Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  On the morning of the fourth day the same thing happened. The Athenian sailors disembarked lazily, grumbling and laughing, and set about preparing their midday meal. The usual expeditions into the countryside set out. As soon as they were all ashore the little boats that had followed them put about and began to row back towards Lampsacus. When they were about half-way across the straits a bright light flashed out from the bows of the leading vessel: Alcibiades, straining his eyes, saw that a sailor was holding up a bronze shield to catch the sun. The Athenians, sprawling about at their ease on the beach, saw nothing.

  Alcibiades sprang to his feet. The Arcadian looked at him sadly, and shook his head. Then, with a curiously deliberate movement, he drew his sword and planted it in the turf at his feet, where it stood like a gleaming cross in the midday light.

  The faint note of a trumpet rang out across the water. Unable to move or speak, Alcibiades saw the long line of warships shoot forward into the straits, and the blue water flecked with white foam from the flailing oars. They were moving at a tremendous speed; and they were half-way across before a hoarse yell of alarm from the Athenian encampment showed that they had been seen. Immediately the still picture broke into frenzied action. Men ran hither and thither, falling over each other in their haste, jumping aboard pell-mell, running down from the hills with their provisions spilling out as they came. One ship was manned; then another, those who were still ashore pushing them off. Their shouts of alarm mingled with the terrible battle-cries of the Spartans.

  Two minutes later, with a long ragged crash, the lines engaged, and the Spartans went swarming ashore. Some they killed aboard the ships; some were caught unarmed as they ran for cover, some still asleep in their tents. In the midst of the confusion Alcibiades saw nine Athenian triremes put out to sea and make for the south. Screwing up his eyes he just discerned Conon’s pennant. He remembered Adeimantus’ words: ‘He has profited most remarkably by his capacity for not being in the wrong place at the right time.’ The shadow of a smile stole across his face for a moment.

  It was all immeasurably small and remote: an ant-hill overturned. The dark masses of men swayed this way and that. Shouts and screams, the clash of sword on shield, drifted faintly up to him on the breeze. Then the movements became spasmodic and jerky, like a failing heart. The noise slowly died away to silence. Everything was still. Alcibiades looked at the Arcadian. Neither of them had moved during the two hours that the struggle had lasted. Now the Arcadian took his sword, and with a gesture of complete finality thrust it back into its scabbard. Then they mounted their horses and rode away. They did not stay to see Lysander marshal his three thousand prisoners aboard the vessels which they had so proudly manned the day before, or hear the shrill notes of the pipes playing a victory paean as he sailed away at nightfall. But from his fortress Alcibiades saw a red glow in the southern sky, and guessed it was the burning Athenian camp. The night was mild; but he shivered as he watched, and threw more charcoal on the brazier.

  It had happened too quickly; his mind had had no chance to adjust itself to this new reality, or conceive that his hopes for Athens had been destroyed for ever on the lonely beach by the Goat River. He cared neither whether Adeimantus was alive or dead, nor that he himself might soon be in danger once more. He was conscious only of an overpowering tiredness.

  The Arcadian stood by the narrow embrasure in the wall, looking out over the still plain. Presently the moon rose; and in its light his face took on the sculptured immobility of bronze. He was still standing there when Alcibiades wearily threw himself down on his couch and dropped into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 39

  It was the Arcadian who saved him through the long and dreadful winter that followed. Lysander’s lieutenants had more important things to occupy their minds than a handful of forts in the Chersonese; and Alcibiades sat day after day in his narrow stone chamber coughing with the fumes of the charcoal in the brazier, striding impatiently round and round, the dried rushes crackling under his feet, holding off reality from a few square miles of waste land where his gold still ensured him peace.

  But as the months passed the enemy moved slowly in on him. He heard nothing of the outside world, by choice: but from time to time a decision affected his life. His Thracian friends suddenly broke off relations with him. It was plain that Lysander had sent them an effective message: one could not blame them. His money and his credit were both running short. He felt like an island, pounded by the waves, breaking up piece by piece. He was unable to move, either to hasten the end or to put it off. He could only sit sleepless through the howling Thracian nights and be grateful for the food and fuel that were left, the bottles of brackish wine, the increasingly incredible fact of still being alive.

