by Peter Green
What, then? What was missing, what intangible absence nagged at my mind with that dull, persistent ache? My eyes took in one familiar object after another, from the two tall Athenian jars to my old, much-polished hall-chair, its wood seamed and patterned with dark cracks: I wanted to touch them for reassurance, they were amulets. (Yet I had never really liked the jars: the pattern on them might have been designed by a mad child with a precocious talent for geometry, and I only kept them—or so I told myself—because they were a present from Periander. Which, if one cared to think about it, would form an equally valid reason, to my mother and others like her, for refusing to have such tainted objects in the house at all.) But now the amulets failed me: my defences were down. Emptiness: not-being. Tears gathered behind my eyes, I felt a simple, nameless grief. And then, suddenly, I put a name to it: there was no sense of home-coming.
I paused on the upper gallery, then flung open the door to Cleïs’ room. The shutters still stood half-open, and late afternoon sunlight streamed in, illuminating the same miscellaneous clutter of objects. And then I saw an addition: a sweeping-brush laid beside the bed, a small heap of greyish dust. Again, irrationally, I felt on the point of weeping. I went out quickly, down the corridor, fingers clenched over thumbs in the hopeless, reflexive gesture of a miserable child.
When they brought us into the big public ante-room outside the council chamber, the first thing I saw was that stained and splintered hole in the great metal-studded door, an ugly irregularity among the gilded dolphins. It was as though Myrsilus had deliberately left it there: a silent reminder, a grim piece of reality for sensitive and impractical revolutionaries. There, I thought, there where the sunlight swarms with dust, there beside the marble pillars, only a few days ago, a man died horribly, a man I knew well, a living, breathing individual. There he hung, like a fish on a spit, in what agony I cannot begin to imagine, till death loosened his bowels and laid dust on his blind eyes. Yet I, seeing the marks of that bloody ordeal, can only feel wonder, joy, thankfulness for the life that still sings so turbulently through my own veins.
They were there waiting for us, a small, defiant group hedged in by Myrsilus’ guardsmen: Alcaeus, Antimenidas, and the others—not more than a dozen in all—who had, for whatever motives, chosen in their extremity to surrender rather than die. Looking at them, I felt a stab of guilt: my mother and I had been kept under nothing worse than house arrest, whereas they—it was only too plain—were fresh from the cells of the city prison, dirty, unkempt, still in the clothes they had been wearing at the time of their arrest, still showing rust-coloured bloodstains on cloak or tunic. Antimenidas had his head swathed in a grubby bandage; another man leant heavily on an improvised crutch. They were not an impressive sight. I suspect that Myrsilus deliberately prevented their having access to clean clothes, barbers, or even washing-water: the more repugnant and ridiculous these aristocratic rebels could be made to look, the better.
I felt my mother stiffen beside me, sensed her instinctive disgust and the expression—too familiar—of frozen scorn with which she would at once conceal it. Alcaeus gave me a strained, rueful smile: Antimenidas, white-faced, was staring away from us towards the doors of the council chamber. That black, ragged scar in the wood gaped like an open wound. None of us said anything to each other, even by way of greeting: what words could have been adequate? Then the doors swung open, creaking a little on their ponderous bronze hinges, and we moved forward into the council chamber, over mosaics of fishes and birds and dancing boys, the guards iron-shod footsteps echoing beside us, to face the justice of Myrsilus.
Today, miraculously, warmth and light have returned. Beneath the sun’s relentless glare colour drains from vineyard and pasture, air shimmers, the sky is hazed with heat Here in Mytilene peasants call this the “little summer”: now, between vintage and olive-harvest, they have a brief respite from their labours. A few late cicadas chin uncertainly in the plane-tree. My shutters are flung wide open: as I lean out, breathing the morning air, my eye is caught by two swallows’ nests under the eaves, soft cones of pleached mud, empty now, abandoned till the spring. Why should this commonplace sight disturb me so?
