Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  Adeimantus frowned, deep in thought. ‘If only you could capture their imaginations by some gesture . . .’ he said. ‘Something that would wipe out what you have done in the past . . . Victories aren’t enough. . .’ He looked frankly at Alcibiades and added: ‘You know the two things they hold most against you. The profanation of the Mysteries of Eleusis—oh, I know the curse has been revoked, but there are still plenty of people who believe you were responsible—and the fact that Agis is at Decelea . . .’ Suddenly his face brightened. ‘I have it,’ he said, leaning forward in excitement. ‘Listen. Ever since Agis has been in Attica the procession of the Mysteries to Eleusis has had to be abandoned for fear of attack. They’ve been going by sea . . . Now your whole army’s in Athens. If you were to provide a large armed escort, the procession could go by the Sacred Way again—it would prove your piety and your defiance of Agis at once. And I very much doubt if the Spartans would risk an attack. What could be simpler?’

  For the first time since his return Alcibiades showed real animation. ‘I believe you’re right,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll arrange for the news to be widely publicised. No one can object to you remaining in Athens that long, at any rate . . .’

  They talked on about the idea for some time; happy now with a definite project in mind, less restrained. Then Adeimantus said: ‘Your enemies may try to raise objections to this in the Assembly . . .’

  ‘The curse has been lifted—’

  ‘I know, I know. But it’s plain what they’ll say. Once a blasphemer, always a blasphemer—’

  ‘If the Assembly have given me absolute powers,’ observed Alcibiades, ‘I think I may disregard such tactics.’

  Adeimantus was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘If I may offer a piece of advice, I should be extremely careful how you exercise those powers. It’s almost certain that someone will begin to put it about that you’re aiming for a tyranny—’

  ‘That’s absurd.’ Alcibiades stared at Adeimantus in bewilderment. ‘You’ve known me since we were boys together. Whatever I have wanted . . . it has never been that. And now least of all . . .’

  ‘I know. But the rumour will get around nevertheless. And there will be plenty of hotheads among the rabble to give it some appearance of probability. To them it might seem the only way to save the City . . .’

  Alcibiades nodded grimly. ‘You don’t have to tell me how precarious my position is . . . All right. I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Good.’ Adeimantus rose. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you so long,’ he said. ‘You must be tired . . .’ Then a sudden thought struck him, and he asked: ‘How trustworthy is Pharnabazus? Can he be relied on to honour his treaty with you?’

  ‘No Persian is trustworthy. But since Pharnabazus has trafficked with both Athens and Sparta, his position isn’t exactly comfortable. He’ll probably remain discreetly neutral. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because of two facts which may or may not be connected. Nearly six months ago we sent an embassy to Darius. It hasn’t come back. And there are rumours going about that a new Spartan commander has gone to Persia. A man named Lysander. They say he’s a diplomat as well as a soldier.’

  ‘Sparta seems to flourish on her exceptions.’ Alcibiades was not paying over-much attention. ‘Why should a change of command be so perturbing?’

  ‘Because if all I’ve heard is true, Lysander is aiming higher than a mere Satrap.’

  ‘The King?’ Alcibiades’ eyes had suddenly become watchful.

  ‘Yes. It’s said that he’s made a great friend of the King’s son . . .’

  ‘Lysander . . .’ Alcibiades reflected. ‘All right. I’ll make inquiries on my own account. But I shouldn’t worry too much. Anything may have happened to the embassy. And you know what most of these rumours are worth . . .’

  Adeimantus nodded and yawned. ‘I thought it better to tell you,’ he said. ‘Good-night. Sleep well.’

  But when he was alone Alcibiades made no immediate move to retire. He sat at the table, a flagon of wine in front of him, thinking hard; and the conclusion he arrived at disturbed him. It was obvious that this embassy had been held up by somebody’s orders—probably to prevent the full story leaking out of which Adeimantus had just given him a fragmentary sketch. But whose? He remembered the Royal rescript that Tissaphernes had spoken of in that last, nearly fatal, interview. If King Darius was going to openly support Sparta in the person of Lysander, a treaty with a mere Satrap would be worth nothing. It looked as if the unfortunate Athenian ambassadors had been imprisoned by Pharnabazus on the King’s orders. And if that fact got out in Athens . . . Once again he felt the pressure of events closing in on him: he would have to return to the Hellespont, if not now, certainly later. But there was still a little time.