  All the time the Arcadian, grimmer and more silent than ever, worked ceaselessly to prevent him slipping over the precipice of complete apathy that was now never distant. He saw to it that there was never too much wine readily available; and the Thracian slaves never dared to gainsay him. He played endless games of draughts with Alcibiades in the evenings, and drove him out, even during the bitterest weather, to hunt during the day. Despite their enforced seclusion, he now seemed to speak even less than before. He discovered Alcibiades’ few books—brown, dog-eared scrolls that lay on a shelf beside their owner’s rough bed—and buried himself for hours at a time in Herodotus, who seemed to have a special fascination for him. But all the time part of his mind was on the alert, waiting for the first hint of alarm.

  One evening in June, when the heat had returned to the land, and the swifts wheeled and turned round the outhouses—now for five years familiar nesting-places—the Arcadian buckled on his sword and went out without saying a word. He had been uneasy for some time, peering out into the falling sunlight, starting nervously at each random noise. Alcibiades watched him go without curiosity. He had climbed up on to the roof for coolness’ sake; and now he stood, his eyes vacantly following the course of the Narrows where the Athenian grain-ships no longer sailed, flowing quiet and even between green spiky banks, out to the Aegean, and the sea-lanes towards the Piraeus.

  But at that thought he shivered, though the air was still warm, and the swifts had not yet given place to the evening bats, or the heavy sun sunk behind the hills. Yet while he did not know, it was still possible that Athens held out, and to that last hope he clung with obstinate despair. If Athens had fallen, there was nothing left: the life he nourished had no meaning.

  Presently, far away over the fields, he saw the Arcadian returning; but he was not alone. As the two figures drew slowly nearer, Alcibiades saw that he was accompanied by an old man in the dress of an Athenian slave, who walked with a staff and carried a wallet on his back. As Alcibiades watched, he knew with complete certainty that now he would learn the truth of all he had feared; that this bent figure was his last messenger. For a moment he felt unreasoning anger at the Arcadian, as if by some sixth sense he had smelt out the bearer of tidings, against all necessity, and was forcing a final resolution of this long dream-like exile. Then he straightened up decisively, and went down from the roof to his room, and stood calmly by the window, the evening sunlight slanting in on to the floor, waiting.

  They came in some five minutes later, the slave first, hesitating on the threshold: the Arcadian, grimly impassive, behind him. The slave’s eyes widened as he saw the tall grey-haired figure, still leaning abstractedly on the embrasure of the window. He went down on one knee.

  ‘My lord—’ he began; but Alcibiades abruptly cut him short. ‘I am not your lord,’ he said bitterly. ‘Do not address me so. Have you come here to mock me?’

  ‘Forgive me . . . General . . .’

  ‘Nor that, either.’ He strode into the centre of the room and stared into the slave’s eyes, as if trying to put off the fatal moment of knowledge. Behind him the Arcadian stood motionless, arms folded, like an Egyptian god.

  ‘What do you bring me?’ asked Alcibiades: ‘my death warrant?’’

 
‘The Gods forfend, my—sir . . . There are many—very many in Athens who wish you well . . .’

  But Alcibiades, with quick change of mood, now snapped impatiently: ‘Out with it, man. Who sent you?’

  ‘Sir, I was sent by the Thirty to accompany your—’

  ‘The Thirty? The Thirty? Who in the name of heaven are the Thirty?’

  The slave looked at him incredulously. ‘You have not heard, then . . .?’

  ‘Exiles, they say, have no ears. And I, like Odysseus, have stopped mine with wax. Your message, please.’

  ‘Sir, my journey has a double purpose. The Thirty sent me to accompany your son into exile—’

  ‘My son . . .’ Alcibiades’ face went white, and he sat down. ‘They would do that? . . . Go on . . .’

