The Isle of Stone

by Nicholas Nicastro

  “I am concerned about the tactics we used against the Athenians from the ship,” he stated.

  Epitadas replied, “Do you mean the tactics we used with such success?”

  “If we must call it that. I call it a foretaste of disaster. The threat of their archers—you have not solved it.”

  “I recall that they had archers last time.”

  “They came with only a handful. But ask your brother, who killed more than his share: did the arrows slow him down? Ask him.”

  Antalcidas stood nearby, blowing into his clenched hands. The days dawned colder now. He had been listening to the exchange between Epitadas and Frog, but chose this time to play the stolid Equal who responded to questions only when directly asked.

  “Brother, were you bothered in the least by their arrows?”

  “No.”

  “He’s lying,” asserted Frog. “I saw him shifting his feet to avoid them. And did he not have an arrow stuck in his helmet?”

  “It barely went through.”

  “But it could have! These buckets will be useless if the Athenians shoot their arrows down on us. If they aim high—”

  “If need be, we can fight without helmets at all,” replied Epitadas. “Recall that is why our fathers invented boxing.”

  “Zeus save us, are you suggesting the Athenians want to box with us?”

  “I am always amazed at those like you, elder, who can turn a success into a defeat for the sake of what might have been!”

  Frog squared his shoulders, hand on swordhilt. “If we are fated to die—so be it. But it is not for us to throw our lives away for want of taking simple precautions—a few dozen slingers, for instance—”

  “And where would you find anything to make slings, with everything burned?”

  “I’ve thought of that. We can strip the carrying straps from the backs of a few shields. Slingers don’t need shields anyway.”

  Epitadas strode up to Frog, staring down at him from a distance only slightly more than the length of his nose. With his arms hanging easily at his sides, he seemed unconcerned by Frog’s hand on his sword.

  “Hear me, elder. If I die, you can waste as many shields as you want. But not until then.”

  “I do believe Epitadas thinks he is Leonidas,” Frog said to no one in particular. “His own little Thermopylae—and we are his three hundred.”

  Epitadas smiled. “Say another word. Just one more word.”

  Frog scowled, spat on the ground, but said nothing more.

  That evening the breeze freshened from the east. The wind brought with it the smell of the live trees on the hillsides. Only then did Antalcidas realize how the odor of fire had come to permeate everything in his world, from his clothes and beard to the hides of the men around him and, of course, the still-smoking ground. He was walking to the windward side of the island, the fresher air attracting him, when he discovered Epitadas standing on a ledge above the cliff. He had said nothing to him since the last confrontation with Frog.

  Antalcidas knew that the Neckless One was right: the Athenians, when they came, would not risk a shock attack against elite Spartiates. Instead, they would land missile troops. Yet this, of all possible truths, was the one most awkward for him to broach; Epitadas would no doubt call him “Stone” again, saying he had spent too much time as a boy throwing rocks at helots. He could have no more luck with his brother than Frog had. Yet the voices of Andreia and Melitta were talking to him now, as the time in the siege grew late; their faces appeared to him nightly in his dreams. Could he deny them a mere word in defense of their future? If it was so destined, could he make his descent into Hades in good conscience, without even making the attempt?

  Epitadas was looking out at the campfires of the Peloponnesians along the eastern limb of the bay. They seemed close, and far more numerous than the Athenian ones under Koryphasion. Yet in all those weeks they seemed as immovable as the stars. He was thinking, without resentment, that the men around those fires were painfully idle; he presumed that at least the hunting was good. There was a hint of roasting stag meat on the breeze. He had heard that Messenia, particularly around the deserted slopes of Mount Ithome, was still good country for red deer.

  “Brother, Frog is a fool, but—” Antalcidas began. He let his words trail off, expecting that the other would interrupt him, but he did not. “Could it be so unwise to do as he suggests? Some of the shields were damaged in the fire.”

  “I know that,” said Epitadas.

