Achilles His Armour

by Peter Green

  ‘All the same, the Thirty went in very lively fear of assassination. It was at this point that they wrote to Lysander asking for a Spartan garrison, saying it was essential for public safety till Athens was free of all its subversive or politically unreliable citizens. And Lysander complied with their request. Today Spartan guardsmen patrol the streets, and no one dares to lift a hand to them.

  ‘Now I come to what more nearly concerns yourself. Your name has been mentioned very freely in public places since the defeat as our last hope: and now more openly than ever, with men dying every day, and a band of ambitious criminals slowly strangling us. I have certain knowledge that the Thirty have asked Lysander for your death. To do Lysander justice, I think such an idea would be repugnant to him. But he may have little choice. They have not applied to him only, but to the government at Sparta as well. Agis is back home again; I fear you will get little mercy from that quarter.

  ‘I beg you to take all possible precautions. Lysander has moved towards Thrace. I do not know what orders he has received, or whether any of them concern you. But whatever you do, do not trust your son. It is common knowledge here that he was sent to Thrace by the Thirty with the deliberate intention of betraying you into Lysander’s hands. From all I have heard of the boy I think he will prove a willing agent.

  ‘I can only counsel you to leave Thrace; where you are to turn to is another matter. King Darius is dead; and his son Artaxerxes may well be better disposed to Athens than his father was. Long ago you and Pharnabazus gave one another pledges of mutual friendship. If you can trust in the Persian’s word, he might save you, as one of his predecessors saved Themistocles many years ago. I tell myself that such advice is useless, that nothing matters now, that whatever you do will merely postpone the inevitable. But still I hope. You and I and Theramenes are all that is left.

  ‘There has been no perceptible break, no flaw in the pattern. We have no one to reproach but ourselves. Not Fate, nor the Gods. That would be too easy; there are many here who seem to find some doubtful solace in such complaints, but they are not for me. Nor, I know, for you.

  ‘But whatever you do, wherever you go, my prayers for your safety will follow you.’

  Silently Alcibiades passed the letter over to the Arcadian, who read it through slowly, making no comment. He did not seem surprised at anything he read there. But when he had finished, the roll slipped from his fingers to the floor, and he sat with his head in his hands, motionless. So they remained till the horsemen, about midnight, came galloping in at the courtyard once more.

  The old slave who had brought Alcibiades the letter came up the stairs panting. His face was lined, and smeared with dust and sweat. Alcibiades looked at him and said: ‘Where is he?’ But he knew the answer before he heard it.

  ‘Gone, my lord. He must have climbed through a window while no one was looking—’

  ‘Men with full pockets can make poor sentries,’ said Alcibiades. ‘Well: it makes little difference.’

  ‘We searched the countryside all around, But what could we do in the darkness . . .?’ He was appealing, anxious: eager to justify himself. Alcibiades looked steadily at him, and knew that he too had been bribed.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly: ‘one can do nothing in the darkness.’

  ‘What will you do, my lord?’ The question was a little too eager. A willing servant, thought Alcibiades.

  ‘That depends,’ he said; and then, suddenly: ‘When did Lysander’s men land?’

  ‘Yesterday—’ The slave broke off sharply, drew in his breath in fear. He began to try and explain himself.

  ‘Have no fear,’ said Alcibiades, almost gently: ‘no harm will come to you.’ He saw the Arcadian clearing his sword in the scabbard, and shook his head. ‘You may tell your masters whatever you please. My steward will see that you have a fresh horse. Please go now.’

  The slave almost ran down the stairs into the darkness. Alcibiades stood at the embrasure, and watched him ride away. The Arcadian said: ‘We must leave here. At once. They may attack tonight—’

  ‘No,’ said Alcibiades; and there was such authority in the one word that the Arcadian said no more. ‘Warn the slaves. Have horses saddled and ready. And then come back here. We shall leave when the need arises. But not till then.’

  The Arcadian paused in the doorway, questioningly.

  ‘I have an account to settle with my son,’ said Alcibiades.

