The Last of the Wine: A Novel

by Mary Renault

  When I had time I used to look about in the open places, getting grass and green stuff to put in the soup. There was a kind of pine that had a kernel good for eating. The Pythagoreans, from their never eating flesh, were very knowing in such matters; anything you saw them pick up you could be sure was safe.

  Sometimes Chremon did not feel like work, and had no use for me till evening, and I could not show myself at home. Such days I spent with Phaedo as a rule. I used to he on the pallet in his room, reading while he wrote, or hearing him teach. He was a good teacher; crisp, sometimes even severe, but always even-tempered. The light from a little window over his shoulder touched his fair hair and fine cheekbone; thinness brought out the breeding in him, but the intellect more. He looked already a philosopher, and as pure as a temple-priest of Apollo. I never told him everything; but once he said, “It is easier these days to be a man alone.”

  Sokrates went about all this while just as usual, barefoot in the cold, in his old mantle, talking and asking questions. Once I found him visiting Lysis. They were discussing Homer. It has always seemed to me that this was when Lysis took a turn for the better; though I daresay the wine and dried figs helped, which Plato sent him next day. Sokrates always knew who could spare a little and who was in most need, and how to bring them together.

  But I did not often follow him into the colonnades. Plato would be there with him, and seldom alone. If it is Aphrodite of the Agora who has possessed one, winter and want will cool one soon enough, and the beauty that kept one sleepless is only a little warmth to crowd up to when the wind is blowing. But with this love it was otherwise. He had the innocent eye that looks straight at the soul; and mine seemed written all over with the lessons of Chremon’s workshop. So I kept away, and thanked the god who had bestowed him where he could be taken care of. His eyes looked bigger, but bright and clear; his cheek, though it curved in a little, had a touch of fresh colour, from happiness, as I supposed, such as time and change have no power upon; and in his face one could still see music.

  Chremon chose the slain Hyakinthos, in the end, to make his statue on. I was glad of this; Hyakinthos lay prone, with an arm flung before the face. At one time Chremon had been very much taken with the Dionysos, who was lying face up.

  The third month drew near its end, and on the fig-tree one could see where the buds would be. Then one morning, while my company was on watch upon the wall, a trumpet sounded before the Dipylon Gate, and word ran round that Theramenes was back.

  Presently came the call for the Assembly to be convened. The walls had to be guarded, so we could only wait. At last the relief came up. We scanned their faces, and were slow to ask what news. The captain who was taking over from me met my eyes and said, “Nothing.”

  I stared, and said, “Isn’t Theramenes back, then?”—“Oh, yes, and looking very well. He’s been on Salamis, with Lysander.”—“Well, then, what terms?”—“Nothing. Lysander sends word he has no power to treat, nor the kings, only the Ephors at Sparta.”—“After three months? Are you well, Myrtilos?” His only son had died the day before.—“I suppose, to a man from Athens, even the black broth of Sparta tasted good. He could not get them to better their terms; so he waited.”—“By Herakles, but for what?”—“For the City to like the smell of black broth. The oligarchs are rich; they can hold out a little longer. The democrats are dying every day. Soon there will be none; and those who are left, the good and the beautiful, can open the gates to their friends on what terms they choose.”

  No man spoke to another, as we went down from the wall. Thinking of the faces at home, I found my courage fail, and went straight to Chremon’s. He was cheerful, and offered me a drink though it was not noon. “Not long now,” he said. He must have looked forward all along to the day of surrender; not because he was an oligarch, but because he liked his comforts, and the rest was all one to him. I took the wine, for I was already cold enough without stripping. The workshop had a little high window, which showed a glimpse of the High City; there was a gleam of light upon Athene’s spear. I looked from it to Chremon, rubbing his hands over the charcoal to warm them for work. So much suffered and spent, and this for the end.

  Coming home at evening, I found my mother and sister sitting alone. Charis said, “Father’s gone to Sparta.” Being in no mood for games I answered sharply; but it was true. Theramenes had been sent off again as envoy, with full powers to treat. Nine delegates had been sent with him. Since the Spartans would do no business with democrats, and the City did not trust the oligarchs, the nine were chosen from among Theramenes’ former moderates, the poorer of them, who had good cause to end the siege quickly. These three months had taught the citizens something.