Perhaps I envy these birds their freedom, this mysterious migrant urge that carries them over seas and frontiers, their poised sense of destination, their light indifference to human laws and restraints. Yet the thought of them leaves me restless, anxious, full of fearful premonitions. They are a reminder of my mortality; how many more times will I see them return with the spring? I can make poetry from this freedom, this indifference: yet always at the back of my mind I see, not a bird, but the raped and tongueless Philomela, twittering madly as she recalls the monstrous feast, the axe, the blood, the mindless metamorphosis.
In the spring she returns, Pandion’s daughter: her freedom an illusion, her indifference bred of despair, her eloquence rooted in archaic guilt and hysteria. Am I—can I be—wiser or happier than Philomela? Should I envy the tongueless swallow?
Myrsilus and Pittacus sat side by side in high-backed, gilded chairs—you could not quite call them thrones—which stood on a daïs at the far end of the chamber. Above the chairs hung a scarlet canopy, and over the canopy were two crossed banners: the standard Pittacus had carried during his campaign in the Troad, its black dolphin threadbare now, its colours faded; and a new, resplendent device, quartered with bee-rosettes and corn-sheaves as well as dolphins, and bright-woven in scarlet, black, and gold. This, presumably, was the city’s new official flag: I remember thinking—even in that moment of high drama—how vulgar it looked. Perhaps Myrsilus, in an excess of civic zeal, had designed it himself.
The council chamber was little more than half-full. I detected some embarrassment in the air as we advanced between those curving tiers of benches: was it, I wondered, on our behalf or theirs? Out of the corner of my eye I recognized Draco: he half-smiled, then quickly looked away. I could not blame him. The sooner we were disposed of, and the whole unpleasant episode forgotten, the happier everyone would be. I could see it in their faces. They stared at the floor, coughed, conversed in whispers, fidgeted uncomfortably as they waited for the hearing to begin. I found myself feeling rather sorry for them.
The only people present who seemed quite immune to this atmosphere—indeed, unaware of it—were our self-appointed judges. Myrsilus remained, as ever, a grey, expressionless, impenetrable enigma. His hands were folded together in his lap, while his eyes explored some remote prospect that he alone could see. Pittacus, on the other hand, seemed positively to be enjoying himself. He sat there beaming at us all, prisoners and councillors alike, with the same benign interest: from time to time he would complacently stroke his now sizable paunch, as though it were a piece of sculpture which he took especial pride in having produced.
When we were all standing—still guarded—on the floor of the chamber just below the daïs, a hush fell. Then Pittacus leaned over and whispered to Myrsilus, who nodded.
“The ladies,” he said, in his clipped, neutral voice, “may be seated.” Two ushers hastily produced chairs for us.
“Thank you,” my mother said, “but we prefer to stand.”
“Ah,” Myrsilus observed, with dangerous mildness. “Let me rephrase my last remark: the ladies will be seated.”
“We still prefer to stand. We do not recognize discriminative treatment as between—”
“Sit down,” said Myrsilus, and it was as though, in that confined space, a whip had been cracked.
My mother sat down.
I began to revise my opinion of Myrsilus.
Then I realized I was still standing myself, and flopped quickly into my chair. I felt a sudden dreadful urge to giggle.
Myrsilus nodded to the guards, who came thunderously to attention and marched out. One sentry only was left on either side of the great double doors.
“Now,” said Myrsilus, “we might as well begin.”
His clerk rose, unrolling a lengthy document, and began to read the charges: first tho
se against Alcaeus and his fellow-rebels, then (which took rather less time) our own indictment as alders and abettors of conspiracy. We were not, I noticed in a curious, detached way, accused of being accessories after murder. Well: that was something. The clerk droned on: “. . . and conspiring to subvert the democracy.” Then he stopped abruptly, as though he had run out of ideas, and in a brisk fussy way began to roll the charge-sheet up again.
Myrsilus surveyed us all in turn, as though to observe what effect this catalogue of our enormities had had on us.