  There was a faint noise from outside, as of somebody attempting to move without being heard. Alcibiades, his nerves taut, snatched up a dagger and moved silently to the door. He waited an instant, then quickly flung it open. An oddly small shadow was just visible in the darkness. A woman? A dwarf? What . . . ? Then the shadow came forward and slipped past him into the room. Alcibiades turned round with a gasp and saw that his visitor was a boy, about nine years old. A dark, slim boy, with a pretty, somewhat precocious face, and a head a little too large for his body, who now stared at him with black malicious eyes; incongruously dressed in a flowered silk tunic, and—there could be no mistaking it—with painted lips and darkened eyes.

  Alcibiades stared uncomprehendingly for a moment at this apparition, struck with sudden unreasonable fear. And then he knew who the child was.

  ‘They always told me you were beautiful.’ The treble voice had a shockingly adult ring. ‘It’s not true. You’re old and ugly.’ Alcibiades stood and watched him, unable to move or speak.

  With small, deliberate steps the boy came quite close to Alcibiades and examined him critically. ‘You’re not beautiful at all,’ he said finally. Under the bulging forehead his chin was weak and receding; his lower lip drooped petulantly. He stood rocking backwards and forwards on his heels, and added: ‘Archibiades is much more beautiful than you are. He doesn’t like you at all. He says you’re a traitor. He says you wasted all your money. . . . I wanted to see what a traitor looked like, so I came here.’ He walked back a little, looked his father up and down. Then he said: ‘I don’t like you at all . . . They told me I had to live with you. I won’t. I want to go on living with . . .’ He broke off suddenly. Then he began to come closer again, a cunning expression on his small wedge-shaped face. ‘Tell me about my mother,’ he said.

  The blow was delivered with such speed that Alcibiades only had time to fling up his arm and catch the force of it on his wrist. He saw the gleam of the tiny dagger in the half-light, and felt the blade bite into his wrist till it grated on the bone. He grabbed at the boy with his free hand, and held him firmly. Then he took the dagger and threw it across the room. His eyes wavered stupidly between the spreading patch of crimson on his arm and the convulsed and furious face of his son. The boy wriggled and squirmed; then suddenly he darted his head down and bit the hand that held him as hard as he could. Alcibiades released his hold with a shout of pain; and the boy instantly twisted away from him and darted through the door. By the time Alcibiades collected his wits enough to run after him he was gone, and there was no sign of him anywhere.

  He called out for his steward. The man’s eyes widened as he saw the ugly wound. ‘Get me some bandages,’ said Alcibiades. ‘I’ve cut myself.’ He kept his bitten hand hidden behind him. And when they were brought: ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll dress it myself. You can go.’ He paused and added: ‘Did you see anyone come into the house this evening . . . ?’ The steward looked puzzled, and shook his head. ‘All right . . . it doesn’t matter . . .’

  He sat down, sick and shaking, and clumsily tied up each wound in turn. As yet he was unable to think clearly about what had just happened. He was only conscious of a sense of pollution and guilt that ran through his whole body; it was
as if he had struck the blows himself. He watched the blood spurting jerkily on to the floor, and it seemed tainted and corrupt. This, then, was the son he had begotten: here was a curse that no priest could lift. Without knowing why, for the first time in months he began to think of Timaea.

  • • • • •

  As soon as dawn broke, the sentries took up their positions on the hills overlooking the Sacred Way; and soon afterwards a strong advance guard of infantry left the City by the Dipylon Gate and made their way towards Eleusis. If the Spartans intended attack, they gave no sign of it. Everything was very still. It was a fine cool morning, the sun rising red with the coming of autumn; away on, their left as they marched the sea lay like burnished metal. Not a breath of wind was stirring.