  ‘They gave me no command as to where he should be sent. I thought of you at once, naturally. And then, when the news of our departure became known, my lord Adeimantus came to me—’

  For an instant even the Arcadian lost his impassive pose. Alcibiades sprang forward and gripped the slave by both hands.

  ‘Adeimantus? Alive? What . . .? How did he—’

  ‘He entrusted me with a letter to you, sir. I have it here.’

  Alcibiades, still hardly able to grasp what he had heard, saw the slave fumble in his wallet with clumsy gnarled hands, and bring out a long scroll, heavily sealed.

  ‘This will tell you all better than I can,’ he said.

  The scroll in his hand, Alcibiades said, with trembling intensity: ‘Tell me one thing. Quickly. Is . . . Athens taken?’

  The whole world seemed to stand still while he waited for the answer.

  The slave’s voice quavered ridiculously as he replied: ‘Two months since, my lord.’ And this time his mode of address went uncorrected.

  ‘And my son?’

  ‘He is here.’

  Alcibiades looked round involuntarily, as if expecting to see that small malevolent shadow behind him. The slave added, in explanation: ‘I left him at the nearest village, my lord.’ He gestured through the embrasure to the south. The sun had set, and the fields were swiftly turning dark. ‘I thought it best to warn you of his coming, and ascertain . . . your will in the matter. The letter I held to be urgent also.’

  ‘The letter . . . yes . . .’ Alcibiades turned it over in his hands as if he had seen it for the first time. Then he said: ‘You may return to the village. I wish my son brought here to me.’

  Behind the slave the Arcadian shook his head sharply; but Alcibiades disregarded him. ‘Are there attendants with him?’

  ‘About half a dozen, my lord.’

  ‘Good. I take it that they are charged to keep close watch on him?’

  The slave inclined his head.

  ‘I will arrange for quarters to be found for them here. Tonight.’

  ‘But, my lord . . . it is already dark—’

  ‘I said tonight. You may go. Slave!’

  A Thracian attendant came in.

  ‘Take five men, with horses. This fellow will show you where you have to go. Saddle a horse for him, and . . . take a pony on a leading rein . . .’

  Presently there came the sound of hooves in the courtyard outside, and the little party rode away into the night, their torches flaring in the wind. The Arcadian waited till the last echo had died away before he said slowly: ‘Is this wise? You know your son . . .’

  ‘And so, it seems, does the whole of Greece. No. I take it to be an elementary precaution. If the boy is here I can keep him under observation. If he is loose in the countryside, he might— Anything might happen. There are many, too many, who would be glad to get favour from Lysander by presenting him with my head. I have only survived so long because I have . . . kept quiet.’

  He sat down slowly on the big settle beneath the window, and slit open the seals of the letter. Even when he saw the familiar round handwriting he was not wholly convinced of its reality; it was as if Adeimantus had come back from the nether world. The opening words echoed his thoughts strangely.

  ‘I have no doubt,’ wrote Adeimantus, ‘that you have long given me up for dead. Indeed, you had good reason to do so. By a series of miracles my life has been spared. But when I look round the City I sometimes think it would have been better if I had indeed died by the Goat River. I ask myself why I am writing to you at all; why I should torment myself and you with memories and hopes best left forgotten. I think it is because even now the people still whisper that you can save them—as if you could undo at will all that has come upon us. They think of you as still free. And you are their last link with the past. Even I cannot help but be affected by this feeling at times.

  ‘When you rode away from the camp that afternoon, without saying goodbye, I felt instinctively that I should never see you again. Everything you said was right, of course. But I could do nothing. As I anticipated, the very fact that I was your friend meant that my opinion was disregarded. They were all far more frightened of the Assembly than the enemy.

  ‘They had their reward. Lysander butchered three thousand men in cold blood after his victory. I was the only general he spared. For a Spartan, the reason was an odd one. You never met Philocles, did you? He was my colleague in command, along with Menander and Tydeus. He was hysterical and vicious, and very much afraid. When Athenians are afraid, they become cruel. We learnt that at Mitylene and Melos. Philocles had issued an order that any captives taken should have their right hands cut off. When the crews of two of Lysander’s galleys fell into his hands, he had them thrown down a cliff.