  • • • • •

  The room in the War Department that Nicias had once occupied had been transformed till it was hardly recognisable. The bare walls were hung with tapestries. Persian rugs were strewn about the floor. The old plain furniture had been replaced with carved and polished tables and chairs from Miletus.

  At a desk in the middle of the room Critias, leader of the Thirty and self-styled chief citizen of the New Athens, sat decoding a message. His occupation seemed to give him some satisfaction; a faint smile hovered over his thin grey face. So absorbed was he that he did not appear to notice when the Thracian guards on duty outside opened the door and Theramenes walked in and stood before him.

  ‘You sent for me? asked Theramenes at length. The cropped grey head was raised abruptly. Theramenes stared into Critias’ metallic eyes, noted the thin set of the mouth, and shivered despite himself.

  ‘Yes,’ said Critias. His voice was low and smooth; but there was a certain sibilant quality about it. He pushed the decoded message across the desk. ‘I don’t think Lysander—or anyone else—will be able to argue with that.’

  It was a decree of the Spartan government, countersigned by Agis and the Ephors, requesting Alcibiades’ immediate death.

  ‘Well?’ Critias was watching Theramenes narrowly. ‘Have you any comment to make?’

  Theramenes swallowed, and said: ‘I told you before that I thought you were making a mistake. I can only repeat that.’

  Critias did not answer directly. At last he said, as if speaking to himself: ‘You seem to take considerable interest in public opinion. I have no doubt you know that it is the damned democratic rabble who have been agitating for Alcibiades’ recall. The same men as are most active against us. I merely state facts. I make no comment.’ He fingered a sheaf of reports as if to refresh his memory. Then he went on: ‘You also opposed the exile of Thrasybulus. That was very interesting. I am now informed that Thrasybulus is at Thebes, trying to raise men to launch a democratic revolt against us. Thrasybulus, you may recall, was a close friend of Alcibiades. Now we learn that Alcibiades himself has left Thrace and is at the court of Pharnabazus, where he is apparently well received. The death of Darius was unfortunate. You may remember that the last time Alcibiades had dealings with a Persian satrap, the direct result was the fall of the oligarchic government here—’

  ‘With which I was associated.’

  ‘I had not forgotten that. But you will admit that such a series of coincidences is, to say the least, interesting? A suspicious person would be led to the inevitable conclusion that you had democratic leanings yourself. But of course, that is absurd.’

  His eyes never left Theramenes’ face.

  ‘I have already told you my reasons for opposing these decrees of exile,’ said Theramenes. ‘If you force competent men into opposition, all you do is pave the way for civil war. It’s simply not practical. It is for the same reason that I am opposed to this policy of terror and political assassination. In the long run it will recoil on your own head. You are an Athenian. You should know the temper of your own countrymen. You will never crush them. But you may well destroy yourself. I have heard what is being said in the streets—’

  ‘I am aware of that,’ observed Critias smoothly. ‘Your interest in treasonable talk is most illuminating. Of course, you only have the good of the State at heart . . . But you must know that the rabble wishes Alcibiades back for one reason only. To destroy this government. And you publicly and persistently oppose his removal . . .’

  ‘I have given you my reasons.’

 
‘Of course . . . Tell me, since you are so concerned with public gossip: did you know that you had acquired a nickname?’

  ‘A nickname?’

  ‘Yes. “The Buskin”, to be exact. A buskin, you will remember, is a boot that fits either foot equally well. For once, public opinion seems to be in the right of it.’

  Theramenes said nothing.

  ‘I will confess,’ Critias went on, ‘that I have been unfortunate over Alcibiades. I had hoped that his son would have done our work for us. But the boy very foolishly allowed himself to fall into his father’s hands. He is now in prison. In Thrace. The Bithynians I hired to deal with Alcibiades on his way to Pharnabazus succeeded in plundering his baggage, but the man himself unfortunately escaped them. This time, however’—he fingered the document before him thoughtfully—‘I do not think we shall fail. Pharnabazus is in an awkward position. Don’t forget that his satrapy depends largely on trade from the Black Sea, and that Sparta is in control of the Bosphorus. Even if King Artaxerxes is not well disposed towards us, Pharnabazus will think twice before offending Agis and the Ephors in so deliberate a fashion. Oaths of friendship can go only so far. And what has Pharnabazus to gain from a landless exile?’

