by Mary Renault
You might have thought Nikias would have raised both hands to heaven, and vowed a hekatomb of oxen to Athene, who had cared for her people so well. For it happened on the night of her feast, when the prayers of all the Athenians were lifted up to her; and it has always seemed to me that to reject her gift, the shelter of her shield, was as great an impiety in its own way as that of Anaxagoras, who pretended that Helios is only a glowing stone. Yet Nikias would see nothing in the omen but calamity, and he carried so many with him that Demosthenes was over-ruled. They decided to wait another full course of the moon, before they sailed.
So they waited; and the Syracusans attacked the ships again, and sank many more than they could still afford to lose. While they were debating what to do, the enemy strung his own ships across the harbour mouth and linked them with a boom. Then they needed no divination to know they must break out, or die. They prepared for battle.
As if just wakened from a drugged sleep, Nikias worked like two men, seeing the ships made ready, exhorting the trierarchs and the soldiers. He recalled to them the famous words of Perikles, that they belonged to the freest people in the world; as if the Syracusans had been subjects of a tyrant, and not Hellenes themselves, resolved to be free or die. For two years they had seen the fate of Melos hanging over them. They manned their ships along the shore, and waited.
It was Demosthenes who led out our ships to break the boom. They fell on it with such courage that they stormed the boom-ships, and were even casting off the ropes and chains; but then the Syracusan fleet fell on them from behind.
They say two hundred ships fought that day in the Great Harbour. The water was choked with them, ramming and boarding, and drifting while grappled into ships already engaged, so that battles merged and joined in unutterable confusion; hoplites springing from deck to deck and, as they fought, being struck by javelins from their own ships; rudders crushed in the press, the lame ships fouling friend as well as foe; the din so great, and quarters so close, that men hardly knew if the orders they heard came from their own trierarch, or the enemy’s.
Meanwhile on shore the Athenians watched the battle, as helpless as if it were a game of dice, with their lives the stake. They swayed this way and that, crying out in triumph or gasping in despair as their own glimpse of the fight looked well or ill. But the Syracusans held four-fifths of the beaches; they could put in anywhere, if they were pressed; the Athenians had only the tiny strip Gylippos and his men had left them. They were trapped on all sides; the ships that were not sunk were driven back to land. At the sight of them returning, the waiting army gave one great groan of anguish, and stared from the sea strewn with wreckage and with dead, to the hostile land.
To the land they turned their faces at last, leaving the dead unburied; and as if the reproaches of the homeless shades were not enough, they had to abandon the wounded and the sick. It was that, or stay and die with them. They dragged themselves on the flanks, clung to their friends till they could neither walk nor crawl; and then lay pleading, or cursing, or calling out last messages; their voices hung above the Army along with the ravens and the kites. The walking remnant marched on over the stony land, empty, thirsty, harried by the enemy on either side, until the end. At the last they came to a steep-banked river. They poured down into it, to cross over and to drink; and the Syracusans closed in, before and behind. As the Athenians struggled in the water, stones and darts and arrows rained on them. The river was churned to mud and ran with the blood of the dying. But such was their thirst that those who could reach it lay in it and drank, till others trampled them and they drowned.
Demosthenes fell on his sword, but was taken alive to give the enemy the pleasure of killing him. Nikias too they put to death, no one knows how. Of the rank and file, many thousands perished on the spot; many were dragged off by Syracusan soldiers, to sell for gain. The rest were the common spoil of the State. The fugitives, hiding in the woods, saw them driven away like starved cattle, and knew no more.
They had gone out from the City with women wailing, and flowers strewn in the streets. But one may weep aloud when Adonis dies; for crying eases the heart, and the gods return.
In the silent streets, a man who saw his friends approaching would cross to the other side, lest speech be asked of him. Sometimes as you passed a house you could hear a woman weeping alone, a dull sound, moving as she dragged herself about her work. I had heard it at home, and fled at last into the City. Lysis and I drew together like animals in winter; for hours at a time we hardly spoke.
A night or two later, I walked to the Anakeion. The horses shifted and snorted, made uneasy by the quiet. Here and there by a watch-fire one or two men would be playing dice, to make the time pass. I came up behind the man I was looking for. He had thrown two sixes, but did not notice it till someone pushed his winnings at him. I touched his shoulder and said, “Xenophon.”
He looked round, and got up from the fire and came aside with me. I saw his eyes searching mine; but he said calmly, as if we had met by chance, “I’m glad to see you, Alexias. Are you able to ride now?”—“No; but I have news for you. Your father is dead.” I saw him give a long noiseless sigh, like a man from whom a burden has fallen. “Is it certain?” he said.—“I have talked to a man who saw him die. He fell at the storming of the heights, a month before the end. All those dead were buried, by the shore of the harbour, in a common grave.” He took my hand, which he had never done before. “Thank you, Alexias. Don’t go yet; I have some wine here.”
Often I had wondered what I could ever say to Xenophon by way of comfort if his father should fall. Thus the event makes fools of our expectations. He divided his wine with me, insisting as one does with the bringer of good tidings; as I was leaving he said, “And for yourself, Alexias? No news yet?”—“Not yet,” I said.—“I am sorry. But there is still time.” I heard nothing, however, though I questioned every survivor I could hear of.
