by Peter Green
‘And yourself?’ It was Cleophon who spoke again: the party politician, the committee man, summing up the balance of power almost automatically.
‘Shall we say that I represent . . . the aristocrats?‘
‘Are you sure you don’t mean Alcibiades himself? You know as well as I do that ever since the Four Hundred fell aristocratic power in the City has been negligible. You’ve been lobbying Alcibiades’ return ever since the fall of Byzantium. Do you consider yourself unprejudiced?’
‘Yes,’ said Adeimantus smoothly, ‘I do. Shall I state my case, gentlemen?’
The other two nodded.
‘Let me sum up briefly, then. To begin with, no one can deny the military service that Alcibiades has done us. It is an almost unparalleled record of success. The Spartan fleet has been largely destroyed. The Hellespont and Bosphorus, with all their major ports, are safely in our hands, and the tax on shipping passing through has largely replenished the Treasury. The corn-routes are safe. The cities of Thrace and the Chersonese are once more paying tribute. Best of all, by the treaty he persuaded Pharnabazus to sign’—Adeimantus’ face remained impassive as he presented his version of the event—‘Alcibiades has ensured the neutrality of Persia for the future. What is more, by his generosity to the cities he has captured, he has once more opened the way for recruiting mercenaries from among the Thracian and Black Sea tribes. What have you to offer at home to match this?’
Cleophon flushed. He was not a soldier, and was acutely conscious of the fact. ‘Agis is still at Decelea—’ he began.
‘Very well. Agis is at Decelea. I admit it. And who have we got who could drive him from Decelea but the man who advised him to go there? Look at our recent fighting record. The Spartans are back in Pylos—’
Now it was Anytus’ turn to blush. He had been sent at the head of a punitive expedition to reconquer this tiny but vital peninsula on the west of Sparta, and had failed miserably.
‘—and they have recaptured Chios as soon as Alcibiades’ back was turned. It’s hardly an impressive record, is it? But there’s one thing that emerges from it very clearly: one thing which as practical men you cannot fail to appreciate, whether you like it or not. Both diplomatically and financially we are entirely dependent on Alcibiades. Even from your own point of view surely it would be preferable to have such a man supporting you rather than forced into opposition? You’ve seen what happened in Sicily and afterwards. If you persist in your present attitude, the same thing will inevitably happen again; and this time, the damage could be fatal.’
Anytus said, in a slightly puzzled voice ‘You said “both diplomatically and financially dependent”. Could you clarify that?’
‘Certainly.’ Adeimantus swallowed his impatience with difficulty. ‘Financially, because any money Athens possesses today, or may possess in the future, he supplies; and diplomatically, because he is the only man who can control Persia.’
‘That I don’t see.’ It was Cleophon who spoke.
‘Don’t you? You haven’t been watching recent events very closely. Don’t you know that in the last few months both Athens and Sparta have been sending embassies to Darius? Pharnabazus’ court at Gordium has become a kind of half-way house for them all. Nobody knows which way the King will turn. But Pharnabazus is in a very good position to facilitate travel for those he favours—and to hinder those he doesn’t. And he has concluded a personal pledge of friendship with Alcibiades. Well?’
There was a long silence. In the end it was not Cleophon but Anytus who broke it. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said; ‘I don’t like it at all . . .’ But as soon as he spoke Adeimantus knew that fundamentally he had been convinced. ‘It may well prove disastrous—’
‘—and we shall openly disassociate ourselves from the consequences of such an action,’ broke in Cleophon in his most oratorical voice.
‘But you agree?’ Adeimantus could not conceal the eagerness with which he asked the question.
‘I agree,’ said Cleophon at last; it was as if the words had been forced out of him. ‘But only out of concern for the well-being of the City . . . because I see no other way. I do not retract any of my principles—’
‘And you?’ Adeimantus turned to Anytus.
‘I associate myself with Cleophon’s remarks. In any case, it must be the Assembly who decides . . .’