  “We could designate two platoons of the under-thirties to be slingers, and give their shields to the Equals who have lost theirs.”

  “I suppose we could.”

  “Then . . . why . . .” Antalcidas shrugged, though his brother was facing away and could not see the gesture.

  “The Athenians might try what Frog fears,” Epitadas said, “but it is not so easy. The ground will make it hard for them to land, and break up their formations.”

  “Maybe.”

  “We can be among them in time—remember their faces when we attacked them on the beach? They’re cowards—children. They will always run without a fight.”

  “Which of us are you trying to convince, Brother?”

  For the first time since he saw Epitadas kill that boy in the olive grove, his brother turned to him with eyes full of suspicion.

  “Do I need to remind you, Stone, of your promise to our mother?”

  “No, you don’t. But if you’re wrong?”

  “It will be decided as the gods will. But if I’m wrong—if the fight is decided by arrows and rocks—then I say it is not a battle worth winning.”

  3.

  Cleon arrived in Pylos on the sixty-third day of the siege with a flotilla of ten ships and two hundred infantry. Demosthenes welcomed the ships and men, but could not fathom the Assembly’s choice of Cleon to replace Nicias. Yet there he was, striding up the beach in a spotless kit of parade armor, in a closed helmet mounted with horsehair brush, gold shield with repousséd Gorgon head, and fancy-tooled muscle cuirass. It was the panoply of a man who knew everything about shopping and nothing about fighting.

  Perhaps equally as bad, he was followed by an entourage of other would-be warriors from the merchant trades—men he recognized from the Assembly as pottery magnates, fishmongers, moneylenders, and purveyors of high-class female entertainment. How impressive, those armored pimps, those joint chiefs of gash coming down the gangplank! Demosthenes watched them approach with his arm extended, a farcical smile carved on his face. Cleon took the hand and ignored the mockery.

  Demosthenes conferred in his tent with his new commander. The general demanded water. His steward delivered a cup; sampling it, Cleon bowed his head and spat on the ground. “This is brackish!” he declared.

  Demosthenes, pulling a face full of threadbare rue, explained that there were no sources of sweet water in the compound and deliveries from home were few. “Alas, it is what the People drink here,” he said. Cleon, regretting himself, looked into his cup and tasted again.

  “On second thought, it is not exactly brackish,” he said. “Perhaps I meant to say it is hard—full of clay, I think.”

  “Better clay than sewage. We’re short of space for those needs too.”

  Cleon frowned. “Then it is good that we have been sent to put an end to all this.”

  “That is also my hope.”

  Cleon gave Demosthenes a long look. The latter, recognizing that he had strayed too close to the edge of insult, buried his misgivings and launched into a review of the tactical situation. Cleon seemed to relax as the details washed over him, not the least because he was pleased to have most of that information already.

  “With the addition of the ships you have brought, we can expect to reduce the smuggling still further. The garrison should be quite weak then—weak enough to take by assault in a short time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Not long. Two weeks perhaps, or three.”

  “We will attack in two d
ays,” said Cleon.

  Demosthenes stared at him.

  “Perhaps . . . you did not hear me rightly. The Lacedaemonians are weakening, but we can make them weaker yet before risking an attack—”

  “We will send a herald to enemy camp on the mainland tomorrow morning,” Cleon went on. “The longhairs shall have until sunset the same day to make their decision.”

  “Knowing their numbers is not the same as knowing their disposition. There could be any number of traps on the heights we can’t see from the water.”

  “Thereupon we will embark our forces at night and land them before first light on the second day.”

  “A defeat might leave us undermanned against another attack on the stockade, notwithstanding our superiority on the water—”

  “Your misgivings are noted, Demosthenes!” Cleon shouted, waving his right hand with oratorical flourish. “But I rule in accord with the will of the Assembly.”