  It was over an hour later that the procession passed through the Sacred Gate along the Processional Way. All the preceding night had been spent in fasting and sacrifice; and now, for the first time in nine years, the full ritual of the Mysteries was to be restored. Alcibiades stood at the very head of the column, the High Priest and Herald on each side of him, crowned with wild olive and dressed in the simple white robe of the initiate. Behind them came four young men carrying the carved wooden image of the God. The musicians fingered their instruments—pipes, drums, tambourines—waiting for the signal to strike up; and the sacred dancers in their gaudy masks and costumes stood silently together, the vast crowd of white-robed candidates for initiation huddled behind them.

  Presently a trumpet sounded; and the High Priest began to intone the processional chant. Slowly they moved out through the open gates to the white road beyond; and the women and children waved and cheered as they went. Outside the walls an escort of infantry formed up on either side of them, matching their slow pace as they moved away, the pipes shrilling in the morning air. Past the monuments of heroes long dead the procession wound, out through the olive groves, between the fields of burnt stubble where the corn had stood. And at their head Alcibiades walked, his eyes fixed on the road where the shadows slowly shortened as they approached the temple by the sea, the Hall of Initiation. On the hills the sentries stood, immobile as statues, and watched them pass; and neither then, nor three days later when the initiation was accomplished, and the citizens ran out laughing to greet the returning Mystics, did the Spartan garrison at Decelea venture out to oppose their passage.

  • • • • •

  Alcibiades stood uneasily tapping his fingers on the table. Already the room had begun to take on something of his personality: it had acquired a mildly Persian flavour. The hangings had been changed for rich Milesian tapestry several thick dyed sheepskins lay scattered about the floor. The little jade Aphrodite that was Alcibiades’ souvenir of his stay in Miletus stood in a niche in the wall.

  He swung round and faced Adeimantus. ‘There’ve been five men here to see me privately today alone,’ he burst out. ‘They all said they had come secretly. They all asked me the same thing . . . I was the only man who could preserve Athens; I was above mere decrees and laws. They wanted me to put down all the talkers and informers and act with absolute power—’

  ‘What did you say to them?’

  ‘What could I say? For all I know they may have been Cleophon’s paid hirelings. I told them I was a citizen and no more than a citizen—that I respected the Assembly and would always abide by its decisions, whatever powers were entrusted to me. And it’s true. You know it’s true. Everything I’ve done since I’ve been back I’ve referred to them—even the raising of the new fleet. Because I restored the Mysteries they think I can restore the Golden Age . . .’ He shook his head in desperation. ‘Whatever I said, I’ve no doubt that Cleophon’s making good use of the situation.’

  Adeimantus nodded. ‘There may be more reasons than one for all this happening after the celebration of the Mysteries. Supposing these men are his agents. He’d never have dared to act before: it would have outraged public sentiment too much. But wherever you go in the streets now you hear the same thing: “When is he sailing?” “Why is he sitting idle in Athens?” There’s no doubt it’s being deliberately provoked. But that doesn’t make it any the less dangerous.’

  Alcibiades sat down and said: ‘We shall have to go in any case.’ His face was set and hard.

  ‘You have had . . . news?’

  ‘Yesterday. From Ephesus. You were right about Lysander and Darius. Lysander’s at Ephesus now. He’s building triremes there as fast as the shipwrights can lay them down.’

  Adeimantus whistled. ‘Where’s the money coming from?’ But he knew as soon as he asked.

  ‘The King.’

  ‘Through his son?’

  ‘Just so. I gather Lysander has contracted a . . . Spartan relationship with the young man. His name’s Cyrus, by the way.’ He beat his fist on the table in vexation. ‘I should have seen this coming months ago. We should have put a strong garrison into Ephesus. It’s half Persian anyway—there’s all the Lydian hinterland and the trade-routes behind it. Darius’ generals use it as their headquarters. Lysander couldn’t have chosen better.’

  ‘Unusual for a Spartan.’

  ‘It’s simple. The war in the Aegean had reduced their trade almost to nothing. Now they’ve got more orders than they can handle. My agent tells me the place is beginning to look like the Piraeus. A whole Spartan division billeted on them. Supplies coming through every day. All their taverns and workshops doing a roaring trade. And everything paid for in gold, on the spot.’

  ‘Persian gold . . .’

  Alcibiades laughed bitterly. ‘I must say that once the Great King makes a decision, he’s nothing if not thorough . . . We could do with half as generous a paymaster.’