‘Of course. But as you doubtless know’—he smiled sardonically—‘there have been deliberate, and hitherto successful, attempts to postpone the elections. Do I have your word that no further delays will arise?’
They both nodded in silence. The pounding of Adeimantus’ heart suddenly ceased. ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ he said; and his voice was now friendly; almost genial. ‘Then I think we may leave matters in the competent hands of the people.’ He rose to his feet and clapped his hands for his slaves.
‘These gentlemen are leaving,’ he said. ‘See that they are provided with torches. It is a dark night . . .’
He stood at the door, suave and cheerful, and saw them on their way. Then he went back into the empty room, and took pen and paper, and sat down at the supper-table to write to Alcibiades. But in the end he changed his mind.
It’s not certain yet, he thought. It’s not certain yet. Even now I must not tempt the Gods.
• • • • •
The waiting had become intolerable. Now that success seemed certain, after so many years, Alcibiades was suddenly nervous. Yet by slow degrees he moved his fleet nearer home. He spent a long time in Caria, raising more tribute, a hundred talents: he could not return to Athens empty-handed. Then he sailed for Samos, keyed up almost to breaking-point in anticipation of the news that might await him there. But at Samos, too, he heard nothing; and after a day or two he put out to sea again. Anything was better than this frightful suspense: the sleepless nights, the endless pacing of the headland watching for the sail of a dispatch boat that never came. He became thin and haggard again: Antiochus, watching him anxiously, saw that his nails were bitten down to the quick, and waited for the inevitable reaction, the fatal explosion of drunkenness, the lassitude and inertia.
But it did not come. Nervously, as if manoeuvring for position, Alcibiades sailed by slow stages westward through the southern islands of the Aegean: towards Greece, yet well away to the south of Athens. He put in at the island of Paros, and from here he sent Thrasyllus and the bulk of the fleet back to the Piraeus, keeping only twenty ships of his own squadron with him. Perhaps he wished his own return—if it ever came—to be suitably modest; perhaps he thought that the sailors, who were fanatically loyal to him, might prepare the ground in advance. But he said nothing of his motives; and presently he set sail again, this time for the south coast of Sparta. He anchored in the Bay of Laconia, near the Spartan shipyard of Gythium. His force was too small to launch an attack on it; but he employed his time in spying out the defences, noting the numbers and build of the vessels lying on the stocks.
It was here that Adeimantus’ last letter reached him. The words danced before him meaninglessly at first; he only caught phrases here and there: ‘It is all over at last . . . we have both been elected generals together with Thrasybulus . . . Theramenes and Thrasyllus have failed to get the vote . . . you can return.’
He crumpled the sheet up in his hand, and Antiochus took it from him. Suddenly his whole body began to shake uncontrollably, and tears streamed down his cheeks.
Chapter 37
The sails were lowered and furled; under the sharp commands of the boatswains the crews tugged at their sweeps. Slowly the tiny squadron moved through the still water, between the towering walls at the harbour’s mouth, past ship after ship of Thrasyllus’ fleet, to where a vast crowd waited in hushed stillness on the quayside. The creaking of wood on leather, the swirl and pluck of water sounded unnaturally loud in that normally clangorous port; now everyone was silent, waiting.
The battered, weather-worn triremes, green weeds trailing from their hulls, their decks cracked and split with sun a
nd salt, were hung about with all the trophies of victory: gilded arms and shields, countless beaks of captured vessels. Alcibiades, in full armour, his scarlet general’s cloak falling in folds about him, stood in the prow of his flagship. Above him the purple ensign, tattered and stained now, drooped in the still air. The whole of Athens had come down to the Piraeus to do him honour.
The gap lessened, inch by inch. Then, with an almost imperceptible jar, the trireme came alongside the quay, and the ropes were thrown ashore and made fast. The crowd surged forward. His face set, Alcibiades moved towards the gang-plank. His bearing was confident; but Antiochus, still watching, saw that one hand under his cloak grasped the hilt of his sword.