  In fact, storms had delayed Cleon on his trip around the Peloponnese—he needed to make up time if he was going to fulfill his promise to take the island in twenty days. If they could reduce the Lacedaemonians within the week there might be time to get word to Athens by mounted messenger, along his line of private contacts. It would be a shame to reveal this resource by bringing the news to town that way, but of course by then the issue would be decided and he would have won, so it would be a small sacrifice.

  “I must urge you to consider again,” Demosthenes shook his head, “before our position here is ruined.”

  “Demosthenes! Never let it be said that your efforts here have been unappreciated. What you have done here—Nicias, that dullard, would never have attempted it. You are the best we have—”

  “I assure you that there’s plenty of time yet to make an attack before foul weather sets in.”

  “—but if I need to pack you off for home, I will.”

  The threat stopped Demosthenes’ tongue. Cleon continued, “Understand me, I would rather do this with you than without—but it will be done. Will I have your help?”

  The Aetolians came down the slopes on both sides of the canyon, letting loose their half-barbarian cries. Most of his men crumpled instead of fought, too exhausted by their tramp through strange country to raise a sword in defense. When they were finished the little stream ran red with Attic blood. Their bones are still there, scattered and sorted by the spring flood into little piles, like with like—arms here, the tiny bones of the hands and feet there, swept farther down the creekbed—

  The commanders were overheard to argue for quite some time, with neither willing to shift his position. The final word belonged to Cleon. The other got small revenge, though, when Cleon asked where he and his companions might pitch their tents.

  “General, we need every patch of sand here for the ships and men! Those in your staff are free to make whatever arrangements they can on the ships. You, of course, are welcome as my guest here—if that will suffice.”

  From the middle of their raccoon patches, Cleon’s small eyes shifted over the cramped space of Demosthenes’ tent, which smelled of salt, rotten seaweed, and the sweat of his host’s feet. The circumstances would not suffice. The campaign would have to be a short one.

  4.

  As it became clear that an attack would come at any time, Epitadas decided that the Lacedaemonians should make a sacrifice to Artemis. There were no goats or pigs on the island, so they were at first stymied by the problem of what sort of beast they should offer. The gods soon provided what seemed like a miracle: a pair of storks came out of the south, and after wheeling for some time above the wondering Spartans, landed a short distance down the slope. Namertes, the under-thirty who had helped Antalcidas push a boulder on an Athenian ship, was on guard not far away. He brought one of the creatures down by hitting it in the wing with a rock. Namertes ran forward and took the bird, grasping it by its great beak and gangling feet. The other soldiers cheered as he held his prisoner up in triumph.

  Such a handsome prize inspired them to make a lavish gesture. Epitadas ordered a rude altar built out of stones of the old fort, and a flame kindled out of embers left under the dirt by the fire. Epitadas conducted the ritual himself, spraying his bleached tunic with its blood as he sawed off the stork’s head with his sword. Meanwhile, Frog stalked the back of the gathering, pacing stiff-backed like an effigy of himself, fretting over the propriety of offering a skinny bird to Artemis.

  “The liver is without flaw,” Epitadas declared.

  “And how would we know how the liver of a stork must look?” sneered Frog.

  They separated the edible parts from the rest of the carcass. The goddess got the bones and entrails in the form of smoke from the fire, while the morsels of meat were divided between the officers and elder Spartiates. These, as it turned out, included Frog. Antalcidas went up to him as he was licking stork grease from his fingers, looking at him as he would someone fatally ill.

  “Your opinion would mean more here, if you didn’t complain about everything.”

  Frog turned his back, saying over his shoulder “So would yours, if you didn’t hide behind your brother.”

  To the end, the man had a petty nature, but Antalcidas would take no offense. More and more, he had come to agree with Frog’s assessment of their predicament. To defy his brother was unthinkable—though not because of any private promises he had sworn to him or anyone else. For better or worse, a Spartan’s personal honor bound him to his commander. Frog’s honor, though, was not his concern. He resorted to an aphorism:

  “The roused bull is better approached from the side.”

  Frog departed without giving any sign he had heard this.