  “Your father had no time,” my mother said, “to seek you about the City.” I guessed he had not cared to look very far. “But he sent you his blessing.”—“You forget, Mother,” Charis said, “It was ‘Tell Alexias I commit you to his care.’ Alexias, will the Spartans give Father some of their dinner?” I looked at my charges, drawn close to a little fire of pine-cones and wood, saved all day against the evening; the child with an old doll on her knees, taken up when her housework was done; my mother sitting in her chair, awkwardly as big-bellied women do, her head small and delicate above her shapeless body, dark lashes lying on a cheek of ivory, all threaded, as I saw in the firelight, with little lines. I passed on Chremon’s good cheer, saying, “Not much longer now.” When they had gone to bed, I sat over the warm white embers, thinking, “What if her time comes at night, and no oil to light the midwife?”

  Next day more people than usual dropped in to watch Chremon working. One or two were men who knew me. They greeted me, but I thought they looked at one another. There were also some of Chremon’s friends, with whom he withdrew to gossip in a corner. I heard one of them say laughing, “Well, when you have done with him, send him to me.” I knew the man’s name; he was not a sculptor. They left, and Chremon came back before I was quite ready for him; my arm partly hiding my face, I did not always watch it as carefully as I should. I knew he was put out by what he saw; he was a man who liked to persuade himself that things were as he wished. If he had been the Great King, he would not have spared the messenger of bad news.

  The City granary was empty now; there was no more need to fetch the corn. But a few days later, I woke to find a pigeon limed in the fig-tree; a fat bird too, from beyond the walls. I climbed up for it, and wrung its neck, thinking, “This day will be fortunate.” As I carried it in, feeling the flesh on it and full of my news, Charis met me in the doorway, saying, “Oh, Alexias, run quickly. Mother is ill, it’s the baby coming.”

  I ran to the house of the midwife, who grumbled at going out in the cold, and asked what we had to pay with. I promised a jar of wine, our last, being afraid she would ask for food. She set out complaining; in the porch Charis stood wringing her hands and crying, “Hurry, hurry.” As I let the woman into the room, I heard my mother groaning, a muffled sound; she had stuffed something into her mouth lest the child should hear.

  I sent Charis into the kitchen, and waited before the door. It was time for Chremon, but I did not care. I was pacing about the courtyard when I heard from within a great shriek, and my mother’s voice cried out, “Alexias!” I ran upon the door and flung it open. The midwife called out in anger, but I saw only my mother’s face turned towards me, the lips white, and moving without sound. I knelt, and took hold of her about the shoulders. But even as I touched her, her eyes set in her head, and her soul went out of her.

  I looked upon her, and closed her eyes. She slept. I thought, “Here is one, then, for whom I need fear no longer.” And then I thought, “She has borne a child before, and miscarried a child, yet did not die. Famine killed her. If I had brought home what I earned at Chremon’s, perhaps she would be alive.” It had seemed to me that, doing what no one is called upon to do, I could dispose the price as I chose; but what is a man, when he sits down to chop logic with Necessity? “If I had not meddled,” I thought,
“when I saw Thalia in the street, she would have gone on to the house of the bawd, and come back with a little money; Lysis would have eaten, and known nothing, and the food would have kept life in him like any other. What is honour? In Athens it is one thing, in Sparta another; and among the Medes it is something else again. But go where you will, there is no land where the dead return across the river.”

  The midwife had been clacking, and pulling at the clothes. They lay flat now upon the body, which looked as small as a yearling doe. Then hearing another sound I turned, and saw behind me the woman sitting, tying the navel-cord of the newborn child. She said, “Whom shall I give it to? It is a boy.”

  Towards evening, when I had arranged for the burial; I came back to the house. My sister had dried her tears; she had got out her old cradle, and was rocking the child in it. “Hush,” she said. “He is sleeping. What a good baby he is! Since I tucked him up here, he has not once cried.”