  ‘I was the only man who dared to oppose this barbarous measure openly, and Lysander knew it. I’m still not sure of his motives in sparing me. Perhaps to create a good impression. I must confess, though, that Philocles made a good end. Lysander asked him what punishment he himself thought he deserved for having dared to treat fellow-Greeks in such a fashion. Philocles told him that as he was both prosecutor and judge, there was little point in making a show of legality. “You’ve won,” he said. “Treat me in the same way as I would have treated you if you’d lost.” Then he took a bath, and put on a sacrificial robe, and went to his death without turning a hair. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Lysander completely out of countenance.

  ‘Soon after that Lysander put to sea again, and the few of us who were left sailed with him. He went round all our old colonies and dependencies establishing Spartan governors. They were supposed to represent oligarchies, but military dictatorships were nearer the truth. It was the first time I suspected that Lysander might be a fool. These people were ready to welcome him with open arms as their deliverer, and all they got were tyrants.

  ‘At last he joined forces with Agis and blockaded the harbour mouth of the Piraeus with fifty vessels. We had to sit there and watch while our countrymen were slowly starved to death. Yet even so they held out for five months. It was Theramenes who got the Spartan terms accepted in the end; and even so he had to fight against the fiercest opposition. In an illogical way I felt proud that he did.

  ‘The terms were harsh enough, but they could have been worse. I found myself wondering what Cleophon would have demanded of Sparta had the position been reversed. We had to destroy the Long Walls, hand over all that was left of our fleet except a dozen vessels, recall our political exiles, and become dependent allies of our conquerors. We could do nothing but capitulate; yet even so Theramenes was a brave man to propose it. But he was wise; when he was sent to discuss terms, he waited at Sparta till the position in the City was so desperate that there could be no argument. It’s odd to think that he is Hagnon’s son. I wonder what the old man would have said if he had been alive today?

  ‘But the terms were accepted, and Lysander rode in triumph from the Piraeus to the City, with all the pick of Sparta’s troops marching behind him. He had made very careful preparations to see that the whole affair went off without a hitch. There were a lot of corpses lying about the streets that had died of starvation, and they had been left there to greet him
when he made his entry. But the day before he sent round prisoners with carts to remove them all and bury them in a common pit.

  ‘He lined the entire route with his guards. He was leaving nothing to chance. I saw the dumb incredulous faces of women and children watching as he went past. It was not a pleasant sight. Only one thing showed his weakness. Like most Spartans, he’s a poor horseman. But a horse he had to have; and he wasn’t at all comfortable with it. I think everyone was praying that he’d fall and break his neck. He rode up to the Acropolis with his troops behind him still, and offered up prayers and thanksgiving for his victory in the Parthenon that Pericles built. I think it was then that I fully realised the end had come.

  ‘After that he presided over the ceremonial beginning of the destruction of the Long Walls. He had hired hundreds of flutegirls, and the labourers worked in time to their music. He had his paid agitators in the crowd, and they all threw up their helmets in the air, and cheered themselves hoarse, and cried out that this was the beginning of freedom for Greece. And the people were so relieved to get food and wine again—Lysander had ordered the release of supplies as soon as he came ashore, for this very purpose—that presently the crowd began to join in the cheering. I think they were drunk, poor devils.

  ‘You will be asking yourself now whether we have suffered the ultimate indignity of a Spartan garrison. We have, but not by Lysander’s orders. When he left, which he did shortly afterwards, he placed the government in the hands of thirty men. Chief among them were Theramenes, as you might expect; and a rabid oligarch named Critias. I think Theramenes was somewhat embarrassed at the company he found himself in.

  ‘From the start they established a reign of terror: executions seemed to be the only things they understood. Their first victims earned them some popularity: they made a clean sweep of all the informers and sycophants in the City. But this was only a beginning. They began to have their personal enemies done away with—everybody who stood in the way of their absolute power. Theramenes tried to protest, but he was helpless: he knew very well that if he was too obstinate his own name would figure on the next secret list.