“I don’t suppose,” he enquired in his blandest voice, “that any of you intend to plead not guilty to these charges?”
There was a moment’s silence: then Antimenidas said: “No more, my lord President, than you intend to administer justice in respect of them.”
“Take care what you say, Antimenidas. I am warning you in your own interests.”
Antimenidas shrugged. “I can scarcely prejudice my position further,” he remarked. “At least let me have the satisfaction of a little plain speaking.” He glanced out towards the ill-at-ease groups huddled on the council chamber benches. “Some people here may even take my words to heart. For the future.”
Myrsilus said: “You really still believe that? How remarkable’
“If things had gone otherwise, you might well be standing where I am standing now, my lord President.”
Myrsilus nodded: he seemed, in some private way, amused. “I concede that,” he said, as though humouring a precocious child. “But I am not.”
Antimenidas stared at Myrsilus: then his eyes glanced up to the banners hung crosswise above the daïs. He was soiled, grimy, even— with that filthy piratical bandage tied round his head—a little ridiculous. But no one could deny him dignity.
He said: “No: you are not. And that, my lord President, is the whole sum of the matter. Let us have no creeping cant about law or justice or democracy. What is going on here has no part in them. It is the triumph of the stronger: it is the victor purging his conscience in the sight of men. This is war, my lord President, and we are your prisoners. You shame the name of justice if you pretend otherwise.”
Myrsilus seemed quite unmoved by this outburst; he might have been debating a philosophical point after dinner.
“Twelve years ago,” he said, “you and several others conspired to murder the elected, democratic President of this city. Can you justify that?”
“We did nothing of the sort.”
“You deny an act that is public knowledge?”
“We executed a usurping tradesman, a common revolutionary tyrant.”
“By what authority?”
“By the authority invested in the hereditary Council of Nobles, now illegally dissolved.”
Myrsilus said, his voice rising: “And you deny the right of this court, this government, to pass similar justice on yourself?”
“Naturally.”
“You are a man, Antimenidas. As Melanchros was. As I am.”
Antimenidas shook his head. “A man, yes. But not as Melanchros was. Not as you are, Myrsilus. My family is the third oldest in this island; my ancestors were kings and warriors in golden Mycenae. Six of our line have been President of the Council. Ten died leading the city’s forces on the field of battle. I have rights here, ancient and inalienable rights. You have nothing but the rule of force and your glib lawyer’s tongue. Nothing, do you hear? And neither force nor glibness will make you anything but a murderer if you kill me.”
Myrsilus was silent for a moment. At last he said bleakly: “But if you were to kill me, you would be justified in so doing? Legally? Morally? Politically? Let me be quite clear on this point.”
“Yes. I would be justified.”
There was another silence.
“Thank you,” said Myrsilus, “for being so explicit. I am grateful to you. There is, I think, little point in debating this matter further. I would only remark—a platitude with which you will doubtless be acquainted—that as time creates a tradition, or a dynasty, so, in due course, it is liable to destroy it. Ultimately a man must be judged by what he does, not what he is—and less still by what his forebears have been. You, and those like you, are living on borrowed credit from the past. No doubt you think that a vulgar image: a tradesman’s image. That is your weakness. You are still asserting your rights in a world which has less and less use for you. Did the common people of this city greet you and your friends as deliverers, Antimenidas? Would you have been standing here now if they had?”
Antimenidas said nothing; he was staring at a shaft of sunlight that slanted down on to the mosaic floor, and seemed, suddenly, to have lost all interest in the proceedings. Myrsilus hesitated a moment; then he leaned across to Pittacus, who had sat silent throughout this exchange, bearded chin jutting out, eyes fixed expressionlessly on the ceiling. They conferred in whispers: Pittacus nodded his agreement.
Myrsilus rose to his feet, and the clerk waited, pen in hand, for the verdict.
“Antimenidas, son of Ariston, this tribunal finds you guilty, before Gods and men, of sedition, conspiracy, armed rebellion against the State, and unlawful trespass, while a proscribed exile, upon the territories of Mytilene.”