So the Assembly was called, and the men went up the Pnyx. They did not stay very long. I waited for Lysis at the place we had appointed, a saddler’s shop in a street near by. The place smelt of old leather and horse-sweat. Hardly anything in the place was new, so few of the knights could afford it; it was all repair-work. The saddler was at the Assembly; I talked to the foreman, who was a metic, about horse-embrocation and swollen hocks. Our horses were lame half their time for lack of rest; my broken shoulder had been good for Phoenix at least. Then Lysis came in, looking better than he had since he was hurt. The saddler was with him; they were laughing together. He said to me, “All’s well. No surrender.” The saddler slapped the foreman on the shoulder and said, “Cheer up, Brygos. They won’t make a Helot of you yet.”
“Don’t rub your arm, Lysis,” I said. “You know that makes it worse.”—“It itches. It will mend now. I feel in myself that the poison is gone.”
Autumn drew on. The courtyard vines bore their few grapes, and on the hills of Attica the wasted vineyards bore weeds. The war slowed down again, as wars do when winter comes. We made our patrols; the Thebans came out sometimes and made little raids, lest we should feel at ease. Half the cavalry strength kept watch at the Anakeion; the rest, turn and turn about, went home. Sharp mornings began, when, as one pulls off one’s clothes and runs out to the palaestra, one sees steam coming up from the wrestlers. But most of my leave I was running. For the people of Corinth had sent us a herald, announcing the sacred truce of Poseidon, and inviting us to send competitors to the Isthmian Games. I did not tell Lysis my hopes, in case they came to nothing. The City, which would have to send all the entrants round by sea, would not choose many.
We went on patrol again in a fine spell of weather; frosty nights, silver mornings, and noons of gold. One evening we passed the farm where I had lain with my broken shoulder. While we were buying some cheese, the fanner’s wife beckoned me round a corner. With all that had happened, I had remembered her mostly for her bad nursing; but meeting again, it was another matter, and she lost no time in persuading me that what
had been good with a sore shoulder would be better with a sound one. She was a fair-haired young woman, slim and firm; her face was tanned, but her body very white. The end of our conversation was that I should come back that night, if we made camp near enough, and meet her in the barn.
Being unable to keep anything long from Lysis, I had confessed my former adventure long ago. If he was ill pleased, he had not the pettiness to show it; but he said I ought not to go after married women, as if a husband had no rights. “It can happen to anyone,” he said, “in a case like that; but the fact remains that it is stealing. You would be ashamed to go off with another man’s horse, after all, so why make free with his other property? Next time you want a woman, you ought to pay for one.” I said, “But Lysis, he cares nothing for such things; he is long past it, and only wants a housekeeper; she told me so.” Seeing me bring out this old tale with such a serious face, he could not keep from laughing. But I did not care now, as you may suppose, to tell him where I was going. I had no watch that night, and slipped off as soon as he was asleep.
I knew, or thought I knew, a short way over the mountain; so I left my horse and my armour; but took a sword, which was sillier than taking nothing, as I should have known. Starting before moonrise I lost my way, and wandered some time before I found a landmark, a shoulder of broken rock. At the same time I heard voices and the sound of armour. The rock threw off echoes and confused the sound. Coming round it, I ran straight into a Theban hoplite. I had drawn my sword when two more seized me from behind. So I could not pass myself off as anything but what I was.
I thought they would kill me out of hand, but they took me round to their camp on the hillside. One does not understand, until one feels it, the difference between struggling with a friend in the palaestra, and being handled by an enemy. They were a small troop, twenty or thirty. Coming to the watchfire, where their officer sat, they pushed me forward roughly, so that I stumbled; having my hands bound I could not save myself, and fell hard. They all laughed at this. I got to my knees, then to my feet. My hair was singed, and my face bleeding. The officer was a stocky man, with a thick black beard and a bald head. They told him I was a spy they had found looking for the camp. He walked up to me, turned me round, and looked at my arms. My left was scarred in one or two places, which you do not find in a hoplite who carries a shield. “Frontier Guard?” he said. I made no answer. “Where’s your squadron?”—“I don’t know. My horse fell; I have been lost all day.” I hoped he would believe me, for I was afraid. He said, “Where’s your armour, then?” The man who had caught me said, “He carried a sword.”
The officer said, “I don’t take prisoners, Athenian. But tell me where your squadron is, and you can go free. See how few we are; we only want to save ourselves.” Two of the men looked at each other. I heard a sound from behind some rocks, where the rest were; there was a glow too from their fire. “Tell me,” he said, “and you can have your life.” I thought, “If I invent something, it only means being dragged along as a hostage, and a worse death at the end.” So I said nothing. Someone said, “Try sitting him on the fire.” The Captain said, “We are Hellenes here. Will you speak, Athenian?”—“I know nothing.”—“Very well. Who caught this man?” The hoplite came forward. “Finish your work.”