As he stepped ashore, Adeimantos, himself at last bearing the insignia of a general, came forward and embraced him, and set the wreath of victory on his head. As if it had been a signal, the whole crowd suddenly burst into tumultuous cheering, as though they would never stop. Friends and relatives crowded round to grasp his hand and speak words of welcome. The other ships were coming in now, loaded with spoils; but no one saw them. Alcibiades stood dazed, as if unable to believe his senses. He still held Adeimantus’ hand in his. Then he said, in a strange voice Adeimantus had never heard before: ‘Today is the feast of the Veiling and Purifying of the Goddess. It is an ill omen that I should have chosen this day of all days to come home. When I sailed to Sicily it was the day of lamentation for Adonis . . . And now . . .’ He gave a small, weary gesture. ‘It has been as the Gods willed . . .’
Adeimantus stared at him, puzzled. Then he said: ‘Listen. They are all cheering you. This is no day of ill omen.’ But Alcibiades remained silent. Adeimantus said, more urgently: ‘You have come home, Alcibiades. You have come home.’ He turned and stretched out his hand to the by now almost delirious mob. ‘The past is undone. It is the will of the people that has brought you back . . .’
Alcibiades’ mouth twitched; a smile spread over the tired features. ‘The will of the people . .? Very well. So be it. I would have said: the faith of my friends. But, the will of the people let it be.’ The two men looked at each other for a moment, while the mob swayed and roared round them, and garlands and flowers fell at their feet. Alcibiades picked up a rose and began to strip it, petal by petal.
‘You must speak to them.’ And hardly were the words out of his mouth when three burly sailors hoisted Alcibiades up to shoulder level, where he balanced precariously above the sea of faces.
Alcibiades looked round him slowly. The familiar scene was mellow in the afternoon, light: he remembered every house, every twisting alley that led away from the harbour; all the taverns in which he had drunk so often. The familiar smell of fish and tar and wood rose to his nostrils. And far away Pericles’ temple still gleamed white and inviolate on the hill. ‘Fellow-citizens—’ he began; but the words choked in his throat. He struggled with himself for a moment; but all he could do was to stammer out his thanks, and at last he was set on his feet again. His incoherence had touched his listeners more than any speech could have done.
‘I will speak to them in the Assembly,’ he said to Adeimantus. ‘Today. Now. I must . . . settle my debts . . .’ Adeimantus nodded in silence, and took his arm. His friends formed a cordon round him to protect him from the hands that were thrust forward to him in welcome, content to touch the hem of his cloak: citizens, slaves, foreigners, even women and children.
In front of them the flutes and pipes began to skirl shrilly; a choir of boys and maidens were singing a hymn of triumph. The air was thick with the flowers that were tossed into the path of the procession as it slowly moved off towards the Long Walls and the road to the City. But Alcibiades’ eyes were on the ground; he saw these flowers being crushed and trampled into the mud by the tread of iron-shod feet. Yet when Adeimantus asked him what troubled him, he smiled and shook his head.
High on the speaker’s platform where he had once stood and called the men of Athens out to war, he now spoke humbly of the injustices he had suffered, blaming his own stubborn and envious temper, promising to serve the City henceforward to the best of his powers. If there were any present who remembered that this was the man who had brought the Spartans to the walls of Athens, and provoked a revolt in Ionia, and done his best to betray them to Persia, they wisely held their peace. The present magnanimity of the Assembly was as wholehearted as its past vindictiveness. They voted the returned exile a house and land at the public expense; they decreed that the pillar bearing the text of his condemnation should be cast down and thrown into the sea; they adjured the priests to revoke the curse laid on his head.. All this might have been expected; but it was not enough for them. With one voice they declared that Alcibiades should be, not merely general, but General Extraordinary, with all powers to act independently of Council or Assembly. In vain Alcibiades protested, sensing the danger that lay in such an appointment; they took his hesitation for modesty, and clamoured all the louder that he should accept the honour they offered.
So the mantle of Pericles was at last placed on the shoulders of the man whom he himself had destined as his successor.