  Late in the morning the garrison raised a polished shield to flash what they took to be their last message to the mainland. It was a simple question: “What are your instructions?”

  They had to wait until the last moments of daylight to get their answer. From the hills over the bay, drenched in the blood-light of sunset, their superiors signaled back:

  “The Spartans bid you to do what you think best, as long as it brings no dishonor.”

  5.

  The Terror was held back from regular blockade duty that night. Several hours before daybreak, all but a handful of the Athenian ships were deployed in a double line around the stockade. Each took on a complement of landing troops—Attic slingers and archers, hoplites in their heavy gear, allied peltasts who, from their accents, Xeuthes took to be from some wind-lashed Thracian shithole. His vessel was assigned a platoon of Kephallenian archers who grasped their bows with white knuckles and grave expressions on their faces. Where land troops often resorted to jokes to cover their anxiety at sea, these men settled down wordlessly along the rails, somber in the face of the coming task. For this was daunting business, to hunt Spartans.

  More orders from Demosthenes: for the battle each captain would land on the island all the men in his top two oarbanks, with the lowest bank left behind to mind the ship. To that end the youngest, most able-bodied rowers were assigned topside and the eldest, most experienced oarsmen to the holds. This reversal of the natural order, under most circumstances so galling in its implications, was sullenly accepted by Patronices and Dicaearchus on the eve of this, the final attack. For them, the worst part was not the loss of status or the stench of the hold, but the taunting grins of Cleinias, Timon, and other guttersnipes as the senior citizens went aboard first.

  “Watch yourself, Timon, or I’ll punch that face!” warned Patronices as he filed past.

  “We’ll try to keep the lice off your seat covers,” replied Timon.

  “Shut your traps, the lot of you!” Stilbiades roared. “You’ll wish you were back in the hold today, Timon! I guarantee there’s a Spartan spearhead out there with your name on it.”

  When it was time for the officers to take their places Xeuthes noticed that Philemon’s cabin was empty. Searching the strand, he found the man soon enough, standing dry and safe on the sand with a wine cup
in his hand. Philemon raised his drink as Stilbiades signaled that the ship was ready. Xeuthes saluted in response; his sponsor was a coward, of course, but he had sent the best part of himself—his money—into danger with his fellow citizens. It was better, in any case, to go into battle without the trierarch slicking the deck with his vomit.

  Each captain drew pebbles from a sack to determine his ship’s place in the assault. Xeuthes got a black rock—the Terror would join the north squadron on the Ionian side. As Sphaerus’ unerring oars steered them through the Sikia Channel, Xeuthes looked out first at the heights of Koryphasion on the right, topped by the watch fires of the Athenian sentries. The lookouts had assembled on the face of the promontory closest to the channel, as if gathered to discuss prospects for the attack. Turning left, he examined the opposing eminence of Sphacteria: it was a great shoal of rock, ghastly white in the half moonlight, that broke abruptly into a sheer cliff on the bay side. This steepness barred any attack on the interior from the north. Large numbers of Spartans had been sighted up there during the day, with their main camp on the flats beyond the rise. Unlike the Athenians, the longhairs set no fires at night. The place seemed as abandoned then as the city of old Nestor, but Xeuthes believed he could sense them, sharpening their blades or praying to Artemis or doing whatever they did on the eve of bloodshed.

  The Terror shifted a bit on her keel as Sphaerus made southwest, burying her ram in the sea swells. As the familiar pitching began and the cadence of the oars lulled him, Xeuthes settled deeper into his chair and closed his eyes. In a moment he was asleep.

  6.

  The moon was down and the sun still hidden behind the bulk of Mount Mathion when the time came. Overhead, the sky was a venous blue that grew redder to the east, until the few clouds heralding the ascent of Helios flared like kindling. In the moment of collective pause no sound rose—not the cooing of the wild pigeons in their holes, nor the usual murmur of the bay’s waters, nor the chatter of nine thousand Athenians, suspended mutely in their beaked ships.