  ‘What will the Assembly give you for the expedition?’

  ‘I can tell you that with great certainty. Ships and men. Have you heard of Cleophon’s new decree?’

  ‘The increase in the jury-fee? Yes. Will it go through?’

  ‘Can you see the Assembly voting themselves out of a salary? Of course it’ll go through. I shall be told to raise money in the way I did so successfully before I returned—by extracting tribute. But there’s a limit to what I can get. And I can’t afford to waste time raising money in the middle of a campaign. It’s an impossible situation.’

  ‘Anyone would think that he wanted you to be defeated.’

  Alcibiades looked at his old friend bleakly. ‘That is exactly what he wants.’ And Adeimantus was still honest enough to feel shocked at the revelation. He looked down in embarrassment, and noticed the bandage on Alcibiades’ wrist. This merely served to increase his confusion. Alcibiades’ steward had in fact seen more than he had admitted to his master; and the unpleasant story had quickly gone round the Market. The boy had disappeared, no one knew where. He was probably being hidden by his lover. But Adeimantus knew that Alcibiades had taken no steps to recover him.

  Alcibiades suddenly noticed the direction of Adeimantus’ gaze; and Adeimantus flushed scarlet. For a minute the two men looked at each other in silence. Then Alcibiades said: ‘I’m not sure that I shall be altogether sorry to leave Athens after all . . .’ He looked round the room and added lightly: ‘A pity, in a way. I was just getting used to this house.’

  • • • • •

  They sailed at dawn, on a cloudy October morning that gave promise of rain to come. Despite the early hour, thousands of people had come down to the docks to witness the departure. Alcibiades was silent and distrait; he occupied himself during the final moments by checking the equipment and crew of every ship in person. He saw Cleophon and Anytus standing talking to a group of sailors, and frowned. The scene was intolerably repetitive; it could not but recall that greater and more splendid departure nearly nine years before. He felt tired and dispirited; the imperious enthusiasm of these gaping loafers hung over his head like a thunder-cloud. They were ready to burst into angry revenge at the first hint of defeat. It was in a mood of fatalistic melancholy that he at last went aboard; yet as the moorings were cast
off, and the long black triremes were warped out into the channel, he felt a vast sense of relief. At least he was now his own master. During the uneasy months he had spent in Athens he had been aware the whole time of the threads of intrigue being woven delicately round him. Sometimes the temptation to break out into violent action had been almost overwhelming. But he had held his hand.

  They were out in the open sea now; a choppy cross-current was making the ships roll badly, and some of his crew, after their long spell ashore, were being noisily sick. Away on the port bow, across a heaving waste of grey foam-flecked water, the dark coastline of Euboea showed up through the mist: somewhere ahead lay the island of Andros, with its Spartan garrison. Here was his first task—a reassuringly small one. The Spartan squadron operating from this island had made some tiresome raids on the grainships coming in from the Hellespont. He found to his annoyance that he was feeling somewhat nervous at the thought of attacking them. Then on to Samos, where the tiny detachment he had left there four years before was still holding out faithfully. There was a reassuring familiarity about Samos. With any luck Thrasybulus would rejoin him there; his successful campaign in Thrace was now drawing to its close. And then . . . ? From the east coast of Samos it was less than twenty miles across the bay to Ephesus. But when he thought of Lysander, a worried expression spread over his face.

  Adeimantus made his way along the narrow gangway between the rowers and climbed up on to the quarter-deck beside him. As if reading Alcibiades’ thoughts he said ‘It’s lucky Cleophon didn’t find out about what’s going on at Ephesus before we left . . .’

  Alcibiades, his eyes on the tossing vessels spread out behind their wake, remarked grimly: ‘He will soon enough.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you imagine he hasn’t taken steps to put his agents among the crews? Every move we make will go straight back to Athens. There’s nothing we can do about, it. We’ll simply have to go on and hope for the best. If Thrasybulus comes down to Ionia fairly soon we may stand a chance. Till then the first thing we have to think about is money. What we can’t get by persuasion we’ll have to get by force . . . It’s not a particularly pleasant prospect, is it?’