• • • • •
Cleophon and Anytus watched in silence as the crowd bore their new leader from the Assembly Hill towards the home that had been set aside for him. At last Cleophon said: ‘This is the best thing that could possibly have happened.’
Anytus looked surprised.
‘Don’t you see? If they give him extraordinary powers, it’s because they believe he can do what no other man can do for them. They think of him as superhuman, as a god, almost. But he’s not. He’s old and tired. I hardly recognised him. The first mistake he makes will be the last. After that he’ll never come back.’
‘Then what will we do?’
‘Be patient. There will be feasting, celebrations. Let him have his fill of them. Soon he will have to go to war again. That’ll be the test. He can do nothing without money—’
‘But they will vote him money—’
‘Perhaps. The Treasury is still not as full as you might think. Besides, I have a notion to use that money for other purposes . . . The mass of the people are poverty-stricken with years of war and hardship. I shall propose that the jury-fee be increased to match our present circumstances. He will need to be a brave man to oppose that decree—in the teeth of the very men who recalled him. To deprive the honest citizens of Athens of their due rewards? Oh no. I don’t think he’ll risk that. He’ll rely on exacting tribute from our allies in Ionia. And sooner or later he’ll have to turn to the free cities. Tribute can’t last for ever. Don’t you see what a pleasant story could be made of it? A general deserting his duties to go off on irresponsible raids—against free allies, too . . .’
Anytus looked perturbed. ‘But the war must be won . . .’ he said uncertainly.
‘My dear Anytus: of course. Believe me, I am only thinking of the ultimate good of our country. There are times when the people do not reason with that impartial objectiveness one always desires. At such times they must be guided in the right path . . .’ He paused and added thoughtfully: ‘Don’t you think their enthusiasm today a little . . . dangerous? Doesn’t it seem to you that we might be in danger of setting up a tyrant in our midst?’
‘I . . . I suppose it might be considered in that light.’
‘We have to be on our guard,’ said Cleophon. ‘I shall set my agents to work. If any such rumours or foolish enthusiasms are noted among the people, it will, of course, be my duty to see that they are reported in the right quarter . . .’
He took Anytus by the arm, and they moved away, still talking. In the distance the cheers of the crowd echoed faintly in the evening air.
• • • • •
The magistrates and relatives and importunate admirers had all gone at last; and Alcibiades and Adeimantus were left alone in this new strange house that had been built for a returning hero. Alcibiades seemed both weary and nervous: he paced round the room, fingering the unfamiliar hangings, running h
is hand over the freshly planed planks of the table. Flowers and wreaths lay scattered on the floor: their smell blended with that of wood and plaster.
Adeimantus watched him, troubled. He poured out some wine, and Alcibiades stopped in his pacing and took it, with a grateful smile. He sat down wearily opposite Adeimantus. ‘Eight years of exile . . .’ he said. ‘I can’t explain what it meant to me to come back—the very fact of being here . . . When the crowd cheered me I tried to tell myself that everything was as it had been before, that those eight years might never have been . . . But I couldn’t do it. It isn’t true . . .’
‘No,’ said Adeimantus sombrely, ‘it isn’t true.’
Alcibiades ran his fingers through his hair. It was the old gesture, but it had lost its former impetuousness.
‘Now I’ve accomplished my desire, I have no strength left. But I must still go on. How long do you think they’ll let me stay in Athens? Three months; perhaps four. No longer. The people must be kept satisfied. More victories, greater triumphs. They’re insatiable. They use men and destroy them. They’ll never let me rest . . .’ He sat motionless, his elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands.
‘You’re overwrought,’ said Adeimantus. ‘When you’ve had some rest you’ll see things in a different light.’ But in his heart he knew that Alcibiades had spoken the truth.
‘Four months,’ Alcibiades repeated. ‘You’ll see. Don’t be taken in by what you saw today. I’m still a highly embarrassing person to have in the City for any length of time. And we Athenians only tolerate our Gods as long as they work for us . . .’