  ‘You are so sure that Lysander will forward this order?’

  ‘He would be a very brave man if he didn’t. And the same argument applies to him as to the Satrap.’

  Theramenes looked at Critias, and now there was fear in his face. But his voice was still steady as he said: ‘Why—if you mean what you said about my attitude —are you telling me all this so freely?’

  Critias smiled: a thin, colourless smile.

  ‘Because,’ he replied, ‘I have no reason to fear what you may do any longer.’ He spoke gently, almost absent-mindedly. The State does not look kindly on traitors—however highly placed.’

  Theramenes heard himself say: ‘What is a traitor?’

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ Critias flushed, and a fanatical gleam came into his cold eyes. ‘One who sets himself up against the legally constituted government of his country—one who deliberately attempts to destroy the foundations of society—’

  ‘If you have lived through the past forty years and still believe what you say,’ Theramenes remarked, ‘you might as well have me put to death at once, as you have done with so many others. Because if you believe it, there is no hope left for Athens.’

  For the first time Critias showed signs of embarrassment. ‘Do you take me for a tyrant?’ he asked. ‘It is not my place to condemn you. You will have a fair trial. It is your judges who will have the final decision over you.’

  ‘A fair trial . . .’ For a moment Theramenes seemed at a loss for words. Then he asked, with some dignity: ‘Am I to assume that I am under arrest?’

  Critias looked beyond him to the door. The Thracian guards stood there waiting. Slowly Theramenes walked forward to meet them, and the door closed behind him.

  Critias wrote a brief note, sealed it up with the Spartan death warrant and his decoded version, and sent for a messenger. Then he ate a frugal supper and went to bed; and no dreams disturbed his sleep.

  • • • • •

  When Pharnabazus received Lysander’s instructions, he sat a long while in troubled thought, his wine untasted, the peacock fans nodding gently above his head in the tireless hands of his slaves. Then he serif attendants to command the presence of his half-brother Bagaeus and his uncle Susamithres. They came in together: lean and wiry both, dark-faced and hook-nosed, the old and the young wolf. The Satrap greeted them formally, but without warmth. In the labyrinth of palace intrigue it was not wise to be over-familiar with one’s kinsmen.

  He gave Lysander’s letter to his uncle, who read it through, his face set. At the end he nodded, and passed it to Bagaeus. Pharnabazus’ eyes never left his half-brother. It is better that he should kill for me, he thought, than sit here in the palace with a hand itching at his sword-hilt.

  Bagaeus said: ‘It is easily done, my lord.’

  ‘You may find it harder than you suppose. Alcibiades is a brave man.’

  ‘But he is alone.’

  ‘No,’ said Pharnabazus; ‘no, he is not alone. The Arcadian who came here with him still follows at his heels. And the woman Timandra also.’

  ‘He is gone, then?’ It was Susamithres who spoke.

  ‘Two days since. I gave him letters and passports for all the provinces through which he must pass, and sent him to Susa to the King. Lysander’s message reached me today.’

  Susamithres and Bagaeus looked at each other.

  ‘Perhaps I was not as foolish as you imagine,’ said Pharnabazus gently. ‘I think that Alcibiades might not have proved unwelcome at the Royal Court.’

  ‘What message did he carry to the King?’ There was an urgent note in Bagaeus’ voice.

  ‘He went to plead his country’s cause. I suggested the arguments he should employ myself. The Spartans’ power in eastern waters is altogether too strong for my liking.’ Pharnabazus shrugged. ‘The responsibility for what the King may hear will rest with Alcibiades alone. I shall disclaim any part in it.’ He looked from one to the other of his listeners. ‘I will confess privately that I find my present position somewhat embarrassing. The oaths of friendship I sealed with Alcibiades still hold good. He has been an honoured guest under my roof. I would be loath to betray the trust he has placed in me. Nevertheless, I cannot ignore this—’

  ‘—Command?’ There was a shade of scorn in Bagaeus’ voice.