  Her words gave me a hope, and I bent over the cradle. But the child was sleeping, as she had said. He favoured my father’s looks; he was fair-haired, and a big child; too big, I suppose, for my mother to bear. “How shall I feed him, Alexias? If I chew the food first, and make it soft, won’t it be as good as milk for him? It is what the birds do.”

  “No,” I said. “He must have milk, Charis. I must take him away tonight, and find someone to feed him.”—“I think it’s very dear, the midwife said so. Have we any money?”—“Not much. So we can’t keep him for ourselves. We must find some rich lady, who has been praying to the gods to send her a child. She will be glad to get a fine baby like this. Perhaps she will pretend she is really his mother, and her husband will think he is really his son. They will give him a horse when he is older, and make a knight of him; and some day he will be a general.”

  She looked down at the cradle and said, “I don’t want a rich lady to have him. I want to keep him for company, Alexias, when you are out at work.”—“But he would have no mother here. You must be good, little one.” I feared she would cry again; but her tears were spent. I gathered up the child, and wrapped him in the linen from the cradle. She said, “That is not warm enough,” and made me take the wool. “We must give him something,” she said, “to know him by, when he is a man. Theseus had a sword.”—“I need my sword. But find him something quickly.” She came back with a branch of red coral which was her own, and hung it round his neck. “What shall we call him, Alexias? We haven’t given him any name.”—“He must go to his mother,” I said, “and she will name him.”

  I walked across the Agora, with my brother on my arm, and stopped at a potter’s stall. As food grew dear, pots had grown cheap, and for two obols I got one big enough, round inside and with a wide mouth. Two obols was more than we could spare; but one must do what one can for one’s own flesh and blood, and there were stray dogs running about the City as bold as wolves. At the foot of the High City, in the empty ground where the stones of the tyrants’ fort lie scattered, I looked about me. Not very far away I could hear an infant crying among the rocks, but the sound was thin; if any knight’s wife was seeking an heir for her husband, my brother would not have a rival long. But if in these three months she had not chosen yet, I thought, she must be hard to please.

  He had been quiet, lying in my arm; but now feeling the cold pot about him, he began to cry. It was a strong sound, for so young a baby. I saw him in my mind as a youth, tall like my father, with suitors seeking his favour; bearing a shield in battle, or crowned at the Games; then led with music to his wedding, and seeing his sons. “Go in peace,” I said to him; “bear no ill-will to me, for Necessity yields to no man: and do not complain of me to our mother, for her blood is on your head as well as mine. If the gods had not forbidden it, my brother, I would put you to sleep before I left you, for night comes on; this is an empty place, and the clouds look dark upon the mountains. But the blood of kindred is not to be washed away; and when a man has once felt the breath of the Honoured Ones upon his neck, he will not bid them across the threshold. So forgive me, and suffer what must be. The clouds are heavy; if the gods love you, before morning there will be snow.”

  It was dark already. For a long time as I walked away I could hear him crying; then from high on the rocks, about the bastions of the citadel, a dog began howling, and I heard it no more.

  We buried my mother in one of the gardens within the City, which had been turned over to this use since the siege began. I did not tell Lysis, thinking him too ill to be distressed with it; but he heard, and sent begging to let them have Charis to care for, and share whatever they had. He said this, though for two days now I had sent nothing, and they were living like the birds themselves. I sent the child, for she was falling into a melancholy. What we had left, I sent along with her; there was only myself left now, and I had my work to go back to.

  I went back to Chremon’s next morning, feeling the wind cold on my neck, and thinking he would not be pleased to find I had cut off my hair, for, as I remembered, he had not finished the head. But that was no trouble; for when I stood in the doorway, I saw someone else stretched on the wooden dais, in the pose of Hyakinthos. I daresay he had only been waiting to find a model with the same build. Many no doubt who had thought themselves rich when the siege began, were not too proud now to pose for Chremon. I went away before he saw me, and took from him the pleasure of saying, “Not today.”

