the docks, idly watching the bustle of unloading, dusty slaves sweating under their heavy loads. He was tired now after the hectic activities of the past fortnight, glad to leave routine matters in Chalcideus’ hands.
But the more he thought, the clearer it became that the onus of action lay with the cautious and enigmatical Tissaphernes. Lying awake in bed, his body still unused to the unbelievable softness of linen sheets, he tried to visualise the situation from the Persian’s own point of view.
He was as much of an adventurer as Alcibiades himself. Any traffic with Greece would need to be cleverly presented to win the Great King’s sanction; there would have to be profit in it. Tissaphernes had bid against Pharnabazus for Spartan favours, and won. If he used his advantage well, he would regain financial control of the Islands. How would all this look to Darius and his court? If I were King Darius, Alcibiades thought, what should I do? Darius would care nothing for the quarrels of the Greeks. He had no reason to trust his provincial governors if he made impossible financial demands on them. All that interested him in this affair was to regain control of the territories his grandfather had lost, and the revenue that went with them.