The final count came as a mild anti-climax: Antimenidas’ mouth twitched momentarily in something very like a smile, and Pittacus did not bother to conceal his amusement.
Myrsilus said: “By your acts, and the testimony you have given before this tribunal, you make it clear that you refuse to acknowledge the laws, ordinances, and elected authorities of this city. Have you anything to say before judgment is passed upon you?”
Antimenidas spat on the floor with disdainful vigour: I remembered the sunken garden in our house at Pyrrha, the darting fish, the stillness. We shall not have another chance.
“You bore me,” he said. “Get this farce over with. Take me out and kill me. I am tired of words.”
Myrsilus smiled, very much the master of the situation again: it was, I realized, part of his strategy to make his opponents or victims lose their tempers.
He said slowly, almost reflectively: “As you surmise, the maximum penalty for the offences of which you have been convicted is death: that you should be taken from this tribunal to prison, and thence, within three days, to the place of execution.”
There was a purring note in his voice: he reminded me, at that moment, of an old grey cat, crouched by the fire, watching a disabled mouse. Involuntarily, I shivered. I knew the place of execution; so did everyone in the chamber. It lay a little way outside the citywalls to the north-west, a barren hillside within sight of the Methymna road. There was one tree on this hillside, a great dead plane, silver and skeletal now, scoured by wind and sun over many years. Hero sat the kites and vultures, wings folded, like shrunken old women in black rags, waiting; and below were the crosses with their rusty shackles and neck-collars. Sometimes a strong man took a week to die, and travellers would hear his hoarse, inhuman shouts, and spur their horses on faster into the hills. Death came more quickly in winter, with freezing north winds and merciful oblivion. But all through the summer the vultures waited, knowing their due—black, flapping furies with beaks that blinded and tore, obscene in the sunlight.
Myrsilus paused a moment, smiling that grey and dreadful smile of his. Then he said: “However, this tribunal is merciful. Despite what we have heard here today, we believe in tempering the people’s justice with mercy, even for the most incorrigible offender.”
From the expression on Antimenidas’ face, it seemed plain that mercy was the last thing he had expected, or, indeed, desired: he had prepared himself for a hero’s death, and now this, too, was to be denied him.
“Furthermore,” Myrsilus continued, “we cannot, in all seriousness, regard you or the obsolete faction you represent as a real danger to the State. The folly of your speech and behaviour precludes such a belief; it also raises a legitimate doubt as to how far you may be held responsible for your own actions. In such cases, as you know, the law
prescribes clemency.”
Again, a faint ripple of laughter ran round the chamber. Antimenidas stared at Myrsilus, face burning, eyes bright with incredulous rage.
“We therefore condemn you to a renewal of exile, until such time as this tribunal may decide that your offences have been adequately purged. You are hereby granted ten days to set your affairs in order. During that period you will have reasonable liberty of movement. Your property is declared forfeit to the government and will be sold at public auction. If, after ten days have passed, you are still within the boundaries of this city, you may be slain at sight with impunity.”
Antimenidas said softly: “I am going to kill you, Myrsilus. By my head I swear it.”
“I should perhaps explain,” Myrsilus went on, as though there had been no interruption, “that exile from this city means, now, effectual exile from the island of Lesbos.”
I gave a tiny gasp: it was as though a cold hand had closed over my heart. The idea of leaving Lesbos was unthinkable: my whole life had been spent here; uproot me and I would die.
“As a result of our recent disorders, we have taken counsel with the rulers of Eresus, Methymna, Pyrrha, and Antissa. Agreement has been reached between us that a person exiled from any one of the Five Cities shall not be granted asylum by the rest. You are therefore required to take ship from Mytilene within the period of grace prescribed. Let the tribunal’s verdict be set down in the records of this chamber.”
The clerk said: “It is so set down, my lord President.”
Myrsilus nodded, as though he had achieved something.