  Two days after this, the envoys returned. I did not myself go out to meet them; though I did not feel as hungry as the day before, everything tired me; when I heard shouting in the street, I went to the door to ask what it was, and then lay down again. But as my father told me later, all the City that stood still on its feet came to meet them, and led them straight to the Pnyx to hear their news.

  It was this; that the Spartans and their allies’ spokesmen had met all together, to vote upon our fate. Then had stood forward the Theban envoy, a man who, as it appeared later, spoke not so much for his own city as out of that pride in public office which makes a man think himself a god. “Serve them,” he said, “as they served the Melians, or the city of Mykalessos when they loosed the Thracians on it. Sell them into slavery, lay waste the City, and give the ground to sheep.” And this being said, the Corinthian supported it.

  But if there is not much grace in Sparta, there is reverence for the past. When from time to time they are great, that is the core of their greatness. Curtly and bluntly, after their custom, they answered that Athens was part of Hellas; and they were not for enslaving the City that had turned the Medes. The debate was at a stand, when a man from Phokis stood up, and sang. It was the chorus of Euripides that begins,

  Electra, Agamemnon’s child, I come

  Unto thy desert home …

  What the Spartans thought of it, no one knows; but after a long silence the allied spokesmen cast the vote for mercy.

  So these were the terms they sent us, to lift the siege: Pull down a mile of your Long Walls; receive your exiles back into citizenship; hand over your ships; and as subject ally follow the rule of Sparta, leaving her to lead in peace and in war.

  I am told one or two voices were still heard to cry out against surrender. As to the others, I am not the man to despise them. For if, the day before, Chremon had still had work for me, I cannot swear I would not have gone, without any pay, for the sake of a bowl of soup.

  Lysander sailed across from Salamis; King Agis came within the gates he had watched so long; but for the first days I kept my bed, and my father cared for me as for a little child. He was good to me, setting aside his own grief; and in return, silly with weakness, I forgot he could not know, finding her absent, that Charis was alive. He went a full day thinking her dead, before I perceived his error. Even then he was not angry; but I saw tears stand in his eyes. Then it seemed to me that at last the Honoured Ones were appeased; and on the thought I slept.

  We ate from the first day of surrender; for before the gates were open, people who had a little left were sending to their fri
ends, now they knew their children would not starve. So on the third day, I got on my feet again, and walked out, and saw the ramparts of the High City covered with Spartans, pointing out to each other the mountains of their homes. I thought, “Thus it is to be the conquered,” but my mind was empty and light and I could feel nothing.

  They were throwing down the Walls already. I heard the thud and crash of the falling stonework, mixed with the twitter of flutes. Who began it I don’t know; it was not very like the Spartans, and I should guess at the Corinthians; but they had collected all the flute-girls, those who were left, given them wine and a handful of food, and made them play. It was one of the first days of spring, when the light is hard and keen; the girls stood in the road, between the Walls, their faces painted awry, or sometimes, if they were Athenian born, striped red and black with tears; wearing their tawdry finery fit only for the lamplight, piping away; the foreign girls, and some others too, setting themselves to rights after their haste, and making eyes at the victors. And from time to time, as they played, there crashed down one of Themistokles’ great ashlars; and the Spartans cheered. “This truly,” I said to myself, “is defeat.” But it was as a dream to me.

  So I walked to the house of Sokrates; but outside I met Euthydemos, who said, “He has gone up to the Temple of Erechtheus, to pray for the City.”

  While we stood talking, Plato came up, and greeted us; but when he heard Sokrates was not there, he did not stay. I looked after him, and thought that in the end even the rich had felt it. His eyes were hollow, and the bones of his wide shoulders stood out like knuckles beneath the skin.

  I said to Euthydemos, “It was noble in him to give to others, when he was in such want himself.” He answered, “No one has filled his belly these last weeks. I don’t think Plato starved; when things got tight in his home, Kritias helped them; though I can’t endure the man, it seems he has his share of family feeling. Plato was keeping up quite well until a little while ago. But he went downhill in a matter of days after his friend died.”