  ‘Shall we say suggestion? I am a loyal servant of Artaxerxes. But at the same time my position here on the Hellespont is awkward in the extreme.’

  Bagaeus rose to his feet. He seemed visibly relieved. ‘In that case I do not think there is anything more to discuss,’ he said. ‘You may write to Lysander that your agents have left to do your bidding. We shall take horse today. You may depend on us to do all that is necessary.’

  ‘I do not doubt you,’ said the Satrap.

  Bagaeus added suddenly: ‘The woman Timandra that Alcibiades has taken with him. She is of noble birth, is she not?’

  ‘She is,’ said Pharnabazus. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Do her relatives approve of this liaison with a foreign exile?’

  ‘You know our customs as well as I do. They cannot approve of it. But the girl is headstrong, and Alcibiades is . . . Alcibiades. They have had very little choice in the matter.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Bagaeus. ‘That is all I need to know. We shall report to you again at the conclusion of our mission?’

  It was a statement rather than a question. Pharnabazus inclined his head, and the two men went out quickly. Pharnabazus stared after them with troubled eyes.

  • • • • •

  The only light in the small room was a guttering lamp set in a bracket on the wall. The oil was bad, and the wick old: the flame spluttered and flickered, casting wavering shadows on the bare earthen floor, the open doorway where the curtains swayed in the faint night breeze. It was stiflingly hot; the air was full of the shrill piping of mosquitoes. Through the window the scattered lights of the village were visible in the blackness, and the sound of rustling leaves hinted at the trees and bushes which grew thickly round the house.

  On the wooden bed Alcibiades lay in an uneasy sleep, sheepskins piled over him. The day after he had left Pharnabazus at Dascylium he had contracted a fever; and now he tossed and twisted, his thin cheeks flushed, sweat prickling out on his forehead. His hair had grown extremely long during the past year, and a grey lock fell across his face as he rolled over on to his side.

  Timandra, sitting on a low stool beside him, watching every movement he made, stretched out a white hand and pushed back the tangled mass from his forehead. Then she dipped a cloth in a bowl of water that stood beside her, and gently wiped his flushed face. She was a girl of barely twenty, with the dark, classic features of the pure-bred Iranian. Yet her youthful face was strong and decisive; there was assurance as well as love in her bla
ck eyes and her aristocratic features bore an odd resemblance to those of Alcibiades himself. She was still dressed in the mud-stained habit in which she had ridden south that day over the rough roads of Phrygia; but the heavy pins that held up the braids of her hair were of wrought gold.

  She sat motionless once more; her eyes fixed on the thin figure on the bed. He was quieted now; but his hands still plucked feverishly at the coverlets. His arms were bare, and the heavy muscles relaxed with his deep breathing. Her ears were strained for the slightest sound: the crackling of twigs, the distant barking of dogs. Several times she glanced towards the door, where the Arcadian sat outside in the portico, his drawn sword laid across his knees. A frown crossed her face. She was—though she did not admit it even to herself—both jealous and afraid of this strange silent man: his unwavering devotion was like a personal affront to her. Yet tonight he was a welcome presence. She felt danger in the air: the atavistic prickling of the spine that heralds pursuit.

  Alcibiades stirred, groaned, and uttered a strangled cry in his sleep. She knew, without turning round, that the Arcadian had come in at the sound of it. She raised her hand in caution, and the boards creaked as he went back outside.

  The heavy eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. Two grey eyes, brilliant with fever, stared at her unrecognisingly. A voice that seemed to come from a great distance said: ‘I’ve had . . . the strangest dream . . . Timandra . . . can you hear me? I dreamt . . . that I was dressed in your clothes . . . that scarlet gown you wore when I first met you . . . You were holding my head in your arms . . . and adorning my face with . . . with powder and paint . . . I saw it all . . . It was as if I were someone else . . . looking on . . .’ He coughed, and sat up, shivering. Slowly his eyes cleared, and he took in the details of the squalid room. Timandra put an arm about his shoulders, and lowered him gently on to his pillows again. She poured out water in a pitcher, and he drank greedily, the drops spilling on to his naked chest with the trembling of his hand.