Two of them grasped my shoulders, and another hit me across the back of the knees with a spear-shaft, to bring me down. They held me kneeling. It was a bright cold night; the fire crackled and spurted, and in the sky the stars were like sparks from an anvil, white and blue. You never learn how much your courage owes to the wish for a good name among men, to the eyes of lover and friends upon you, till you are alone among enemies. If I had thought that to beg for my life would move them, I would have begged for it; but I would not be their mock. I thought of my mother, left alone with the child. My tongue felt dry and bitter in my mouth. I wondered how long it takes to die, when the sword is in. Then I thought of Lysis.
The captain beckoned the man who had caught me, and motioned with his hand. The man nodded and moved out of sight. I heard his armour creak behind me. My heart leaped in my throat and I said, “Wait.”
Someone laughed. One of the men holding my shoulders spat, and said, “Are you frightened, Athenian? My son was at Mykalessos, which your City sacked with the Thracians. Are you too young, ephebe, to be brave? He was eight years old.”—“May the child’s shade rest; blood for blood pays all. That man behind me, bring him in front.” The man at my back said, “Will you be better for that?”—“I think so,” I said. “I was told you Thebans understood these matters. Is it all one to you, then, whether your friend finds you wounded before or behind?”
They paused, murmuring to one another. Then a man who had come over from the other fire said, “I know that voice. Let me see him.” He picked up a burning stick and looked at my face. His I could not see, the flame blinding me; yet there was something I remembered. He said, “Yes, I know him. I have a score to settle with this one. Let no one trouble himself further; give him to me.” The officer said, “Take him and welcome, if it’s any pleasure to you. But do as he asked.” The man pulled me to my feet and showed me his sword and said, “Come.”
I wondered what it was he meant to do to me, that he was ashamed for the rest to see. He took me some way off, past rocks and some trees. The stars glittered and flashed. It was cold away from the fire. He stopped at last. I said, “Your friends are not here, Theban; but the gods are.”—“Let them judge between us. Do you know me?”—“No. What wrong have I done you?”—“Last summer I was taken by the Frontier Guard, I and my friend. There was a lad called Alexias; they said the Captain was his lover.”—“They said well. If your quarrel is with Lysis, I stand here for him. But he will kill you.”—“He sent us food at night; you brought it. My friend could not sit up to drink, so you raised his head.” I remembered then. “His name was Tolmides,” I said. “He wanted to raise a regiment of lovers and conquer the world. Is he here too?”—“He died the evening after. If you had been rough with him, I would have cut out your heart tonight.” He slid his sword under my bonds and cut them with a couple of jerks of the edge; his sword was sharp, and he was strong. “Are you that Alexias who was crowned for the long-race?”—“I am the runner.”—“All Athenians boast,” he said. “Prove it.”
When I got back to the camp, it was within an hour of dawn. The outpost, when I gave the countersign, would hardly speak to me. He said that Lysis had watched all night. I found him lying in his place beside the stacked arms, his armour by him, wrapped in his cloak. When I came near he did not open his eyes. I knew he was not asleep but angry. All the way back I had been thinking of him. I said to myself, “If I speak, we shall fall out. Let me be near him now, and he can be angry in the morning.” I got my cloak, and lay down beside him. I was tired, but could not sleep, and did not know whether he slept or not. I must have dozed in the end, for I woke to a cold dusk of dawn, and Lysis leaning over me.
Presently he said softly, for the rest were still asleep, “Are you much hurt?”—“Hurt?” I said. “No.”—“You are bruised all over, and covered with blood.” I had forgotten how roughly the Thebans had handled me. We got up, and went down to the stream to wash. A grey mist filled the valley and hung on the water. I was stiff all over, and cold. It was the hour when life burns low, and the sick die. His face looked grey with weariness; I understood his wish had been to let the troop look after itself, and to come seeking me. He said, “There is blood in your hair too,” and found the cut and washed it. I thought, “The love one feels at a time like this, must be truly the love of the soul.”
“If the man had killed you,” he said, “finding you with his wife, the law would have upheld him. Are you cold?”—“The water was cold.” He put his arm with his cloak about my shoulders. “Was it for this,” he said, “that we made our offering to the god?”
I said, “Yes, Lysis.” We stood by the stream, for it was too cold and wet to sit, and I told him. The first birds woke, and the f
ace of the opposite mountain showed grey through the haze; the dark thorn-tree wept with dew. At last the sun shone red on the peak, and we heard the others waking; so we went back to rub down our horses, and make ready for the day.
16
IN THE SPRING, KING Agis came back to Dekeleia, and marched straight down into Attica again. Nearly all the farms which had been saved or missed before were burned this time, and Demokrates’ went among the first. Lysis got the news while we were in the City, and came to tell me.
“Rather than complain,” he said, “we ought to thank the gods we saved what we did. For that matter, Father can thank me for some of it. We picked the place bare a month ago, but he wouldn’t strip off the roof-tiles till I had been at him for days. There is the horse-farm in Euboea, which will bring something in as long as we can ship the horses. We shan’t starve; but it’s hard for a man of his age to take a change of fortune, and now he is sick again. Come home with me, I’ve something to show you.”